Chapter Text
It'd taken only a few months for Satoru to transform what were once plain white walls of his bedroom into an altar any superfan would be proud to have. Standing before it now, his gaze sweeps over the photos plastered across every centimeter: glossy magazine covers, various grainy social media screenshots detailing various achievements and records broken, a plethora of high-definition photos downloaded from fansites alongside Satoru's own clandestine shots, each featuring the same pink-haired boy— the idol, Itadori Yuuji.
According to Megumi, this officially made Satoru an "uncle fan" —or, to put it more bluntly, a “creep”, a “stalker”, “the lowest of the low." How rude! Satoru is just a fan! A super, mega, uber fan. The greatest fan of them all, he thinks with a hint of irony. Except even he has some sense of self-awareness as he grimly examines his latest secret photoset: Yuuji deliberating over bouquets at a local flower shop with a serious look on his face, his blissfully oblivious smile as he chats with the hospital's receptionist… His cute, peaceful face as he snores away, starfished to cover his entire mattress.
Is it a gross abuse of his powers? Probably. Satoru finds he just doesn't care. He's allowed a vice or two, or ten. Yuuji is his vitamin— just a glimpse of his pink hair can instantly revitalize Satoru from 0 to 100, even after another grueling day spent protecting an ignorant world from unseen curses. There's nothing that can boost his spirits like one of the idol's performances, not even the sweetest ice cream. In between missions, Satoru finds himself religiously refreshing fan sites for any updates on Yuuji’s schedule. His other hands plays with his keychain: Veemon from Digimon, cast in cheap plastic that is more valuable than any storied artifact from the Gojo Clan's collection.
Is it crazy that a Special Grade sorcerer is so obsessed with a fifteen-year-old boy— and a civilian at that? Sure, but Yuuji was perfect. And Satoru is sleep-deprived. "Depraved," Megumi would object.
What Megumi thinks doesn't matter. As a devoted fan, Satoru has bigger concerns— like the fact that Yuuji is worryingly careless with his personal information. That zelkova tree is unmistakably the one heralding the entrance to Sendai's premier hospital ,and reflected in Yuuji's sunglasses was a familiar post office on the corner of Jozenji-dori Avenue. Yuuji really needed to be more conscientious. A stalker could piece those details together in an instant.
Truth be told, even now, Satoru can't understand why the boy insists on visiting his grandfather at the hospital every Tuesday to Friday, from four to five. Then again, it's part of Yuuji's charm. He loves his family, he's a sweetheart. He wouldn't be so loveable if he weren't a bit weird.
Opening open his notifications, again, Satoru's breath hitches as his eyes lock onto the message: a personal invitation to another fan-meet with Yuuji. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity that he cannot miss, short of Japan itself imploding. Satisfaction warms his gut as he thumbs his phone closed.
Yuuji's lovely face smiles back at him from the wall.
ᯓ𝄞 ˎˊ˗
See, being the strongest means unforgiving work hours: 36-hour long workdays without time to gargle and brush, let alone shower. It also means no time for hobbies, although Satoru has no fucking idea what kind of hobbies a man of twenty-seven with a full-time job us expected to have. He's never cared for single player games and Shoko would rather go drinking than spend a quiet night in, letting their regrets running rampant in the silence.
Still, he has to kill time between missions somehow, which is how he ends up going down this rabbit hole.
On a direct flight to Beijing, he'd been aimlessly channel surfing, while ("like a dork," as Shoko'd say) nursing a glass goblet of sparkling water. He's already in a foul mood, a slight throbbing pain starting at his temple—the beginnings of a developing migraine building behind his Eyes and only exacerbated by his sleep deprivation.
Nothing keeps his attention. He skips past a nature documentary about the mating dances of exotic birds, the most recent season of The Bachelorette, an idol competition, the latest Yamashita Tomohisa film—
Wait, he thinks, freezing in place as he unblinkingly stares at the screen. He switches back to the previous channel, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Please step forward and introduce yourself."
"Hi, I'm Yuuji! I'm thirteen years old and a trainee under Stardust Records."
A young boy with cherry blossom pink hair bows deeply. Straightening his back, he steps forward with a mic cradled between his hands. He sunnily greets the judges with a bright smile to match and dimpled cheeks. A brief shot of the audience shows a sea of smiles, trainees cheering and hooting obnoxiously while the boy, Yuuji, scratches his reddening cheek, abashed.
The panel of judges features quite the eclectic group of people. A middle-aged woman with unnaturally smooth forehead and stiff lips, stuffed to the brim with Botox. An old man whose salt and pepper hair is slicked back with far too much gel, revealing a receding hairline and cheap hair plugs. Some wannabe rockstar with unconvincingly dyed blonde hair. A punk girl studded head to toe in faux piercings, the hint of a dragon tattoo peeking through her mesh top.
"Tell us about yourself, Yuuji." Botox Hag says, speaking with practiced, grandmotherly warmth. Satoru notes the puffiness of her face where her injections have migrated. Someone's overdue for a touch-up.
