Archive of Our Own

You want a revelation, you want to get right

But it’s a conversation, I just can’t have tonight

You want a revelation, some kind of resolution

You want a revelation

No light, no light

 In your bright blue eyes

I never knew daylight could be so violent

A revelation in the light of day

You can’t choose what stays and what fades away

And I’d do anything to make you stay

No light, no light (no light)

Tell me what you want me to say

No Light, No Light | Florence + The Machine

Gojo Satoru and Iori Utahime are polar opposites. Where one strives to break the ill-fitting trends of the past, the other vows to uphold the virtues of Jujutsu Society. They clashed, maimed and fueled their differences with cutting truths. The fire would sizzle, flames burnt out, and then, they would begin again. Clash, maim, fuel, sizzle out. While many of their peers and their teachers questioned it when first noticing, it eventually became an understanding in Jujutsu Society — even amongst the chief clans — that where there is a raging Iori Utahime, there is a deriding Gojo Satoru. But, invariably, forever and always, and beyond that, where there is Satoru, there is Utahime. 

It is not a secret that Yaga hates the bi-weekly council meetings. He only attends them for the necessity of his position and the functioning of the Jujutsu Society lest his diabolical student-cum-fellow teacher (it has been seven years and Yaga has yet to accept that his notorious pupil has advanced and settled on an academic role — he’d have much preferred to deal with less of his pompous behaviour in the years before his retirement — but at last, Yaga is not lucky) creates an upheaval by chuckling a few words and finally, and oh, Yaga has thought of every disaster possible in his student’s presence, births the mother of all catastrophes. 

Today will not be that day. 

He is staring at Gakuganji’s metallic rings, the sun reflecting a blinding beam in his direction, as they talk of the recent curse reports. Yaga can hardly pay attention to the drawling voice of his own sensei with Gojo playing a mobile game on his phone, the cacophony of beeps and bloops blasting from his right. Yaga hoped that Gakuganji didn’t misinterpret the meaning of his furrowed brows, though, even if he did, it wouldn’t be a complete misunderstanding. He is counting down the minutes until the meeting begins when the shoji doors slam open to usher in a wheezing Panda. The sound is constrained in the small meeting room, the occupants, sitting in a rectangular formulation, stare at him with little concern. The students were always up to something, and their level of emergency was never quite serious enough for the seasoned sorcerers present in the room. They had grown used to it years ago, each new teacher learning that the so-called danger hardly necessitated the urgency with which their students bombarded their staff rooms at non-visiting hours. A brief explanation of the danger, and an equally brief solution, would usually fix the problem.

“What is it now, Panda?” Gojo drawled, matching the slow and stern tone that Gakuganji was speaking with a second ago (Yaga can’t tell whether his pupil is mocking him or not and it infuriates him to be clueless), without moving his eyes from his mobile phone, the beeps and bloops accompanying Panda’s sharp breathing as he furiously tapped on digital buttons. 

Panda didn’t speak when prompted. He simply bore his round eyes at Gojo, and darted to look at Yaga, beseeching with intense and unspoken emotion. 

“Panda? Come on, just say it.” Finally, Gojo granted his attention to Panda. “What’s wrong?”

“Um…uh…Uta—” But the word caught stuck in his throat, still gasping for air. Yaga straightened in his seat and gave Panda an imploring look. He notes that Panda is in obvious need of more training. He’s hoping that he’ll announce Utahime’s late arrival to the meeting, but such information would never garner such intense anxiety. The room suddenly feels colder.

“Panda.” Mei Mei intercedes, her voice warmer than her characteristically acerbic edge.

“Utahime-sensei is injured. Like really, really badly. There’s blood everywhere —”

Gojo blots out of sight. A low, keening throb thuds and crawls under Yaga’s jaw, straining his neck and forcing him to massage the skin to soothe the tension that always lingers after Gojo warps. Everyone is momentarily startled before the information settles. The room freezes as they all look at Panda, whose body has petrified mid sentence, his mouth still attempting to sound words. Yaga is expecting to hear a full report, until Panda is able to speak.

“We’re so fucked.”

Commotion erupts. Mei Mei shoots up on her feet, stumbling forward over the low table with unusual inelegance. Kusakabe fumbles to gather his belongings, dropping his katana thrice, before following Mei Mei’s lead. Nitta tries to shake Ijichi out of his stupor, slapping his sallow face, and to no avail, starts dragging him out the room with her arms under his armpit, his shoes leaving an unpleasant squeaky trail. Usami feigns composure and stands, only for his legs to collapse under him. Yaga swipes a hand down his face, taking a brief moment of respite. Gakuganji stiffens and mild irritation sweeps over her face, and that's just about the worst reaction you can get from the man.

Yaga simply shakes his head, his mind granting him only enough mental energy to bore holes into the spot Gojo had occupied. “We’re fucked.”

Utahime wakes up after twenty-two stitches; a suspicious memory of Gojo yelling at someone which had made her feel a dooming cove sink into her chest; a rapturous crowd of familiar people who were talking way above the acceptable sound level; a wailing panda which confused her beyond comprehension in her inhibited state; two very stern, old people who shot her a look as if they heard her call them old and senile (which she admittedly did say out loud); and, a fleeting warmth against the palm of her hands and her hair. 

When she comes to, the same panda who had taken root against a small corner of the infirmary and wailed over the sounds of arguing, earning a harsh scolding from Yaga, is sitting on the bed adjacent to hers. Utahime smiles, realising that it was just Panda.

“Panda, why’d you cry so much?” Utahime croaks, phlegm lodged in the well of her throat. Panda jumps, startling the bed and jerking it back on its wheels. 

“Sensei! You’re okay!” Panda looks about ready to embrace her, when she draws up a weak hand. Panda flushes, at least, Utahime thought as much as a panda is able to blush. 

“How long has it been? Two days, three days?” Utahime rasps, after Panda retrieves a glass of warm water for her.  

“Seven…”

Utahime shot upright in bed. “Seven! I’ve been knocked out for seven days?!” Her voice, much louder than she thought possible, struggled to contain the magnitude of her surprise. 

Panda flushes again, “Seven hours.” 

Utahime resists pitching a heavy-handed smack to the panda’s face. She scoffs in disbelief and drags a hand down her face. No wonder the deep, parallel cuts on her abdomen hadn’t stopped stinging. If Utahime focused hard, she could almost feel the agonising rub of her stomach folds, razing her whole abdominal area in a sickening, unavoidable vise. She grits her teeth and clenches her blanket in a tight fist. 

Panda gives her a solemn look, widening his already very round panda eyes. Utahime manages a huff of amusement. She remembers being like that. Guilt piled upon a pit of amassed guilt. One day, and Utahime can never recollect exactly when, it transforms into unconscious, deep-seated penance. Most trudge along their demons, and their burrowed chasm of rotting shame, and continue on this warring path of selflessness. Well, not complete selflessness, of course — there’s the money. But it’s not like most know any better. Shoved into the inescapable world of jujutsu  (“Technically, you can leave. You can. You just have to sign these forms,” Gakuganji had thrown down two binders with 3 inch round rings, “and then inform the Higher Ups of your plans and future prospects. Then, of course, a signed approval from them.” So really, it was a load of mindnumbing bureaucracy and derisive administrative faculties before one could really leave this hellscape) where young, susceptible children are taught from their formative years that this is their life. This is what they are made to do, because no one else can, and there must be someone to do it. To fight, to fall, to rise, and to do it all over again. 

“You did a good job, Panda. Thank you.” 

Panda immediately deflects the compliment and bows multiple times in a flurry of movement. But Utahime has achieved what she wanted. Panda takes back the empty glass, failing to cease his effort to smile (as much as a Panda was able to physically smile, Utahime thought, realising the amount of times she has questioned the anthropomorphic faculties of a panda in the short time after waking up) and preen at being merited a compliment, and most importantly, gratitude. 

Her phone dings, a barrage of messages pinging one after the other. Anticipating an emergency, Utahime snatches her phone off the side table. 

6 unread messages from STOP SMOKING SHOKO:

Gojo inCOMING!

GOJO INCOMING!

SENPA 

SENPAI

GO BACK TO SLEEP IF YOU’RE AWAKE

SHIT 

GO BACK TO SLEP NOW

NOWWWW

What happened?

