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A comfortable silence hangs in the air between you and Nanami on this quiet early October morning, punctuated only by the rhythmic sound of the crunch of rogue twigs and fallen leaves underfoot as you stride on the paved path bordered by the long rows of apple trees.
This isn’t your first time here with Nanami.
Last year, at around the same time, you’d found yourselves in this very orchard, only as colleagues at the time, after a purported gaffe by Gojo had somehow resulted in only you and Nanami receiving an erroneous date for the scheduled team building outing that was meant to include all staff members from Tokyo Jujutsu Tech. Despite all the evidence pointing towards the white-haired menace having ulterior motives, the outcomes of his actions are ones you are still grateful for.
In hindsight, things were so much lighter and simpler back then.
As your mind replays the astonishing events of the last twelve months, you steal a fleeting glance towards him, recalling the way you were walking this very path the previous year, and the way you'd felt a distinct warmth whenever your shoulders had occasionally bumped as you navigated the thick crowd, and how your heart had jumped when he'd leaned towards you to better hear you over the bustling noise. He’d spoken so candidly that evening, certainly more than you’d ever imagined, slowly introducing you to the Nanami Kento that lived beneath the layers that were gradually peeling before you.
From this particular perspective, standing on his right side as you walk hand in hand, Nanami appears just as he did when you were last here. From this angle, the vestiges of the life altering events that occurred in Shibuya last fall are not visible, much like the emotional weight that he’s carried ever since, or the pervasive pang in your chest as you peek down at the hand you’re now so grateful to be able to hold in yours, belonging to the man you’re beyond relieved to have breathing next to you.
Nanami will likely never cop to this, but you’ve long noticed it by now, the apprehension he holds for crowded and noisy spaces, and the intrusiveness that you know to be typical of the busier evening and weekends at the orchard during its peak season—it is with Nanami’s newfound sensitivities in mind that you've made your deliberate selection of this midmorning weekday timeslot, a moment you know things to be slower, and during which any of said unwanted effects are minimized.
Even so, it’s still apple-picking season, and so you inevitably do run into some other groups—couples like you, young families, and a small class of elementary school kids. You imagine the many qualifiers that might come to mind for the few passersby when they encounter Nanami on your way through the orchard.
Victim.
Survivor.
Scarred.
To you, he’s still Nanami, still Nanami Kento, still your Kento.
He’s still the stubborn man who will sooner suffer in silence than burden you, insufferably so, a fact that’s particularly evident now as you watch him awkwardly shift the weight of the handle of the basket containing his harvest thus far.
You vividlt remember the grim expression on his face a few weeks prior, when Shoko expressed that while his motor skills were showing some improvement, it was at a slightly slower rate than she’d anticipated—it was one that came with a loud sentiment of disappointment that echoed loudly in the quieter-than-usual car ride back home. And even now, as he tries to hide the strain that runs the entirety of his deeply injured arm, the tightening of Nanami’s jaw does not escape you.
You quickly concoct a mitigation plan.
“You know something?" you say with an air of contemplation, making a show of lifting your basket up and down as if it is weighing you down. "I might have actually picked up more than I can literally chew."
Nanami stops in his tracks.
"Hand it to me, I’ll hold it for you," he promptly responds.
Of course you will, you sweet, reckless man, you think to yourself.
“That’s no good,” you say with a shake of your head, turning back on your steps to face him head on, exposing yourself to the imperfections that only made him that much more beautiful, in a way that you just couldn’t get enough of, so much so that your voice falters slightly as you speak your next words, “How will I hold your hand if it’s otherwise occupied?”
“Just give it to me so you can manage your energy. We still have a long way back to the entrance,” he says, expectantly extending his scarred hand towards you.
“Oh, so you don’t want to hold hands, Kento? So you hate me?” you ask in mock offense.
Nanami lets out a sigh devoid of any real form of annoyance, one that he punctuates with a light chuckle. By now, he knows better than to fall for your flair for dramatic shenanigans whenever you want to get your way with him.
“Don’t be unreasonable now. You and I both know that you have poor wrists.”
“I'm unreasonable?” you exclaim, barely catching your wry laugh in your throat at the irony of his statement. “Okay, I have a better idea. Let’s just trade baskets? I’m pretty sure yours is lighter than mine.”
You don’t wait for him to acquiesce. Without any preamble, you reach for his basket, keeping your eyes locked on his as you lightly lodge your fingers under the ones he has gripped over the handle of his basket. Nanami doesn’t offer much resistance as you take his basket from his hands and gently replace it with yours—you imagine he’s too busy bracing himself for whatever he thinks you have planned for him as you inch your face closer and closer to his, lips slightly parted, eyebrows knitted in that unreadable, mischievous expression that usually promises trouble.