Yuuji introduces himself as a singer— "a main vocal," whatever the hell that means. Satoru hasn't kept up with idols since he was a high schooler, and back then his knowledge had been largely superficial and limited to only the most popular female idols. Sometimes he'd notice one gracing the cover of a magazine, and he'd make her his lockscreen, then forget about her next week, when the next hot girl came around. He certainly hadn't given a shit about any male idols.
Besides, there were always more urgent matters at hand, like his current efforts to prevent the higher-ups from executing his newest student. Despite that, he finds himself curious now.
"I hadn't considered becoming an idol before. Honestly? With my natural athleticism, I always assumed I'd end up becoming a firefighter or something." Yuuji explains sheepishly.
Firefighter to idol, huh? Satoru muses to himself. That's quite a pivot. Then again maybe it isn't so strange. Yuuji has a sweet face, the sort that puts people at ease, and he seems to have a way with people. Satoru can see him thriving in either role.
"What changed your mind?" Walking Hair Gel Ad asks, raising a bushy brow.
Despite the judges' attempts at feigning stern exteriors, Satoru sees how the corner of their lips quirk upwards, how their eyes softened in the face of the boy's earnestness. All their body language suggests they aren't as unaffected as they might act. Satoru can't fault them; he also finds himself swayed by Yuuji's effortless charm.
"My friends and classmates," Yuuji answers with a shy smile. "We'd go hangout and sing karaoke together. They encouraged me to audition somewhere, but I didn't take it seriously at the time. I only really sang for Gramps sometimes, and his health is my first priority."
"So how did you end up becoming an idol trainee?"
"We held a concert at our middle school, and I was singing. One of my senpai's older cousins was there, and he happened to be a talent scout. Long story short, I ended up signing with Stardust Records."
The concept of school concerts and culture festivals are a novelty to Satoru. He'd been homeschooled up until he was fifteen and entered Jujutsu Tech. The first he'd heard of them was when Tsumiki asked him to pick up last minute supplies for her class's stall. Megumi, on the other hand, had threatened him to stay the hell away from his classmates, problem child that he was.
"How does your family feel about you becoming an idol?"
"Y'know, I was worried about leaving Gramps behind, but the old man wouldn't hear a word of it." Yuuji admits with a cutely scrunched up nose. "He kept telling me that young people should live their lives to the fullest, not waste time on 'old men past their prime,' Yuuji quoting his Gramps incredulously. "I guess I understand what he's saying, but he's so stubborn." Despite that, there's nothing but fondness as he grumbles about his beloved Gramps. Even between back-handed compliments, his voice brims with affection.
"What about your parents?"
"I'm an orphan," There's not an ounce of self-pity in his voice, even though his life is a sob story tailor made for TV. "My parents left shortly after I was born, leaving me to be raised by Gramps. He's my only family."
"I'm sorry, that must be difficult," The hag frowns, wincing with sympathy.
"Don't be— I've never wanted for anything. The worst thing I can say about gramps is that he's a worrywart who constantly on my back about school and work," Yuuji reassures with an easy grin, his laughter coming freely.
The kid's impossible to dislike. Everything about him, from the way he holds himself, to his barefaced honesty— it's a breath of fresh air. There has to be something wrong with him, Satoru thinks but to his dismay, there isn't.
The panel exchanges meaningful glances among themselves before all looking towards the gelled-up old man—their unofficial leader, it seems. He clears his throat, fixing Yuuji with a serious stare. "What is your motivation for becoming an idol?"
Yuuji squirms in place, touching his arm self-consciously. Satoru understands immediately: it's a question meant to test a young trainee's resolve, one he and Yaga have asked many a prospective student of Jujutsu High. The weak-willed have no place in the cutthroat world of jujutsu, nor the idol industry. Though the risks a would-be idol would face aren't quite so dire, of course.
His golden-eyed gaze meets the camera and it's as if he's looking right through the screen to lock eyes with Satoru. His breath catches in his throat. With a shining eyes full of determination, Yuuji smiles.
“I want to make people smile. And if my voice and actions can do that? Then I’ll be satisfied."
The Special Grade Sorcerer doesn't need to have known him long to decide: Yuuji is born to be an idol. Satoru loved sweet things and Yuuji was proving himself to be the sweetest of them all, shining brightly with a resolve as pure as his smile.
A wave of light applause and whooping echoes Satoru's verdict. On stage, Yuuji rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing an adorable pink.
"What song do you plan to sing for us today?"
"I've chosen Climax☆JUMPING."
Gelled-up judge pulls a sour face, folding his hands under his chin. Satoru assumes he's trying to look skeptical as opposed to constipated. "That's a very popular song. It's not easy. Why have you chosen it?"
Golden eyes practically lit up with shoujo sparkles, Yuuji straightens his back. "Takada-san is really hot and so fucking cool!" he chirpes brightly. A ruddy blush spreads across his cheeks. "And I've listened to the song a lot. My trainers all said it suits me, so."
Takada. Satoru swears that name sounds familiar, though he couldn't place where or who he'd heard it from. Toge has some interest in both Kpop and Jpop, but the chances of Satoru hearing anything but onigiri ingredients from his mouth were next to zero. It sure as hell isn't Megumi.