IDIOT ARGUED WITH EVERYONE! EVERYONEEE!!

GAKU, USAMI, CALLED AN EMERG MEET WITH THE HIGHER UPS, EVEN YAGA 

YAGA OF ALL PEOPLE

GO BACK TO SLEEP NOW

HE’D ALMOST DONE ARGUING WITH MEI MEI

What? What the hell is he on?

SLEEPPPPP

Resounding footsteps quicken in the hallway, surging closer to the infirmary. Utahime and Panda share a worried look. 

The doorknob twists and Shoko barges into the infirmary, gently closing the door, her bottom lip tucked into her teeth.

“GO TO SLEEP!” Shoko whisper yells, gesturing her arms in aggressive waves. “NOWWW! GO TO SLEEP NOW!”

“What’s happening, Shoko? What’s that idiot doing now?” Utahime clenched her teeth again, caution for her wounds having been entirely forgotten amidst the bewildering situation. She could barely decipher Shoko’s incoherent explanation as she flagged her hands in violent motions. “I’m already up! Why do I have to go to sleep? SHOKO SPEAK LOUDER FOR KAMI’S SAKE—”

Gojo blots into sight. 

Utahime shouldn’t have been able to produce the shriek of surprise that she did, with how muffled and blocked her voice had sounded a few minutes ago, but she causes Panda to jump a few inches off the floor, slamming the food tray on the way down, the glass mug toppling over the edge of the tray and shattering on the floor. 

“Thank Kami I finished the water,” Utahime grimaced silently. She would have begun to spit a torrent of exclamations in Gojo’s way if, one, Panda wasn’t in the room; and two, if Gojo didn’t look seconds away from ripping a man apart bare-handed. Right, Utahime thought, this is where I shut up and perhaps slowly, very slowly lean back into the bed and close my eyes and pretend to look as relaxed as a recently maimed woman in her sleep should. 

“Hime, just because you closed your eyes, doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re awake,” Gojo sighs, suddenly losing the tonnes of weight he had dragged in with his unannounced appearance. Panda finally found the physical ability to pick up the shattered glass pieces. “I literally warped in here looking at you.”

Utahime carefully peeks one eye open, face scrunching in an effort to keep the eye slightly open. 

Gojo sighs again, “You’re so stupid.”

“HEY! I’M THE ONE INJURED HERE, YOU DON’T GET TO—” Utahime found her voice yelling unprompted. Well, prompted by Gojo, because that little shit always knows which button to poke. Perhaps she should be a little ashamed that such a silly remark makes her lose her mind so quickly. But then Gojo waves his hand in dismissal and walks closer to Shoko to enter, and Utahime hopes as the senpai in the room, a simple, civil conversation. And, really, she should be listened to as the senpai in the room.

“Do you understand how badly…” But, Gojo’s voice is low and grating as he tilts his head toward Shoko, a clear warning in his words. “...they fucked up?” Utahime frowns, well, pouts if anyone asks Panda, but no one is going to ask Panda because he’s trying his hardest to fade into the walls and will into existence the ability to camouflage. “How could you oppose me?” Utahime scrunches her face harder in an effort to understand. “I’m only right, and you know that.”

Shoko leans back heavily on her feet, arms akimbo as she braces her hands on her hips, as if to support the weight of an unknown force. She furrows her face in contrite and attempts to speak, struggling to find the right words — an angry Gojo was always an impatient Gojo, who wasn’t really looking for an explanation, just a word of vindication — to disarm the warning that flares in Gojo’s voice. 

Utahime thinks she’s had enough. An arm flings out with an audible wince and the pillow thumps against Gojo’s head. “Stop yelling at my kouhai, would you? It’s bad enough you’re doing this in front of me and Panda—” Panda shrinks further into the wall, but he’s a panda, so really, he just looks constipated “— but worse that you’re speaking to Shoko that way.”

Gojo's sharp features fall into confusion. His mouth hangs open as he starts to mime the words that Utahime had stated curtly. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Utahime demands as rage rushes to the forefront, only Gojo having the capability of ruining her mood so swiftly with his usual antics. However, her anger falters when even Shoko pauses amidst the start of a highly tense, and possibly dangerous, and most likely illogical, confrontation with Gojo. Panda stays glued to the wall, though. 

“Oh…I think the drugs are kicking in,” Shoko offers plainly.

“YOU DRUGGED ME?” Which actually just sounds like ‘yo duggh meh’. But Utahime didn’t know that. The indignation from any conversation with her spearheaded colleague often left Utahime too furious to return to her tranquil demeanour (Gojo will call this description of Utahime a lie — he doesn’t believe this one bit. He would have started a bet if he didn’t want to lose the miniscule respect his senpai barely holds for him). 

She’s already past the point of no return; peace is no longer an option for her now. Utahime would relent, she really would, if her arms didn’t feel like lead, and her head a few pounds too heavy. Now, she’s regretful of her sudden assault; she needs her pillow back. 

“Gojo. Pillow.” 

Though, really, she says ‘go—woah, pi—woah.’ 

Gojo scoffs a sound that could either be amusement or incredulity — Utahime doesn’t have the energy to decide, he can be as offended as he wants, she doesn’t care. But maybe she cares a bit about how his gaze softens and he follows her instructions wordlessly. Maybe she cares a teeny tiny bit about his big, strong, large hand cradling her head and guiding her gently onto the pillow. Maybe Utahime cares a very negligible amount about how he smiles like the sun, an entity composite of all the brilliance garnered through millions of years of stellar nurseries to birth it; this, a brilliant sun, her favourite hue of brightest blue. 

And then the light becomes glaring and her eyes fall to the inevitable pull of sleep, where darkness is rampant and lonely, but the warmth lingers, the warmth of a blue sun. 

She accepts this benevolence and sleeps. 

Utahime contemplates the circumstances as she chews on the straw of the mango juice box that was smuggled in by Okkotso Yuta. She makes sure to ration her sips to prolong her satisfaction of the lovely gift given by a very lovely student. It wouldn’t do justice to splurge everything in a few minutes. So, thirty minutes after she had awoken from her second bout of dazed slumber, Utahime is teething rather unpleasantly on the tattered stray piece of plastic tube as she decides what to make of the man lying on the bed Panda had previously occupied. He’s laid straight, hands folded on his chest, eyes bare of its usual accessories. 

He’s calm. And asleep. Utahime thinks that’s unfair. Maybe she should throw her pillow at him again, but she’d strain her arm again (really, she shouldn’t have done it the first time, her arm aches). Shoko had listed the raid Gojo had unleashed on the school and its staff over the last ten hours. Utahime would be mortified if she wasn’t impressed with how much he’d ticked off in such a short time. 

It’s no astonishment he had done so. Now, listen, Utahime’s acceptance of her pallid reaction should be the bigger astonishment, truly. She really should have appraised the fragility of whatever this new emotional connection she has developed with Gojo, and presumed something like this would have happened. But, Utahime thinks she can’t exactly be blamed by this set of circumstances — how was she supposed to know Gojo actually had the capacity for commitment, and passion, and whatever this new emotional connection was. Really, the bigger astonishment is how he even managed to voice the words out in the first place. Like who even says things like ‘I’ve liked you for ten years now’ after a rather nasty argument about who’d swim through the curse-infested lake the fastest to reach the bottom where the core of an ancient disease cursed spirit was wrapped in disgusting, absolutely revolting water creatures like amoeba (and no, she doesn’t care that Gojo laughed in her face and told her it’s a microscopic species, and therefore, harmless. ‘It's a brain-eating amoeba, Gojo! You’re already stupid as it is, go ahead and let it eat whatever’s left in your stupid head!’ Like truly, whatever, he could do whatever he wanted. She didn’t care for his stupid head anyhow) and rotting seaweed. A normal person doesn’t kneel onto the muddy, decomposing floor of an overgrown, uninhabited forest to confess their deepest, darkest secret with pleading, desperate eyes that should belong to someone like Chris Evans or Mr Darcy from Pride and Prejudice who was desperately in love with Elizabeth and despaired at the thought of being apart from her — 

Utahime shot Gojo a look. “He better not think my family’s status is below his station,” Utahime fumed. “Iori’s are incredibly influential in the Jujutsu Society, he should know this. I mean, we supply over eighty percent of their on-site mikos. They’re so well trained. I can’t believe he’d insult me like this. Actually, I can believe it. He’s so prideful—”

Utahime sprung up in her bed, and regretted it immediately, her wound still stinging. But it shrunk under the barb of her new realisation — she was Elizabeth. 