Only when you reassume your position next to his, taking his hand into yours once more, does Nanami return to lucidity, and it is with near immediacy that he realizes the gambit you’ve just pulled on him:
The basket you’ve handed him feels significantly lighter.
His suspicions are only further confirmed when he peers at you, finding you unable to conceal the skittish, furtive glance you've thrown his way, as if to gauge his reaction. And when your eyes do meet, Nanami perceives the brief flash of worry spelled in them before your mouth tightens in a nervous iteration of a grin, and you avert your gaze to the side, towards one of the trees you were approaching.
“Oh, hey, this tree!” you say suddenly, pointing towards it. “The one with the big bark. It’s where we sat last year and talked until the late hours. Remember?” you ask all while delicately tugging on his hand to lead him towards it.
Nanami contemplates you for a moment, at the way the pockets of early sun ethereally seem to line the rich soil below your steps, as if you were the source of this progressive luminosity.
And you might as well be, because how could he possibly forget the moments you shared under this tree, on the evening when everything shifted, the one during which he got better acquainted with the woman he’d long tried to keep at a safe arm’s length lest he have to face the exceptional interest you’d elicited within him early in your association?
They were, after all, the very moments that replayed in his mind as he felt his soul brush against total destruction at the hands of Mahito—the same images that flooded his mind when he first came to in the Jujutsu Tech infirmary. There was a direct line tracing that evening to the moment he’s having now, having just witnessed your subtle attempt at looking out for his well-being.
And this utterly moves him.
“Of course I remember,” Nanami replies, hoping to school his tone towards neutrality and away from the emotional storm that was brewing within him. “That worker somehow managed to be maintain an incredible level of politeness as he kindly informed us that we were well past closing time”
“Well, he also knew better than to mess with us if he wanted to make that sale. You remember the comical haul Gojo made us collect in that large barrel!” you say with a jubilant giggle, a palpable tension melting from your shoulders. Nanami imagines it to be from your assumption that you are in the clear.
He would make sure that you are not.
Nanami watches still, as you walk up towards the tree, bringing your free hand up to trace the intricate patterns on its bark before murmuring, more to the wood itself than to him. “I was so fascinated by this one. By its stature, by its unique texture and—”
Before you know it, Nanami spins you around, and you barely register the bark pressing against your back. Before you formulate the words of lament about the pieces that would inevitably get stuck in your curls, you’re stopped by the intensity in Nanami’s gaze as it locks onto yours, so fierce, so arresting, so captivating that you find yourself imagining his other deep hazel iris behind the soft, black eyepatch covering it. You barely have the chance to distinguish the unnamed desire as it wells up in his eyes and pours into yours, not unlike the sap undoubtedly has done so countless times from the very tree supporting you right now.
“Let’s make sure to remember this as well,” Nanami whispers before he gently presses his lips to yours. You don’t realize how literal he is until you feel a fervent spark travel through you, one you immediately recognize to be fuelled by a cursed energy whose signature could only belong to the 7:3 sorcerer himself, jolting every nerve ending in your body with an electrifying buzz, one of both steadying strength and assured safety, as if you’ve caught a million sparks to ignite in your nerve endings, culminating into a sensation that would not truly diminish for several days.
It takes you a moment, at least the time for a shiver to slowly climb up your spine before settling there, at the front edge of your mind, before you reorient yourself, and recal where you are.
With complete composure, Nanami reaches for your hand, and you find yourself taking it, still searching for coherent words as you recover from the unexpected intensity of the moment.
You find the main path again, silently following in Kento’s steps. The nervousness in his glance towards you evades you as your eyes meet, and you work to finally break the silence, wielding levity in the best way you know.
“What will you do next year?” you playfully ask, voice still somewhat shaky. “You know, to make sure our tree remains memorable?”
“Oh, is this your indirect way of inviting me to come here with you next year? No need to be shy.”
You snicker at his preposterous words, and his mouth stretches as wide as the scarring on his left side allows him to, and you know this to be the decreasingly rare appearance of his largest smile.
It serves partly to mirror yours.
It’s also partly one of self-satisfaction, at the prospect that his distraction was successful, and that he can now be certain that you haven’t noticed the few apples he’s sneakily transferred from your basket into his, to help ease the burden he knows you are all too willing to shoulder for him.