"Alright." Hag claps her hands together. "Begin when you're ready."
Yuuji dips into a deep bow, his pink hair bobbing. "Thank you! Please start the music."
The song's opening is fast, very fast without any build-up. While Yuuji's singing voice is raw and untrained, he's a pleasure to listen to. He lacks proper breathing support, voice cracking on the highest notes, and he's a little pitchy, but he compensates for it with sheer enthusiasm and ridiculous lung capacity. Even after belting his heart out, he isn't even slightly out of breath as the song draws to a close.
It's a very cute song, written with a maiden's pure heart in mind. To Satoru, whose lifelong sweet tooth is unmatched, the song is the perfect fit for the pink-haired trainee with his honeyed eyes and bright smile.
The pinched expression on rockstar wannabe's face has given way to awe, as he elbows punk girl. "I was skeptical, but he really does have a flower boy vibe doesn't he?"
The younger woman nods along as she taps her pen at her notebook. With all the piercings and tattoos, she resembles a delinquent than a singer: bold fashion choices for daytime television that trend towards conservative fashion. "He doesn't properly support his high notes," she agrees with a rueful sigh. "But he is very cute."
Their criticisms of his singing technique aside, it's clear the judges are mesmerized by him. Satoru completely understands— Yuuji is star quality. He's a raw diamond, waiting to be polished until he shines to perfection.
The punk judge leans forward, her steel jewelry clinking. "What about dancing? Do you have anything to show us?"
He bites his lip, drawing Satoru's attention to the heart-shaped curve of his pink mouth, shimmering under the studio lights. "I.. do. I've been working with my trainers on a routine, but I've only started dance practice a few months ago?" Yuuji sucks his cheeks in, as he scratches at the back of his neck, his ears turning red. "I have a short choreo I can show you guys."
It's an adorably valiant attempt to temper expectations, and completely unnecessary because Yuuji's inexperience isn't as obvious as he seems to think it'd be. Satoru's Six Eyes follows Yuji's minute movements: the flex of his biceps as he snaps his arms, his quick balance readjustment as he slides down the floor. He incorporates unnecessary backflips and kicks, but it just showcases his flexibility. Where he lacks precision, he makes up for it with his overpouring talent. Yuuji's natural athleticism reminds Satoru of Maki, although she'd rather be caught dead then be on stage like this. Most sorcerers can't afford the showmanship of Yuuji's stunts. She'd never be so impractical.
Punk judge fixes Yuuji with a flinty glaze as he wraps up, her eyes never straying from his shoes. "Your footwork could use work,"
"Those tricks you added to the dance were impressive, but you need to work on your basics."
"Yeah… Of course." Yuuji winces, accepting the criticism with a serious face. "Thanks, sir."
Hunched together as they confer in lowered voices, Yuuji stands there, patiently awaiting their verdict.
After a few minutes, punk girl stands, clearing her throat. "You'll be assigned to class B." A murmur ripples through the room— it's two full ranks below S Class, but nothing to scoff at. "You might be disappointed, but we wish you the best of luck."
Yuuji doesn't seem let down at all by the news, practically vibrating with excitement as he punches his fist in the air. "Sweet— I-I mean, thanks, m'am." He swiftly corrects himself with an embarrassed blush.
"Uh huh," she stifles a laugh behind her hand. The rest of the panel share snickers behind her back. "Next trainee, please."
The next hopeful idol is boring. Not nearly as interesting as Yuuji, despite his more refined voice and better technique. He's better put-together, but lacks any spark. Nothing more than a singing dead fish. As the auditions continue, one after the other, Satoru finds them lacking when compared to Yuuji. Not as sweet. Not as lively. Not as honest.
Satoru leans forward in his chair as he watches on, enraptured by glimpses of pink hair and one particularly good shot of Yuuji tossing his head back, revealing the golden arch of his throat as he laughs uproariously at an unfunny joke a fellow trainee cracks. As Yuuji wipes tears from his eyes, Satoru can't help but think of how lovely Yuuji is.
Their practice sessions are even more boring than the ones he'd been subjected through high school; it's all dumb vocal exercises and repetitive dance rehearsals— the only bright spot being Yuuji's brief appearances here and there.
Even as his plane descends onto the runway an hour later, familiar Beijing skyline blurring past Satoru's attention remains unwavering until the final frame of the episode fades to black. It's the best TV he'd seen in a year, the only thing to maintain his attention for more than a few minutes, and it was a show about teenage wannable idols.
A little while later, he is splattered with a small fry's blood and guts and the memory of that sweet face goes completely forgotten.
ᯓ𝄞 ˎˊ˗
Well that was a lie.
"So who have you chosen to be your center?"
"Yuuji-kun!"
"I'll do my best, dude." The boy in question answers cheerily, sweeping an arm behind his back as he bows exaggeratedly.