Oh, god. 

Gojo continues sleeping without a care for the rampage that is howling through Utahime’s overactive mind. Utahime considers homicide. He turns to his side, facing Utahime, his long lashes casting a soft shadow over his sharp cheekbones, his full, reddened lips pulled into a slight pout. Utahime changes her mind; now, she’s considering castration. Less chance sprawning more of his devil genes, she thought, frustrated about how much she wants to climb into his arms and nuzzle into his warmth. 

“Stare at me longer, senpai. I’m feeling very wanted right now.” Gojo’s eyes flash open and Utahime almost crushes the juice box in her hands. 

“You have to stop startling me like that. I have high blood pressure because of you—”

“No, you don’t. That’s genetics — your grandfather, father, uncle and older brother all have it.”

“I really wish you’d stop coming over to my family’s compound and pestering my parents with afternoon tea.” 

“Your parents love me.” 

“Yeah, and you’re just a human headlight,” Utahime declared, recalling the silly nickname she’d given him after a rather nasty clash about ‘respecting boundaries and privacy'.

“You know that’s not funny, right? Like it’s an objectively unfunny nickname. Your baachan has better jokes than you,” Gojo muses before swinging his legs off his bed, stretching his long arms above his head, producing an audible crack, and climbing onto Utahime’s bed. He arranges himself in front of her, cross-legged, head slouched over his shoulders, picking at the brown bear plushie’s coarse fur, which Shoko kept around for the students (most of whom would refuse the comfort of the soft toy, but reach for it silently and hold onto it as Shoko healed them).

Utahime rolls her eyes, wanting to snatch the bear from Gojo’s reach. But the grim stretch of his mouth and dark shadows under his eyes made her hesitant. “You okay?”

Gojo snorts, “You’re asking me that? Between the both of us, you should be having a terrible day. I’m fine.” He continues looking downcast, though.

“I’m sorry for throwing the pillow at your face. It’s just…you really shouldn’t have talked to Shoko that way.”  And Utahime probably should have clamped her mouth and left out the second part. She tries to look at Gojo with wide, innocent eyes. 

Gojo leaves the bear and digs the pads of his hands into his eyes, exhaling a loud, deep sigh. “It’s okay. Really. I apologised, senpai.”

Utahime can’t help smiling. ‘Senpai’ is a new and recent fixture in their friendship — or whatever this new emotional connection she has with Gojo. He seemed determined to show her that he was serious and honest with his feelings, starting an unfamiliar practice of calling her ‘senpai’ whenever he wants to relay he’s actually being very vulnerable. It was exceptionally awkward in the beginning. Utahime didn’t know what to say or do and gaped her mouth like a fish trying to find the correct words to say to a man who most thought was incapable of emoting beyond obnoxious, blinding mockery in the first place (which isn’t even an emotion, it’s a behaviour, but really that’s all one could get from the guy — just one functional setting). But his whole ‘honest and earnest’ thing? Yeah, she eventually found it kinda cute. Yes, she’s aware she’s calling Gojo Satoru cute. She’s totally not deranged. Probably. Anyway, Utahime firmly believes anyone — and she means anyone , man or woman — would crumble for that glorious, soft, and sad shade of blue. And he gets really soft and sad, sometimes. Utahime can’t even accuse him of emotionally manipulating her with all his softness and sadness when she’s the one who initiated hugs. Okay, so maybe ‘deranged’ is not a strong enough word for her. But, who wouldn’t hug a man who is being all soft and sad? Even Gakuganji might budge. 

“I’m glad. I would hug you, but I really can’t move from this position. Seriously, the second my butt leaves the bed, I’m going back down.” She manages a smile from Gojo. “Gimme your hand, you oaf.” 

Gojo clasps Utahime’s hand, gently squeezing. Then, another look passes over him which Utahime immediately discerns.

“What’s wrong, Gojo?” Utahime urges, looking far more pleased now that Gojo is less sad. 

Gojo sighs again. “Nothing…I just hope you don’t think I did all of that to impress you — or gain your favour without merit. I- I respect that you need time. So, I really, really don’t—”

“Satoru.” Utahime takes his hand to her lap, forcing him to lean forward. “I don’t think that.” 

“You don’t?” Gojo asks, his eyes wide.

“No, of course not. I know you care. And you would’ve done the same for any of us.”

Gojo nods eagerly. 

“You’re just a little in love— I mean, you like me. I get it.” Utahime estimates how much she’ll prolong her recovery time if she proceeds to roll off the bed and scamper out the room. She hopes it's by weeks. Utahime curses the entire concept of Freudian slips, wondering why her brain utterly refused to do as it was told. 

“Freudian slip,” Gojo says with a smile that is way too smug for a man who was sulking a minute ago. 

“Hey! It’s your feelings! You should be embarrassed! Not me!” But Gojo’s already twitching with laughter. “Shut up!”

“I am in love with you. Thanks for making it easier for me to admit.”

Bastard, Utahime thought. A conniving little bastard. Maybe she will roll off the bed. Maybe she’ll rip off a few stitches in the process. That should shut him up. 

“Hey, hey.” Gojo pulls on their joint hands, intertwining their fingers. “You’re right, senpai .” Utahime thinks it’s a betrayal to their new practice to use ‘senpai’ with such a self-satisfied smirk. “I really would go to great lengths for the rest of the kids and staff. Well, more reluctantly for them. But, I would.” His face turns serious. “But we both know that they’re becoming more complacent, and there’s just not enough resources and funding to hire new capable managers. Our new timetables are stretching the available sorcerers too far. On top of the fact that we’re having more and more wrongly assigned missions. At least the sorcerers were trained and knew how to deal with a mission that’s beyond their ability. But they’re tired. And we’re not getting any real fighting or saving done with how tired everyone is. Shoko — we only have one Shoko!” 

“It’s unsustainable,” Utahime concludes.

“It’s unsustainable. And unfair.” 

“Though, yelling at them won’t exactly get them on your side and follow your plans,” Utahime offers playfully. 

“You think they won’t get suspicious if I suddenly start playing nice.” Gojo shakes his head. “Please. I’ve been yelling at them since I was sixteen. I’m a thorn in their ass.”

Utahime giggles, automatically wiping off the fierce look on Gojo’s face. “Thank you for being a thorn in their ass,” Utahime mutters; then, there’s tears in her eyes and she’s five seconds away from crying uncontrollably. 

“Oh, oh.” He leans forward on his knees to hold Utahime’s face. “Does your stomach hurt? What hurts?” Gojo swipes the tears escaping down her cheeks. He looks down to find her patient gown clean, unmarred with blood. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Utahime has to employ her anxiety breathing technique to calm the surging flow of tears that are threatening to burst forth. She takes a breath, holds for two, exhales for five. “You’re so kind.” And the tears choke her up completely. It’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. Utahime can’t believe she’s crying over this. “I really…really like you.” She shoves her red face into her hands and mourns not rolling off the bed. 

“Oh. Um, should I be worried you’re crying so hard about liking me?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know,” Utahime mumbled into her hands, refusing to look at him. 

They settle into silence. Utahime waits until she can breathe comfortably to raise her head. 

“I really like you,” Utahime confesses again, and before Gojo could interject, “You’re a good person. And, you’ve always cared. Most of the time you have a really shitty way of showing it. I mean, seriously, one of the first things I’m doing when we date is fixing that horrible attitude of yours. Ijichi is so fucking terrified of you. I don’t like someone who matters to me thinking of you that way.” She fixes Gojo with a stern look. “Be better. I- I want to be in love with you, as well.”

Gojo was utterly still, unable to deploy his usual quick retort, replaced by a silence so profound it felt alien in his presence. The gentle squeeze he’d given her hand earlier tightened almost imperceptibly, his thumb tracing a nervous pattern on her skin as he processed the raw honesty, the demands, and most especially, the tender fragile admission that hung between them.