The group of boys and girls burst into peals of laughter. One of his teammates slaps Yuuji over the head, making him whimper like a sad puppy. Red instantly floods Satoru's vision . How dare that fucking brat touch Yuuji? Satoru seethes. It's only Yuuji's sheepish smile that calms him down, reminding him that it's just roughhousing between dumbass teenagers, not bullying. He really isn't getting enough sleep if he's seriously considering terrorizing an ignorant civilian over messing around with Another ignorant civilian.
Satoru still doesn't understand how he ended up here, fixated on a pink-haired idol. That flight to Beijing should have been a one-time thing. But only a week later, Satoru was channel-surfing again, bored out of his skull when the memory of pink crosses his mind, the same shade that haunts his daydreams. On a whim, he'd turned on the next episode of Produce S+, and within minutes, he was absorbed. He clicked onto the next episode. Then the next.
He watches Yuuji be the first to comfort a younger trainee when she bursts into uncontrollable tears, making her laugh with an over-the-top Donald Duck impression.
When the trainees raced to decide first pick of songs, Yuuji outpaces the competition without breaking a sweat, running at breakneck speeds close to Mach 10. He passes a line of dropped jaws as he snatches his flag, grinning broadly. Well, it could have been an edit. Most reality television were a bunch of scenes cut together to maximize drama. Satoru really shouldn't be impressed as he is; he probably isn't that fast even compared to Satoru's own students.
"How the hell haven't you been scouted for track?" a female trainee bitches, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, sweat pouring down her forehead and temples.
"Eh? But I'm not really into sports?" Yuuji replies, cocking his head like a curious golden retriever. Satoru makes a note to download the episode later just so he can clip the timestamp and make it his screensaver.
"You are a ****ing monster," she swears with feeling as she slumps to the ground, melting into a puddle.
"What song are you picking, Yuuji?" second place inquires curiously, peering from behind Yuuji's back at the selection of songs.
"I'm going to pick EXO's Love Shot," Yuuji declares, showing the song's title to the camera, as he bounces on his heels.
The ensuing practice for their chosen songs is just chaos. This is what happens when you gather a bunch of unsuited wannabes with big dreams in one room. Half of them are on the verge of tears, while the others teeter on the edge of mental breakdowns. Despite some early tears, Yuuji's group seems to be holding together.
Yuuji's carefree laughter is infectious, echoing in Satoru's ears. He tries to smother it behind his hand, golden eyes crinkling shut to form twin crescents, but as another trainee whispered something into his ear, he dissolves into full-blown guffaws, knee slapping and all.
By the end of the week, Satoru's carefully curated feed of dog videos and dumb shit to spam people with was saturated with idol updates and fan cams. He tried to block it at first— insistent that he didn't give a shit about Jpop. But his PSIA agent, as stubborn as Satoru himself, floods his algorithm with that shit regardless, and the moment Yuuji's face appeared? Satoru was clicking.
He'd like to pretend it's just a temporary whim, but several weeks had passed and his interest in the pink-haired trainee shows no signs of waning. Throughout the slow, brutal (by civilian standards, anyway) training, Yuuji proves himself to be decidedly superhuman. His growth rate quite frankly is insane. For some reason, Satoru whole-heartedly believes that if Yuuji tried his hand at sorcery, he'd succeed with the same ease he demonstrates when smashing Olympic records, even without any cursed energy. His intuition says Yuuji would be a singular sorcerer, but he's relieved that he isn't. Yuuji will always be lovely, even stained with blood, but it’s for the best that he remains an oblivious civilian.
A smile like that should be preserved.
With that civic-minded duty in mind, Satoru downloads the Produce S+ app. He suffers through ads exactly once before upgrading to premium, and settles into a routine of voting for Yuuji at 8 P.M. each day, allotting all his twelve votes to the pink-haired idol.
As his team's center, his charming face wins them first place this week, not to mention double the votes. Deserved, Satoru thinks as he absentmindedly upvoting the announcement post. Others need to appreciate Yuuji for his charm, his talents, and his sheer hard work. Seems this time Satoru won't need to burn the stage down just to see his bias taking center stage.
Yuuji very humbly accepts his position as center, his appled cheeks flushed pink. "I'm honored to have been chosen as the center. I know there's still a lot for me to learn as an idol, and there are so many other fantastic trainees, just as talented and hardworking, if not more." He glances meaningful towards where his teammates stand to the side of the stage, waving at them brightly. "It's another step closer to accomplishing my dreams, so I'm thankful for everyone's support: from the fans, to the staff and our trainers, my fellow trainees, my company, and of course Gramps and my friends back home. Really. Thanks, guys."
The entire audience is touched by Yuuji's humility— except for Satoru, who just seethes. It's nothing to do with Yuuji himself; he's absolutely blameless, of course. Satoru just hates to be reminded of the possibility that anyone else other than Yuuji could have been chosen to be center. He's still furious that Yuuji was snubbed as number one for the show's title song. Satoru is firmly a Yuuji solo stan. Who gives a shit about all those other brats? He thinks of the television company responsible for airing Produce S+, soothed by the thought of the building going up in flames.
"I should really blow up that stupid company, shouldn't I?" Satoru mutters to himself darkly.