“Three dates,” Utahime suddenly declares. “You have three dates to win me over. One outside, one at one of our places, and you have creative freedom for the third.”

“Creative freedom?”

“What? You said you’ve liked me for a decade, I’m sure you’ve many ideas, loverboy.” 

Utahime considers it a win when Gojo flushes red. 

“I’ll win you over, okay senpai?”

“Okay.”

Utahime accepts the bubbling rise of glee in her chest and dreams of being in love.

The first date was good. A stroll through Inokashira Park as the sun vanished behind them. Dinner followed at a semi-fine dining restaurant, where Utahime was hit with the reckoning: their chemistry was good . They spent the evening bickering, laughing too loud to be socially acceptable, and trying not to ask the questions or words that would push the boundaries of their friendship — their relationship. Romantic relationship. The next line is a monumental leap. A jump neither wanted to take before the third date. Utahime knows it in her bones, an understanding so fundamental to their connection,to Gojo himself, to what she means to him: this jump would be irreversible. They could never go back to being friends. Not with the way he looked at her throughout the entire date, keeping his hands carefully restrained, his words measured. 

The second date made Utahime want to crawl inside his skin. It’s worrying how fast she had fallen, how big the leap from resentment, to dislike, to wonder, to admiration, and finally, to desire she had made in such a short time. She can’t even imagine ignoring his existence now like she had done before he had confessed in the forest. She needed — needed — his eyes on her. To follow her movements, anatomise the way she slid into his arms to watch Scott Pilgrim Vs. the World (Gojo’s choice which she obviously criticised before having laughed uncontrollably throughout the movie) and kept him close, to lose himself when she climbed into his lap and kissed him first. Utahime made peace with the epiphany that she had wanted this — this irrevocable madness with Gojo even before his wild choice of professing his love the way he had. It was truly a terrible idea to hold the second date at her place; she would have broken her rule if Gojo hadn’t stopped her from grinding down on his lap. Utahime wonders if the world has faced a catastrophe for Gojo to be the sensible adult in this situation. Utahime tries not to sulk. 

The third date goes just about how you’d think two adults with limited time and immense sexual tension would handle a date: they don’t even last thirty minutes before Utahime’s begging Gojo to warp them to Utahime’s apartment (yes, she knows; no, you don’t have to tell her that she’s deranged, she’s coming to terms with the fact she’d start pleading with the man she wanted to strangle about a month ago before all this tomfoolery started). She was all over him even before their feet could land on the floor. The ache in Utahime’s shoulder doesn't even register because she’s too worried that Gojo’s shirt isn’t off his body yet.   

Gojo leaves the next afternoon, too exhausted to warp to Tokyo, forcing him to take the train back. Utahime watches him saunter to the sidewalk from her terrace, leaning forward like she must get a good look at him before he disappears out of sight. Gojo’s giddy as she waves frantically with an honest-to-god happy grin. And she’s standing on her toes and Gojo can see the hem of her baggy t-shirt, a slither of skin peeking from under the railing. Gojo wants to stay buried in her bed, absorbed in her smell and her lovely skin. She’s ceaseless in her waving, sometimes energetic, sometimes shy, biting her lip, failing to stop the dimpled smile that graces her beautiful face. Then, Gojo decides.

Utahime watches Gojo pull out his phone and her phone rings from inside. Her brows twitch, hesitating to let Gojo out of her viewpoint. She runs inside to snatch her phone and dash back to the terrace, letting the small wave of anxiety that he had left during her speedy run to roll over and wash away. 

“Hi,” Gojo says, breathless.

“Hi, Satoru.” That was new, too. A new practice. A stamp of intimacy.

“I’m going to say something really, incredibly stupid. And I can’t ask you to react a certain way, just — hear me out.” He’s staring at her, gaze fixed on her curious face.

“I’m listening.”

There’s a beat of silence and a shaky exhale through the phone call. Utahime can see his chest fall quickly, his hand clenched.

“I’m going to marry you. Soon.” 

Utahime thinks she might fall over the side of the terrace and crack her head open in front of Gojo and give him a whole array of new traumas. She grips the railing and steadies herself.

“I love you,” Gojo proclaims, and his eyes, the brightest hue of blue glistens, and Utahime thinks he probably understands why she cried in the infirmary.  “You are so dear to me. I love you, I love you, I love you more than anything and everything. Forever and always. Until our sun explodes, and stars die out, and beyond that.”

Utahime laughs, covering her mouth as it turns into a sob. “You’re such an idiot,” and Utahime means it with her whole chest. She wants to reply and reciprocate, to let her lonely sun know that it is the same for her. It could never be any different or less. But words fail her as she sinks to the floor, hidden by the railing, her heart so full of devotion. 

“I’ll marry you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Utahime accepts it; this, the prospect of a life cherishing and loving Satoru.

In hindsight, Utahime should have known better. And she does, she really does know better. But, it’s difficult to calculate a person’s lunacy, much less a cursed spirit’s.

If there’s any person’s lunacy she can pinpoint down to their unpredictable actions, it is Gojo’s. They’ve been married three years. An excellent rapport has been established. She understands her place in his life: the sun, the moon, and the magnetic field that keeps the Earth on its axis; and Gojo understands his place in her life: to never say no to another mission unless he knows exclusive information that she may die (and yes, death, not injuries, absolute immutable death), otherwise he’s the love of her life and all that (‘the ring proves it Satoru, don’t be a manchild and demand a blood pact, I can’t believe you’). She has the man tethered to a lease lest he goes off the rocks and terrifies everyone in the Jujutsu Society every time she has to go on field. She doesn’t know how long it will take for him to regulate his unbidden anxiety and keep himself from tensing up the second the word ‘mission’ leaves her mouth. Utahime can only hope the progress compounds over time. 

Thankfully, he’s too busy and exhausted to be vocally distressed when she had headed out on her mission a week before the battle with Sukuna. It’s rather unfair that cursed spirits still lurk while they have to deal with the oncoming crisis; apparently non-Tokyo spirits didn’t get the memo and continue to haunt the living as usual. Utahime grumbles about ‘stupid, stupid creatures’ while walking to Shoko’s office. Most of the offensive sorcerers were preoccupied training with Gojo to deal with missions. Technically, Utahime wasn’t meant to be dispatched either, but she had offered after listening to Nitta’s complaints about rising reports outside Tokyo and the scattered deployments of sorcerers. They had done the best they could with their emergency scheduling system but most were too overwhelmed with apprehension about the upcoming battle. 

She raps a quick knock on Shoko’s door before allowing herself inside. The doctor is typing up a fierce storm, worrying Utahime that she might wear off her fingers. 

“New report?” Utahime asks, taking the seat in front of Shoko.

“Writing out Plan E. Has to deal with severe casualties. Gojo told me to look it over, I’m editing some bits,” Shoko said, a frown that is born from intense concentration. “Back from your mission? You okay?” Shoko graces Utahime a quick look over before returning to her screen.

“Yup. Just wanted you to look over something quickly.”

“Mhmm.”

“So, it was pretty easy to kill the curse — worryingly easy.” Shoko’s typing pauses. “I tired it out pretty quickly, around six, seven minutes give or take. I haven’t really dealt with that many Grade 1 vengeful spirits—”

“You haven’t dealt with many Grade 1 spirits, senpai,” Shoko reminds Utahime very helpfully with a strained smile.

“Right. Sure. It was okay. I swear. I exorcise it— ” Utahime perseveres with her explanation, suppressing the rush of irritation caused by Shoko’s comment. Utahime despises Gojo for spreading his mother hen tendencies. “—and it’s gone. I’m a bit worried though. I don't think it was meant to die that quickly. I grab Nitta-san and scour the area. We didn't find anything suspicious. If it’s still alive, it’ll be back weaker, right?”

“Right.”

“So, we come back.”

“But?” Shoko asks, tilting her head forward, eyes imploring. 

Utahime deliberates her answer, tucking her lip into her mouth, releasing a sharp breath. “I got a vision for a quick second. An image. After the curse died, it kind of shot through me, like a distant memory being triggered…” Utahime pauses, a faraway look misting over. 

“What was it, senpai?” Shoko tries carefully, suddenly fearing the response.

“Satoru was…lying in a pool of his blood,” Utahime’s mouth trembles. “He looked so cold and blue. His eyes were —” And the word fails her, an involuntary gasp shocks her as she remembers. Her voice escapes grave and molten. “— dead.” 

Shoko brings her hands to her lap, the illuminated screen of her laptop too bright. “Did it feel real? Look real?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t like it — of course, I didn’t. But, I feel like the spirit did this. Like it passed through me while it faded and gave me a—”

“A premonition?” Shoko offers.

“Yes.”

A shared gloom of anticipation passes between them. The weight of the world pressed down on them, a small, insidious tick now crawling in the back of their thoughts. 

“I’ll look you over. I’ll also research more about the curse later.” Before Utahime intervenes, Shoko puts her hand forward. “I’ve got time, I’ve done the bulk of my tasks today while you were gone. You still have a lot to do. Don’t blame yourself if something unforeseen comes up. We don’t have the luxury now to do the detailed research these missions usually require.” Shoko stands up and beckons Utahime to follow her. “Come, I’m sure it's nothing.” 

Utahime’s quiet desperation hopes too. 

Utahime was an idiot. How dare she think the curse was gone? The second hour after the hour Shoko clears her of lingering curse residuals, Utahime realises the delicate peal of the suzu bells on her wrist arrived a fraction of a second too late, a tiny echo of discord in what should have been a perfected ritual sequence. Her breaths became laboured, her muscles grew sluggish, her head fuzzy. Her body was not easily riddled with exhaustion — she could easily go hours without the tell-tale sign of muscle failure. 

The most significant evidence was her reaction to Yuta and Yuji. Their conversation about Plan B — the one Utahime dreads: Yuta using Copy to use Kenjaku’s technique to take over Gojo’s body. Utahime hadn’t told Gojo the real reason she had run out the training room when Gojo announced the plan the first time; bile had risen so suddenly and forcefully, she entered the nearest room she could find to heave her breakfast into a bin basket. Perhaps he figured it out when she persistently refused his attempts to kiss her that day. She didn’t even have the resolve to challenge the Plan; it always brought a surge of nausea lodged in her throat as it plagued her. 

Yuta and Yuji — the bundling duo who could contest her affections for Gojo. A rare breed who didn’t shy away from expressing their admirations for the man. And yet, the necessity of the upcoming battle, the horrible, horrible, duty it imposed on these young children, had bequeathed them with the voice of warriors who talk tactics and strategies, sequestering the mould of grief to the still fragile sores of youth. Utahime has watched sorcerers bury their young faces and adopt the mask of an adult, naivety still flickering in their untrained eyes. Soon, they become what they fake. But, Utahime doesn’t have the time to mourn the loss of warmer people who could have been when she overhears the duo start going over the technicalities of taking over Gojo’s body . And this time, along with the violent lunge her stomach makes, her heart attempts to break free. It is such a visceral hurt, Utahime is not sure it is simply an emotional sensation. 

Thankfully, her session with the group is almost over, so she uses the break as an excuse to take leave. Using years of experience faking emotions, she bids heartfelt praises to the students and reasonably believable excuses to the staff before trying not to bound off to find Satoru. She itches to locate a tall head full of white hair and jump into that man’s arms. Probably lock him in her embrace, her strong legs equipped to hold the man in place for hours, in more ways than one. He’s at a meeting though.

Now, Utahime isn’t sure whether she should be thankful or not. There are two outcomes: one, the non—thankful option, face Gojo’s wrath at being cursed; or two, the thankful option, find Shoko and get rid of it before Gojo finds out. She’d rather feed him a palatable version of the stories, anyway. He’ll be less grumpy if he gets a fixed solution of a perfectly healthy and A—okay wife rather than a clearly curse—infected wife. She didn’t want to pile onto the mountain of worries he had quickly accumulated in the short time after he escaped the Prison Realm. 

The meeting is outside the school, Utahime rationalises, and it had only started thirty minutes ago. She has time to figure things out. She almost begins hopping to Shoko’s office in glee of her problem-solving skills when she remembers Shoko had travelled to Kashiwa to meet a sorcerer friend. She couldn’t find it in her gut to travel that far out, and her gut was really disagreeing with her right now, not to mention she was having what felt suspiciously like an impending cardiac event.

Utahime rates her options before settling on spending the rest of her day in her temporary office in the Tokyo Headquarters. She purposely chose it when the whole of Jujutsu Society decided to take over the school. It was faraway from Gojo to remove very tempting distractions and prompt more satisfying late night activities. She could still receive any concerns from students or fellow sorcerers while providing herself a sufficient hideout. 

An hour crawled by, and what had begun as mere pre-heart attack jitters had officially escalated into a full-blown cardiac mosh pit in her chest, ridding her of any ability to complete the paper work that had been empty and unfilled the whole hour. The combined effect of grueling stomach cramps and possible heart failure have set off flashing lights and blaring sirens in her head. The image of Gojo is haunting Utahime. 

Desperate to silence her thoughts, she decides to exert her body to its limits, hoping pure exhaustion would drag her into unconsciousness. The only logical next step was the gym.

Utahime enters the small gym, hurrying over to the second door and locking it as well. Her cursed energy was leaking out in surging ripples. The pressure that had appeared in Shoko’s office when she recollected her vision had spread to her shoulders, like an elephant’s foot was pressing down on her clavicles. Her breathing technique was the only tool that quelled the oppressive weight. Inhale for three, hold for five, exhale for five. And repeat. Over and over again. The leeching vines of dread had writhed from her chest to her stomach, overpowering her nausea and balling into a leaden pit, as if she hadn’t hurled her lunch an hour ago. Her arms feel so heavy. She wanted to sleep on the cool floor of the tiled hallways adjacent to the open training plains. But, even a small moment of stillness birthed a new gush of ache in her chest. If Shoko opened her up, she’d surely find a bleeding heart. The image of Gojo, lying in his pool of blood, his beautiful, brightest hue of blue eyes dead—

Utahime slaps her hands over her face, fighting the urge to let her finger drag down her face and chest and dig into the flesh and rip out the hurt. A growl tore from her throat. She twists around to march into the room, snatching up the boxing gloves from the floor, hastily fixing on the velcro straps. Utahime resists simply throwing herself at the punching bag like a woman wronged. She draws upon her years of training, settling into her fighting stance and begins.

At some point Utahime had thrown off her gloves to strike the battered object bare-handed, she’s not sure when. She has spiralled into a full-fledged panic attack. Even if her body takes short respite, her mind orbits around the glaring vision of Gojo’s dead eyes. 

She stopped breathing properly half an hour ago, only managing sharp, ragged gulps of oxygen instead. Her throat is burning, mouth dessiccated, swallowing saliva as if it were coarse tweed. 

There’s a ringing in her head, a pendulum swinging against a bell. Premonition, Utahime remembers that word. She isn’t sure why. Something was coming, creeping behind the door. If Utahime just stays put, continues as she was, it might go away. 

Everything hurt. 

The stinging was worst in her hands. She looks down, unsure if it was the first or second time. There’s blood — the skin peeling away from the knuckle bones. 

Gojo in a pool of his blood.

Utahime digs her fingers into her eyes. Hard. Blood staining her eyelids, dipping into her waterline. Her vision clouds red, the obtrusion forcing her eyes shut. 

Gojo moves in the image. His eyes, his dead, dead eyes blink slowly. His gaze pinned her, lifenessness ensnaring her. 

She has to force her eyes open and he’s there. In the dark, shadowed corner, only his feet sticking out in the light, his blood sprawling out of the void. Her skin prickles before she sees the glimmering slits of his eyes gliding upward, as if he was ascending from his crimson throne. She senses his legs twitching to stand before she bolts to the door. Her hand fumbles against the lock and there’s a rustle of wet fabric.

The fear is instinctual — choking the well of her throat. When the door flings open, she runs. Her legs are fighting against movement, but she runs. She doesn’t look to see if he’s following her, she runs. 

Gojo’s dead, dead eyes flash in her mind. So she runs. 

She doesn’t realise she’s shouting. ‘Stop…stop…STOP…STOP. STOP. STOP.’ 