"Gojo-san, I don't know what you're talking about but please don't," Ichiji pleads from the driver's seat, his panicked eyes meeting Satoru's— or at least where they would be be, beneath his blindfold— in the rearview mirror.
"Shut up, Ichiji. You're so boring." Satoru complains heaving a sigh. He returns his gaze to his screensaver. Yuuji smiles back at him comfortingly, and he feels some of his bad mood dissipate.
All it'd take is one stray Hollow Purple. But the higher-ups would raise a stink about him eradicating a civilian record company over an underage civilian, even if Satoru is the Strongest. It'd be beyond annoying and even worse, Yaga would lecture him, maybe even yank on his ears. Ugh. Satoru settles for leaving a slew of hate comments on all the company's social media posts.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels like a creep, being so thoroughly obsessed with a young boy. This kid is the same age as Megumi, but they can't be any more different. There's just something irresistible about Yuuji. Megumi has never been cute, for one thing; even as a kindergartener, he bore an eerie resemblance to his old man in both looks and attitude, the most po-faced kid Satoru has ever known, and sullen to his last breath.
Yuuji reminds Satoru of all things sweet: gentle spring days, zunda mochi, and the most decadent strawberry shortcake.
"Is this right?" Yuuji uncertain voice echoes from his phone's speakers, just as his elbow juts out sharply, connecting with his teammate's face, and sending the other boy flying. A stunned silence drops over the practice room.
"Yuuji," A taller girl thunders, cradling the fallen boy in her arms as he groans in pain.
"Oh s*** dude, I'm so sorry!" Yuuji yelps.
Admittedly, he's a bit of an idiot, but that's just part of his charm.
ᯓ𝄞 ˎˊ˗
"Turn that damn song off, Gojo," Megumi gripes from where he sits at his desk, sidelong glare burning with violence. His ink-stained hands are curled into loose fists, ready to summon something way too scary for the current situation.
Overreaction much? Satoru retorts mentally. He didn't spend an obscene amount of money on these speakers (somewhere in the ballpark of 4.5 million yen, excluding his custom cabinets) just to not blast his bias's music as loud as possible. He cranks up the volume, just to be contrary, enjoying how the furrow between those dark brows grows deeper. "You just don't get it, Megumi."
His ward scoffs, returning his attention to his notes. "Since when were you obsessed with idols, anyway?"
Satoru looks at Megumi with pitying eyes. "If you saw Yuuji-kun, you'd understand, Megumi," he condescends, looking down his nose at the teen.
Megumi expression is one of utter disgust. "I don't want to understand your disturbing hobbies," he spits out. "Especially not when you insist on blasting it at 3 A.M. in the morning."
"Your ears are being blessed."
"Your shitty music is disrupting my sleep schedule," Megumi snaps venomously, his green eyes narrowing dangerously. "Use your damn earphones."
That warrants a dramatic gasp from Satoru. "This is number 5 on the charts, you know? It's the first time a trainee group from a survival show has produced a mega hit and it's all thanks to my bias."
"What are you even saying."
Clapping his hands together, Satoru obliges Megumi, his smile stretching ear to ear. Dread dawns on his ward's face. "Survival shows take scouted trainees and showcase their talents!" Satoru's voice picks up in volume and speed as he launches into his explanation. "It's not just seasoned idols, my bias is a rookie—"
Shoving a hand into Satoru's face, Megumi turns away to pinch the bridge of his nose with the other. "I've decided, keep me out of your hobbies and keep that shit to yourself. I have homework to do."
"I'm so relieved you've grown out of your delinquent phase." Satoru chirps, nodding sagely. "Tsumiki and I were sooo worried."
"Shut it," Megumi hisses through his teeth, turning scarlet. "Get out." He hustles Satoru towards the door, shoving and pushing him along the way while Satoru laughs. He allows Megumi the pretense, deliberately avoiding raising Infinity. He digs in his heels to be difficult, but for now the teen’s embarrassment is fuel enough for Satoru's good mood.
A familiar bassline greets Satoru when he stops by on Wednesday to check up on his two wards. He comes bearing gifts: an array of trendy sweets that are popular with teenage girls (according to the shopkeeper), and enough ginger to feed Gumi's addiction for a decade or so. Upon entering Megumi's room, he finds the teen humming Yuuji's most recent performance under his breath, albeit while looking very unhappy. Guess it's just too catchy, Satoru thinks smugly.
"So you do like it!" he crows as he drops the groceries to the side, lowering his arms to smother the punk.
"Fuck off!" Megumi snarls, baring his teeth like a rabid dog.
Recognizing when he shouldn't push it, Satoru ends up beating a hasty retreat before Megumi can start throwing books. The teen tends to only get more enraged when they bounce off Infinity and Satoru's not in the mood to play target dummy. Despite that, Megumi doesn't complain the next time Satoru plays Yuuji's songs. He sits quietly, humming along while Tsumiki asks questions at the appropriate moments. It's the most peaceful it's been for years.
That's just how powerful Yuuji is.
Satoru religiously checks on celebrity news websites every week for updates, watching as the pink-haired idol's popularity continues to climb, peaking week after week. His unparalleled work ethic and reputation as a sweetheart makes him a fan favorite, popular with the judges, his fellow trainees, and staff alike. The nickname they'd given him is too fitting: Pretty Pink Cure, a good luck symbol.
Megumi's just as clueless as Satoru used to be on all of this. While Tsumiki doesn't have a real interest in music, she has some familiarity with current trends, seeing as her friends are mega fans of Produce S+. And it's not just high school girls and seasoned sorcerers that Yuuji appeals to— little old grandmas and grandpas love him too. A popular unveils the results of their latest poll and Yuuji triumphs as the #1 idol you'd want most as a grandson, clearing those other losers by triple the votes.
"He's just cute! I want to squeeze his cheeks."
"His devotion to his grandfather is admirable. Yuuji-kun is such a good boy."
"He's an absolute sweetheart, so kind to everyone around him."
Satoru gets it. Their compliments barely scratch the surface of how perfect Yuuji is, but at least these grandmas and grandpas recognize Yuuji's cuteness. He cuts out a few quotes to memorialize, admiring the curve of Yuuji's smile in the glossy photo. It's a particularly charming one: the pink-haired idol hugs a bouquet of wildflowers close, nose scrunched up as he sniffs the blooms.
"He's doing a collab with Takada-chan for the next episode." Tsumiki mentions one evening over udon, steam lazily unfurling between the three of them. The name's familiar; it takes him a moment to place it. Then it clicks: it's his audition song, the performance that Yuuji had effortlessly captured Satoru's heart with. "She's one of the top idols," Tsumiki adds. "He's lucky."
"Interesting!"
"Don't encourage him," Megumi grumbles between bites, making his sister giggle.
They'll have to agree to disagree on who's really the lucky one between Yuuji and Takada, but he lets the topic shift to her upcoming exams. His heart warms as he watches Tsumiki scold Megumi, reaming him about the cuts and bruises he's constantly picking up from fighting at school. To be fair to Megumi, he's better these days, but one doesn't outgrow their delinquency overnight. Some would argue Satoru never has.
The concerns of civilians are so distant from the responsibilities of a sorcerer. Listening to her fret about entrance exams, and club activities, he wonders if he can ever truly understand it. Tsumiki politely declines this week's invitation to watch Produce together, citing a school project she needs to wrap up. Of course, Megumi blows him off without so much as an excuse, but Satoru hadn't expected anything different.
Watching the episode on the couch alone, his blood boils under his skin as the two idols hit off instantly. A wave of irrational jealous hits him. It's insane, he's aware. Logically, Satoru knows Takada's smile directed at Yuuji isn't love, her head-pats and hugs purely platonic. But his hindbrain screams otherwise, demanding he tear her apart. He doesn't, if only because it'd upset Yuuji who inexplicably adores the pig-tailed idol for some reason and gushes over her every move.
It doesn't help that Yuuji's type is apparently tall girls with big asses—in other words, girls exactly like Takada. Yet nothing about Yuuji's behaviors suggest that he sees her as anything more than a respected senior and friend.
From an unbiased standpoint, Satoru can admit Takada's talented. She possess her own "overflowing charm" that attracts droves of male fans, even if it does nothing for him. Different tastes and what not. But no one's ever accused Satoru of being impartial. Yuuji's the only idol he has eyes for. All others pale in comparison.
His social media feed has made valiant attempts to lure him astray with other idols. Nice try, Mr. PSIA Agent. Satoru feels nothing but cold disinterest watching young men and women sing their hearts out, dancing as if rent is overdue. All he feels is complete, utter boredom. It's not Jpop or Kpop he's fallen in love with, only Yuuji, who just so happens to be an idol.
Two weeks out from the finale, Satoru has all of his votes banked and ready to deploy. He won't be satisfied unless Yuuji places first, and he's prepared to pay millions to make it happen. All these other kids can suck it and deal with seconds.
Then Yuuji drops out.
On that wintery day, Gojo Satoru scrubs the app from his phone. If not for Yuuji, none of this idol bullshit is worth a damn.
ᯓ𝄞 ˎˊ˗
He reinstalls the app the next day, for research.
It's not because he's reconsidered voting for another trainee— Satoru has no intentions of betraying Yuuji, even if he's withdrawn from the competition. There must be some reason Yuuji pulled out of the show. If it's bullying, Satoru would exact retribution in blood; he's already itching to rain fire down on the culprits and organization alike. It'd be a change of pace from straight up murder, but Satoru is adaptable. He can adjust his methods for civilians.
But there are no culprits. Yuuji's reason is family: his grandfather's health has taken a turn for the worse, and he refuses to leave his side. Satoru's gotten himself worked up over nothing— part of him is disappointed. He's been wound up tight since the news of Yuuji's withdrawal. Wiping out a small part of Tokyo would have taken the edge off.
He watches on his phone, mouth set in a grim line, as Yuuji smiles at the camera, sitting in front of a plain white wall. The footage is shaken and unfocused, a sliver of his luggage bag visible on the right side. It looks like it was shot in a hurry.