She doesn’t hear the wails gurgling in her mouth, not even her intractable tears blur the vision of Gojo’s wraithy dead, dead eyes. 

She bursts onto the grassy plains of the school, dusk devouring the last traces of sunshine. Her feet seem to follow that direction, trailing behind the fading tendrils of light, away from the emerging darkness. It’s still so far. Another bout of ugly grief erupts as Utahime sees only a thin silver of pale blue light lining the horizon. Before she can pursue it, Gojo materialises in front of her, smearing the last bit of light with crimson tainted clothes, her world turning red, red, red. 

She skids to a halt, her knees crashing just before his feet, hands slapping onto the grass already besmirched with his pooling blood. Utahime’s body capsizes in fear. Everything in her is screaming. 

“U—ta—hi—me,” Gojo’s playful voice blubbers. “Why are you…running…from me?” His words warble, making a sound like glug—glug. “Don’t you…love…me?”

And Utahime’s eyes lifted, her arms trembling, heart lodged in her throat where everything clamored, because how could she ever deny him what already belonged to him? How could she possibly withhold the reassurance of her love now, a love so profound it felt like a physical ache? She loves him, she loves him, she loves him more than anything and everything. Forever and always. Until their sun explodes, and the stars die out, and beyond —

His dead, dead eyes, hollow, the devil man’s mirth bores down on her. Blood pouring forth his mouth, the curl of his lips unnatural, unkind. 

Not her Gojo, her mind screams. Not her Satoru, her heart denounces. 

Not her sun, this dead, dead, cold Gojo.

Not his eyes, what should be the brightest hue of blue.

Then she’s yelling at the caricature of her Satoru. She curses it. 

How unkind. How inhumane. Her Satoru wasn’t like that. She screams its flaws.

She roars its failure. Utahime knows her Satoru, she’s come as close to having burrowed and lived in his skin as anyone possibly could. 

Her heart breaks open, her skin scorching. And when she has no more words, she weeps. Her head falls from the sky like a discarded stone, digging into the muddy earth, hands pressed hard over her ears, a desperate, futile plea for the horrifying, deriding reality to disappear. Satoru’s absence was agony enough. 

She doesn’t look up when a stampede of feet thunder toward her, a pair of hands picking up her trembling form, cradling her blotched face into a warm neck. People around her and her captor, pressing in tightly, seemingly unable to tear themselves away. She flinches, trying to get rid of the added heat. 

“Hey, hey, sweetheart. Look at me.”

The image fades slightly, the gnawing in her chest dulling. But, she doesn’t look, doesn’t trust. There are fretful voices behind the person holding her, clearly distressed. She can’t make out words, just garbles of sound. Suffocation flares up her back as if to curl over her lungs. 

A thumb tucks into the hollow of her throat where neck met chest, and excruciating agony spiked down Utahime’s spine, eclipsing every torment she’d endured for hours. Light flashes behind her eyes, and finally, after a thousand years, the image severs from her mind. The vision is gone.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Probed by the warm voice, she flutters her eyes open and sees the brightest hue of blue.

“Stay with me, okay?” Gojo prompts further.

“Okay.”

Utahimes accepts this last image — a vision of her kind, kind Satoru — and crumples into his embrace, lost in the dream of a future unbound by the echoes of her darkest nightmare. 

Utahime kicks Gojo in her sleep, a sharp whack to his shin, and wakes up to his pained groans. 

“Gojo, can you please let me sleep?” She whines, brows furrowed. He’s holding his leg to his chest, almost rolling off the bed. “Babe, stop being stupid, now is not the time to exercise.”

“You kicked me!” Gojo groans again.

“I did not…” Utahime’s still in the halfway point between sleep and wake. The faint light from the digital clock tells her it’s one in the morning. Utahime scrunches her face further, trying to remember when she fell asleep. 

Her stomach grumbled, a rumbling protest that silenced them both and lingered for a beat longer than Utahime was comfortable. 

“Okay, come on. Eat before you go back to sleep.” Gojo urges Utahime to stand, but she doesn’t budge. “I promise I saved some yummy—yummy food for you from dinner,” cajoling as if she were a child.

“ ‘m not a kid. Let me sleep…” She snuggles into the pillow, a smile blooming at the prospect of abating her exhaustion — a frown instantly appears when her head leaves the soft, cloudy cushion. She snaps her eyes open to aim a furious glare at her husband, and in an act of pure defiance, she begins flailing around like a very damp, very angry cat. 

“Will you— stop being petulant— for once—” Her grumbling stomach makes a reappearance, stifling her attempts to swat Gojo. She folds her hands to her chest, pouting. 

“Fine. But you have to feed me!”

“Of course. Let’s go sweetheart,” Gojo coos, pressing a brief kiss to her reddening cheeks. “And we’re talking about what happened this evening.”

With the gravitas of a general in wartime briefing his troops on a particularly disastrous skirmish, Gojo recounts the previous day’s chaos while simultaneously performing the delicate act of spearing a sausage and presenting it directly to Utahime’s mouth, waiting for her to bite down on the meat. Utahime stares long enough at him to irk Gojo, and only then, she realises he expects further information. Utahime is exasperated with herself. She really should have taken the trip to Shoko. 

“Well, the curse got to me. I waited for Shoko to come back and tell her,” she states plainly. 

Gojo deadpans. “You’re kidding me.”

“No?” Utahime mumbled, chewing her next bite of sausage with all the thorough, slow, unhurried deliberation of a camel. Gojo narrows his eyes. “You know…” Utahime begins, her mouth half-full “...I would be more open to sharing if you didn’t look so angry.” And she adds, “It’s not my fault anyway.” Utahime wished she’d learnt tact with her husband, because she always has to add the second part.

“Hime…” Gojo drawls, and now, he’s sad. 

Dammit, Utahime groaned internally, not sad Satoru, that’s my moral enemy, equipped with puppy dog eyes. 

“I know you were experiencing things beyond what Shoko could tell me. That vengeful spirit almost led a ten-year-old boy to take his life…there’s not much that could make a child do that.” A well-weathered sadness shook from his voice. 

Utahime sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face, the memory of the not-Gojo taking shape behind her closed eyes. She begins differently than Satoru expects. “We were never going to agree on how much we should protect ourselves. It would have been selfish for me to stop you when you’ve done so well giving me the space to do what I want to do, to do what you fear the most for me.” Gojo leans forward, listening. “The curse gave me a vision, or an image, of you dead.” Her mouth didn’t tremble this time, not when she could feel the soothing warmth from her Gojo. “You were lying in a pool of your blood, and you looked…so dead.” The description earns a huff of laughter from her. “It was a living darkness. You laid there, unmoving, for so many hours in my head, you became alive. And, so, I ran.” 

“You ran?” Gojo asks, surprise colouring his voice. But Utahime doesn’t run from Gojo, not anymore. She runs to him, pulls him close, and entangles their limbs so that they may never separate. She’d never run from him. 

“I was scared. In the moment, I didn’t really decipher my exact emotions, I just felt deep-rooted, instinctual fear,” Utahime explains slowly, because she knows the emotions that are laced in Gojo’s heart, his insecurities. She grabs the fork from Gojo’s hand and rests it on the plate, capturing his hand and gripping it in hers. “I was scared to see you dead. I really only realised when the physical embodiment of the vision popped up in front of me in the fields. And it wasn’t doing anything malicious. It just stood there, and I fell, and it said my name. I looked up. Took my first proper look at your face. There was blood pouring out your mouth. But the thing that scared me the most—” Utahime pauses, because not even Gojo’s warmth could settle her heart lunging at the memory “— was your dead, dead eyes.” 

Utahime grabs Gojo’s face, her hand sliding up to the back of his neck to curve over his nape. Her other hand cups his face. “I love you more than anything and everything.” She leans their foreheads together, and brings her view of his beautiful, brightest hue of blue eyes close. “Forever and always. Until our sun explodes, and the stars die out, and beyond that. But promise me,” Utahime’s voice grave, “that you will never let me see your eyes like that.”

Gojo tapped his forehead gently against Utahime’s brow, nuzzling into the comforting pressure. “I promise you’ll only ever see my beautiful, beautiful eyes, Hime.” 