"I'm grateful to everyone's who supported me along my journey. Seriously, I couldn't have gotten here without you guys." Despite the smile and steady voice, his golden eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. "Gramps…He's been diagnosed with cancer." He pauses and takes a deep breath, looking down at his hands before he lifts his gaze back to the camera. Satoru feels his heart pang ; he yearns to brush that stray lock of pink hair behind his ear, to hold him. "I'm his only family, y'know? I want to… I need to be by his side right now. That's why I withdrew from the competition. Being an idol has changed my life in ways I could never have expected, and I'm grateful for all of it: for the people I've met, the friendships I've made…" The smile he gives the camera with is wobbly. "I hope you can understand my decision. Thank you."
Cancer is a nightmare, at least to civilians, whispered about as "incurable" and "deadly" with grief and fear tainting every word. To a sorcerer, it's a non-issue. They regularly face far deadlier threats, and thanks to a quirk of sorcerer biology (as Shoko had once poorly explained), its incidence rate among sorcerers is exceedingly low. The differences between sorcerers and non-sorcerers is minor, but the results speak for themselves. The mortality rate to cancer drops to one percent, and with Reverse Cursed Technique, it falls to zero percent: a feat that can be attributed to the medical genius who scammed her way through her medical exams.
Suffice to say, it’s never been relevant to Satoru. As a sorcerer who hails from one of the three great jujutsu clans and a practitioner of RCT, he's as far removed from the subject as can be. Satoru has never given cancer— or any other disease, for that matter— any thought. He's never had any reason to. The death of normies don't concern him. They die every day. Death to cancer might be a mercy compared to the other imperceivable threats that prey upon them.
He can't understand Yuuji's concern over a decrepit, old man. If cancer doesn’t kill Itadori Wasuke, old age surely will within the next decade or so. Maybe two if he's lucky.
Yuuji loves his grandfather, his only family, wholeheartedly and openly. Just a glance at his socials and it's obvious: littered with mentions of his beloved "Gramps", of things he might like, shows they might watch together. He name-drops him in conversation without a second thought. Yuuji is worlds apart from Satoru, who has more clan members than he can count, and he cares for none of them, barring one or two (if he stretches the definition of "love"). The feeling is mutual. His clan raised him, provided him with the necessary resources to shape him into the Strongest, but it's a sense of cold duty and greed for power that drives them, not love.
So Satoru can't relate, but he doesn't need to. Yuuji's happiness is Satoru's priority. That face cannot be marred with unhappiness.
It'll take a few phone calls. Some harassment of Shoko. He'll make it work. Yuuji's grandfather's prognosis depended on a variety of factors, but would range anywhere between a few months to years depending on how early on its diagnosed and what kind it is. Satoru is the Strongest. He has full faith in his capability to take care of this problem for Yuuji. He'd extinguished worse curses; this will be no different.
With money, most things are possible. With power, all things were. Satoru possesses both in spades, so illegally getting a hold of Itadori Wasuke's medical records is no issue, barring moral qualms. They paint a bleak picture: malignant lung carcinoma which boasts abysmal survival rates. When compared to all other forms of cancer, it boasts the highest mortality rate by a wide margin; colorectal and pancreatic don't even come close. His Six Eyes confirm the doctors' diagnosis. Unless Itadori Wasuke undergoes treatment, he will die. The only factor in his favor is the cancer was diagnosed early on, by sheer providence.
Wasuke's refusal of treatment makes a grim kind of sense. It's the worst kind of bet: high risk, low reward. He chances losing all his remaining time with his grandson, for dismal odds and potentially dying in agony. Personally, Satoru wouldn't care. But this isn't about him. Yuuji would be devastated.
From context clues, Satoru deduces they live somewhere within Aoba Ward, towards the northeast. It'd been simple to figure out, going off an old photo of Yuuji posing next to his classmates, an avenue of cherry blossom trees blooming behind them and the sun setting left in the background. Triangulating which school Yuuji attended took even less time; his proud classmates are his most vocal supporters. Once he'd found Yuuji's surname, everything clicked into place.
Itadori Yuuji, born March 20th of 2003 to unloving parents Itadori Jin and Kaori, then raised instead by Itadori Wasuke in a quiet Sendai neighborhood. His initial investigation doesn't uncover any childhood photos, which is a shame, but he manages to pinpoint the hospital where Yuuji's grandfather was meant to be receiving treatment.
On impulse, he first made an anonymous donation through the appropriate channels: just 15 million yen to start off by supporting their general purpose funds. Tossing money at them like that isn't a fix-all; it'd take time for them to figure out how to allocate their funds, and it won't necessarily go straight into Itadori Wasuke's care. Still, news of a sizeable donation would surely help alleviate some of Yuuji's stress.
It's Yuuji's good fortune that Satoru is on first-name basis with a doctor who can cure all but insomnia and sometimes death. Armed with her a carton of Shoko's favorite cigarettes and the most expensive bottle of alcohol he could find, Satoru settles in for some blatant, old-fashioned bribery.
Shoko must have some idea of where this is headed, because her reaction to the topic is as subdued as ever. She just looks at him, one eyebrow barely lifting. "Cancer," she repeats, voice flat as still water. "Yeah. What about it?"