Utahime slaps him. Not too hard, but he clutches the offended arm to his chest, hand curling over the rapidly reddening handprint. 

“HEY! We were having a moment !” He whined, and Utahime can tell, despite the theatrics, he was genuinely a little bit miffed. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Gimme, I’ll kiss it better.” She reaches for his arm, but he leans back further, his chair on two precarious legs.

“Absolutely, not! You’re incapable of romance!” Gojo seethes, scathed by his wife’s mockery.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you big, sulking baby. Come, give me a hug, I miss you.” Utahime only has to apply a little bit of cadence to her voice, a little drop of syrupy affection for Gojo to relent and fold his large body into her embrace. She hums, satisfied with his response. 

“I have a question,” Gojo mumbles into her chest. He had gotten off his chair to kneel on the floor, content to remain in the grueling position for his wife. “Even if you were running from the image of me dead, I — dead me — wasn’t attacking you, was I?”

Utahime felt him nose the softness of her cleavage, seeking out the warmth below her shirt. “No, you weren’t. I knew you weren’t going to attack me. It wasn’t who you were in my head. That’s how the curse showed me the thing I feared the most: it took away what I loved the most.” He smiles, slightly enthralled by the heat radiating from her body. “I did realise the curse was there hours before it fully took over me —”

Gojo pops up from his cocoon. “You knew?! Why didn’t you look for me?!” 

Utahime mourns her ability to shut up at appropriate times. She heaves a great sigh. “It was— a decision I made,” she said, like it made sense. Gojo stares at her. “I don’t know…you were busy.” She picks on invisible lint on her pants.

“Baby…we were doing so well being honest, and open, and vulnerable. Come on, don’t bail on me now, tell me.” Gojo pouted, an utterly defeated look on his face.

Utahime offers him a grime that was less ‘smile’ and more ‘grimace’, already cringing at the trainwreck of words that were about to leave her mouth like pulling teeth. “So, remember how we’re diametrically opposed to the whole ‘personal safety’ thing? Yeah…I’d really prefer you not do Plan B, just skip it entirely.”

Gojo’s mouth falls open. “It’s our main plan after the plan in which I don’t die.”

“Mhmm,” Utahime nods, in contemptuous understanding.

“I’m sorry,” Gojo stated, again adopting the grim and unflinching directness of a wartime general delivering utterly devastating, yet non-negotiable, news.

“Yup. Me too.”

Now, Utahime really thinks she should have shut up. She can’t fault him. They’re stubborn in their own right, keeping their ideas of a better, safer environment for the kids possible with their bare, bloodied hands. They used to be unconcerned with self-preservation, only dragging themselves far enough to continue the next day. Because the ideas need to breathe and live. Loving a person tends to ruin all plans. 

They’ve learnt to tolerate each other’s wishes, merging only the plausible and safe steps to create a better space for the kids thus far. Sacrifice — it has its buttress roots twinging around every reckless action. It is penance. A prayer ritual you cannot ask your loved one to partake. A will that is bred—in—the—bone. 

Utahime wondered how could anyone have considered them polar opposites, when their hearts were so undeniably woven from the exact same self-sacrificing thread. 

“I’ll win.”

“And if you don’t? That’s why we have all these contingencies, don’t we? You’re not even involved in Plans C, D and E, because it’s immediately presumed you’re dead.” There’s lead in Utahime's throat and vicious memories of her aggravated cries rush forth. “Do you know how it felt for me? I’d rather be stabbed a hundred times, a thousand, than see what I saw behind my eyes, ingrained in my mind, for hours .” Utahime spits out the acid-laden words. “It got to the point it did because I started believing it. I thought that you actually died, and that everything around me was a facade, that I was hallucinating you because I couldn’t handle the grief.” Her eyes well with unshed tears, her voice hitching as the uncomfortable gush of vulnerability has renders her speechless.

“Well, it’s better me dead first than you—”

“Satoru!”

There is resignation in Satoru’s eyes and fury in Utahime’s. Another stalemate. A recurring impasse. 

Utahime and Gojo clash not because they’re polar opposites, but precisely because they are exactly alike. 

“Don’t tell me I don't know what it’s like to lose you.” And Utahime’s anger falters. “I can protect myself, but I can’t always protect you. And I respect you too much to ever oppose your wishes to be an active sorcerer. I’ve seen you bloodied and bruised, seen your intestines and your stomach in Shoko’s hands as she patched you back, skin by skin.” Gojo whimpers, shaking his head. “I’ve had more of your blood on my hands than anyone else’s, all because of your sheer stubbornness. The first time I saved you, I had nightmares for months ! And that was even before I loved you. Despite it all, you had my heart before I could say no.”

Gojo brings Utahime’s hand to his mouth, placing fervent kisses on her palms. “If I lost you now, there would be no point in living. I can’t keep losing you and hoping you’ll be alive when I find you. Not after everything we’ve been through. I can’t. I won’t. ”

Utahime recognises the ultimatum. It’s the very ones he reserves for the Higher Ups, for Gakuganji. Utahime wants to protest, to yell and scream at him, the sheer audacity of it filling her with utter despair. 

Gojo moves to nuzzle into her cheek, pressing a soft kiss to her mouth, disarming her. The conniving bastard — she’s given him too much power. 

“I can’t ask you to accept it, I know I wouldn’t. I ask you to allow me to do my duty. To be the strongest.” His voice is quiet in their shared breath. “Won’t you, Hime?”

Utahime thinks it’s unfair to deploy this tactic knowing how heady she gets with his smell and warmth. It doesn’t change her answer, though. It is the same as it was before the curse bolstered her existing feelings, the one before she married Satoru, the one before he confessed.

“I allow you to be strong, Satoru, but more importantly, to be kind, as you always — always — were. You were always going to do whatever it took save us. I can’t deny you of that destiny.”

They end up in their bed, hands mapping, frantic. Utahime allows it, her muscles crying with exertion, but she allows it because she wants it. She savors his taunt muscles, his tough skin, and blue eyes she thought she had lost. She swallows the gasps and the moans. And when they settle, she tucks herself under his neck, his heart thudding for her. 

Utahime resigned herself to this resolution, bereft of choices at the hands of fate.

The morning of the battle, the walkout is forlorn. They get dressed in silence, no more words left to exchange. The grief bellows, as does love, thudding along their dragging footsteps. 

Utahime tries, tries so hard , not to scramble into his lap when they kiss for the last time (what feels like the very last kiss she’ll be able to take from Satoru). Her body aches to sink under his skin, her hands seeking purchase along his shoulders, digging into the bouldered muscle. Gojo has to grip her legs to unlock them from his waist. She whimpers when he leaves the kiss. And the terrible, frightened horror from last week returns. 

He holds her hand throughout the journey from their room, to the courtyard, to the car, to the highrise building. He doesn’t let go of her hands, and she doesn’t leave. Utahime is not sure whether she’s walking Gojo to his funeral bed; or he, hers. She’s not sure it matters, the outcome will be the same if he dies. 

A haze had clouded over Utahime since early morning. Like her body wasn’t hers, it was an alien entity experiencing her darkest nightmare as she watches frozen from a distance. She yearned to be kissing Gojo, strapped to his side, breathing in his scent.

Gakuganji sat beside her, wrinkled hands posed to begin strumming the pipa. Utahime readies her starting position, extending her arms outward, legs standing apart. She holds her head high, eyes locked onto the sun in the horizon, light glittering from office windows. Gojo and Ijichi enter the rooftop, halting at the top of the stairs. Utahime resists shivering under Gojo’s gaze, goosebumps prickling her nape. She wonders if her hair was parted or swept to the side, Gojo would have left his post to kiss the exposed skin. 

The twang from the pipa begins the ritual. 

Muscle memory moves Utahime before she can command herself. She pirouettes on her bare feet, the scrap of concrete burning the pads of her feet. The suzu bells on her wrists jingling as she brings her hands together. She times her movements to the plucking of the pipa, her eyes finding her next position before her body follows. 

Her cursed technique throngs from her shoulders, bouncing along her outstretched arms, swooshing with every turn of her dance, slithering into the lines of her palms, and swirling around the tips of her fingers; the release. It surges out and whirls in the barrier Ijichi was holding up. 

She finishes unleashing Soro Soro Kinku, and moves onto the second ritual. She begins the antagonistic steps that match Gojo, her voice sliding along Gojo’s molten words.

Eyes more keen to the intricacies of cursed energies, she tracks the magenta hue torpedoing in the confined space, coursing round and round in the dome of the barrier. But her eyes fall when it yields to Gojo’s call.

“Nine ropes.” His gaze is still on her. 

“Polarised light.” Only the shade of purple drowns the barrier.

“Crow and declaration.” Her eyes never shift to Gojo, never once.

“Between front and back.” She remembers every step of their joint ritual. His stance wide and bullish, a man ready to charge. Only Gojo and Utahime can physically palpate the strength of his curse technique, hitting two-hundred percent. Her purple cursed energy intertwined with his, the colours so similar, she could not differentiate between the two. She lends him her power, allowing him to capture the reins of his fate, and satiate his mountain of guilt. 

In her final pose, her body is bound in unwavering, sacred submission before the Honored One.

“Hollow Purple!” A final act of kindness before his descent from the throne. 

A deafening soundwave crashed over them, immediately followed by the building’s violent shudder. It stops a few seconds later. The barrier fades and Utahime finally, cautiously, looks up. 

The brightest hue of blue and a declaration.

Gojo blots out of sight, and Utahime finishes reciting his words, knowing— knows deep in her heart and soul — that he is now completing himself. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” She doesn’t turn around to see how badly he had crippling the targeted building. She walks forward.

“More than anything and everything. Forever and always.” She saunters past Ijichi, a pitiful glimmer in his gaze, and something more, something hopeful .

“Until our sun explodes, and the stars die out…” She whispered, descending from the rooftop and vanishing into the building’s concealed walls, swallowed by the dark, bare hallway. Away. Safe. His final act of protection.

“...and beyond that.” 

Ui Ui sends Utahime far from Shinjuku before she lingers too long on Gojo’s residual cursed energy as it clings to her hakama. 

Utahime accepts this act of benevolence and continues forward, resolute in her refusal to ever look back.

Utahime’s favourite thing in the world is Gojo’s eyes. No surprise there. She could remain entranced by his eyes for hours, never shy to initiate contact. This transformed Gojo into the meek partner of the relationship. For all his intimidating bulk and commanding presence, it was light work for Utahime to reduce her husband into a pliant fool.  

It’s usually only for instances when he’s acting like a complete brat. He doesn’t believe he still carries the same petulance as he did when he was a younger, but emotional surrender has a way of unravelling even the unconscious defences. 

Utahime thought she did an excellent job of taming his vicious tantrums and flaring tempers. Really, an adult man should act better. And he does, truly. He apologises even before the nasty comment can take shape in his mouth. Utahime told Shoko the trick: a slow, deliberate shift of the eyes to the suspecting target, and you must gather all your seething irritation. Then, and this is crucial, followed by an even slower turn of the head. Like your eyes have to gauge what they did or said before your brain can process the sheer audacity. It did wonders for her. 

But, now, Utahime’s not so sure. 

See, she spends the whole morning racing after people. Shoko could barely utter Gojo’s name when she goes to retrieve Utahime from her hiding spot before Utahime bolts past her and rallies the students. There’s so much work to do. Nevermind whatever is happening on the screens. It really, really doesn’t matter. She set up a whole signal for the turning point event that starts the wheels for subsequent Plans B, C, D and E. She’s the only flurry of motion when Plan B rolls around, everyone’s focus captured by the screens. But, Utahime doesn’t have time for that. She has a job to do. So, she clapped her, shouted some sense into the frozen crowd, and began working. She doesn’t look at the screen, doesn’t question the blurry hint of red in her peripheral vision, she continues forward. 

She dismisses Shoko’s attempt to talk about her husband. She doesn’t have the time, she has a list of tasks to get done so she can do her part. She barely minds the tinge of hurt that crosses Shoko’s face when Utahime sharply puts a hand up.

“Don’t. No. Just tell me if I can start the next step.” She glared at the ground.

“His body’s come in—” 

“Thank you. Come find me when Yuta leaves.” 

Shoko thinks Utahime has adopted Gojo’s sourness, the way he could spew acerbic words and continue. She watches Utahime storm away from the main hall and mourns for her friends.

In all her chasing and racing people about, the haze from earlier clouds her head, and she’s severely ill-tempered. She really shouldn’t be; the battle of their lives is waging outside and she was supposed to be a beacon of perseverance and hope. But she’s frustrated as more and more bodies come in, and annoyed that her heart jumps every time Ui Ui pops out of nowhere, too reminiscent of a past she’s determined to leave behind. 

She moves from task to task, hardly stopping for a moment. When she is bereft of a task to fulfill, she retreats back to her hiding spot, the room furthest from Shoko’s laboratory, and waits. She should care how much she’s inconveniencing Ijichi by staying away from the main hall, forcing him to take multiple trips to her dark hiding spot to summon her. 

And, then, like a complete idiot, when she begins the mantra of absorbing herself in the technicalities of how she’s supposed to assist Nobara with Sukuna’s last finger (as she’s been doing with even the most mundane tasks to rob her brain and heart of betraying her and straying to debilitating thoughts), she finds herself walking by Shoko’s laboratory, her eyes vaguely registering the contents of the room as the door lay wide open (and she could just about yell and scream and ruin her friendship with Shoko over this), and landing on a stock of white hair.

Utahime could shoot herself right about now. She finds that it may be the most appropriate action after seeing the fresh, jagged scar that encircles her husband — she means, Yuta’s waist. The conversation in the lab ceases and Utahime wills every cell in her body to march forth and forget, forget, forget. She doesn’t register her name being called because she has her ears squished under her unmoving hands and unflagging resolution to will this situation away. She doesn’t need to turn back to know Yuta is walking behind her, picking up speed as she bolts down the hallway.

Gojo should know. He should know that she doesn’t want to see him. He should understand the sheer audacity of defying her wants. He knows better. So, it isn’t Gojo. It’s Yuta. The person following her is Yuta —

“Sweetheart.”

Fucking hell. 

“I…asked Yuta if I could talk for a bit. It’s a bit weird. I don’t know how it really works.” Gojo, or Yuta, Utahime’s not sure, laughs softly, cautious.

“Let me just say this really quickly, I don’t know how much time I have.” His voice, though calm for Utahime’s sake, held an urgent tremor.

“Firstly, you’re pregnant. I think. Most likely. I have a feeling you know, and you didn’t want to tell me because I’d make it harder for me to leave. And you’re right, but I’m really, really happy I’m leaving behind something permanent. Name them something really, really good, okay?” He took a deep, shuddering breath, his hand reaching out as if to touch her, then falling. 

“I’m sorry, Hime, could I ask you to turn around?” His voice was barely a whisper now, strained with an unspoken plea.

Utahime breath is tangled in her ribs. His request causes her to let out a gasp strained in her chest, everything feeling like too much. She realises her face is wet, tears spilling unheeded and silent. She brings a hand to her sternum and rubs, like soothing a child, as a broken sob escapes from her. Utahime fears the ache will never lull, pain from the desperation and soul-sick misery steadily seeps like she had split at the seams. 

She barely manages to tilt her head sideways, pausing in the act of twisting her body before the mere sight of his arms capsizes her body. 

He dares to bridge the gap, unable to resist seeing her beautiful face. “Hi, sweetheart.” His voice was a soft, tender caress against her ear, brimming with unshed tears. She keeps her gaze below his eyes, her heart thudding in her ribs as she watches his dimpled smile take form. She felt the brush of his lips against her temple, then the phantom warmth as he pulled back. 

“I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, more than anything and everything. Forever and always. Until our sun explodes, and the stars die out, and beyond that — beyond that, I’m waiting for you, okay?” Each word was a whispered promise. 

She remembers how he had promised to only ever show her his beautiful, beautiful eyes. And, so, betraying herself for no reason, her eyes flit up and she sees the brightest hue of blue. And so, the answer becomes obvious.

“Okay.” The word was ripped from Utahime’s throat, raw and broken, a testament to her shattered will.

But despite all that, despite everything,  Utahime accepts because Satoru asks. Where else could Utahime possibly be, if not with Satoru?