"There's a man."
"Uh huh." She nods, a flicker of amusement playing at the corner of her mouth. "Does this have anything to do with your idol obsession or something new?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Satoru answers, lying through his teeth.
"So it is the idol thing. Is she cute, at least? Megumi-kun keeps bitching about it."
"He is adorable, thank you very much." Satoru corrects her, petulance creeping into his voice. "But it's not about him, technically. It's about his grandfather."
She looked genuinely taken aback. "You give a shit about someone's sick grandpa. You, Gojo Satoru?"
Satoru sulks, crossing his arms over his chest. He feels vaguely offended. "His grandfather is everything to Yuuji. I'm capable of being altruistic."
"It's creepy how all or nothing you are. Be careful of the sides you show." She warns, holding out her hand to accept his offerings.
"I've texted you the details," Satoru says, acting as if she hadn't spoken. He produces the sake and cigarettes from the plastic bag, plopping them down on the gurney besides her.
Turning the dark bottle in her hands, Shoko lets out a low whistle as she gives it an appreciative onceover. "Juyondai sake? Shit, Satoru. You're really breaking out the big guns, huh. How many years?"
"Around the same age as you—so, thirty-something!"
"You're such an asshole." Shoko retorts, rolling her eyes. "The joke would land better if we weren't same age, dumbass." Setting the bottle aside, she peels off her gloves and tosses them in the trash. "Consider it done."
The process isn't fast enough for his liking. He needles Shoko constantly for updates ,as if he isn't already monitoring the situation 24/7 himself. He watches Yuuji bite his nails raw between appointments, digging them so hard into his knees he leaves bloody indents. Relief, when Shoko finally delivers, comes sharper than Satoru expected.
Within six months, Itadori Wasuke will be declared cancer free. The Sendai hospital treating him will receive a major overhaul and new state-of-the-art equipment, courtesy of a generous anonymous benefaction. And Itadori Yuuji tentatively announces his return to the idol world.
ᯓ𝄞 ˎˊ˗
Satoru prides himself on staying in the know. So he knows that Yuuji's solo debut will be announced next week, followed by a meet-and-greet in Sendai to thank his fans for their support.
Satoru's going, no matter what.
He'll check for any changes in Wasuke's health while he's at it. If there hasn't been any improvements, he'll hound Shoko until she stubs out her cigarettes and actually get off her ass to do something about it. He hadn't raided the Gojo clan's cellar just for her to procrastinate. He'll sit on her if he must.
By the time Satoru reaches the multi-story building that serves as Stardust Records headquarters, the sun has dipped below the horizon, painting the mirrored glass orange-gold. It's close to the same shade as Yuuji's irises, but a degree too dull. The street is near empty this time of day, far away from any storefronts and out of the way for students or businessmen.
That's why Satoru instantly notices the lone figure waiting: a college-aged guy pacing a nervous track between two lampposts, wearing an overstuffed backpack. He halts abruptly, one leg still jiggling, and draws a switchblade from a side pouch. The blade catches dusk as he tests its edge, the mechanism clicking open and shut before he tucks it away again.
His guess is this isn't one of Yuuji's friends.
Satoru is no stranger to bad men. He might be considered one himself, depending who you ask, but he won't tolerate any interlopers who threaten Itadori Yuuji's safety. Most obsessive fans are harmless, and Satoru even feels a certain kinship with them. He too has been captivated by this particular idol's cuteness. This guy? Not so much.
The man keeps scanning the street, his breaths coming fast, pupils blown wide. It's bold of him to consider attempting a crime at 5:37 P.M. when pedestrians still out and about. Maybe he's banking on the element of surprise. No, that's giving him too much credit. This is just a shortsighted moron who'll get caught within hours; the street is lined with cameras covering every angle.
That doesn't mean this loser's harmless. From a cursory glance, this stalker looks like he's the type to piss his pants at the first sign of resistance, so he might lose his nerve and slink away. Knowing what he does about Yuuji's athleticism, the kid can probably handle himself.
Still, Yuuji shouldn't have to dirty his hands.
Wracking his brain for a discreet to handle the creep, Satoru writes off his first impulse to just fire off a Hollow Purple. Pros? Instant disintegration. Satisfying property damage that Satoru can more than afford to pay off. A great stress reliever. Cons? Yuuji would probably disapprove. And a quick death like that is more than the guy deserves. Satoru could just bash the guy's skull in, but in this kind of mood, he's liable to cause a mess.
As he brainstorms,— like an angel descending heaven's staircase— Itadori Yuuji emerges from Stardust Records with his backpack slung over one shoulder and eyes glued to his phone. His fingers fly as he taps out a text message, most likely to his manager, judging from the serious look on his face. Satoru drinks in the sight of him. Pink tufts of hair curl at his nape, escaping his dark beanie, a failed attempt at going incognito. He’s overdue for a trim to keep up the “flower boy” image, but the grown-out look suits him.
Adorable— Satoru slaps his cheeks. Focus. Your Yuuji is in danger.
The silvery glint of a blade catches the streetlight's reflection.