Archive of Our Own

His routine settled with almost mechanical precision over time, and the lies became an almost empirical truth. He had learned to navigate the world like an old man trapped in a body that didn't quite belong to him. He changed jobs every few months, moved frequently, and avoided long-term commitments. He smiled when necessary. He remained silent when is appropriate.

People assume what they see: Yuuji Itadori, a young man who recently graduated from high school. Yuuji Itadori, the kind boy from the building.

Never Yuuji Itadori, the vessel of the cursed king. Time ceased to have meaning for him the day he turned thirty, and his face remained unchanged. That morning he had expected something different: any indication that the world was still moving forward with him. It didn't happen. And when his cheeks still held the tender fat of youth, when his hair, shining in the sun, didn't betray capricious white strands, or when his eyes retained the shimmering dust of youth instead of giving way to an imminent and friendly old age, to the marks of his dark circles and the lines around his eyes; it was then, for the first time, that he realized nothing would ever be the same. 

The idea of ​​death drawing ever closer with each passing year now played a cruel trick on him, constant yet distant, surrounding him without ever quite reaching him; it snatched so many things from him that he considered it jealous of his own soul, never taking pity on him. He distanced himself from his everyday life when time stood still, choosing to live a thousand lives around the world, with new friends and lovers who temporarily filled the void in his chest. He vanished like a mist from his life in Japan, escaping a reality that weighs him down like chains on his shoulders and that never changed; he still feels guilty for not answering Fushiguro's last call before throwing his phone away at the airport so many years ago.

No one looked like them, and pretending gets harder and harder when you remember you're eighty years old but your new inner circle is all young college-aged kids far from home. Yuuji becomes a very reluctant young adult, a real curmudgeon. He believes that throughout his life, during all these slow years, he has accomplished many things that those who loved him would be proud of. He learned a great deal, traveling the world in search of knowledge of sorcery to try to reverse his curse and attempt to reach the level of his teacher. 

Although so many years have passed, his older brother still appears in his dreams. Choso appears as someone distant whom he can never reach and who vanishes when he tries to pursue him; he retains his sweet gaze and slow breathing as he murmurs his name in a sound he has forgotten: the years caused him to forget the voice of his loved ones. He also finds friends in strangers, like Kugisaki in the French girls who invite him to see fashion galleries in Paris. He remembers Fushiguro in the eyes of wild wolves in St. Petersburg and in the snow that accumulates on his fur, which ends in raised points when he finishes shaking it. He has his own rituals even after being away from home for so many years. On each anniversary of Gojo-sensei's passing, he decides to eat the sweetest ice cream in the city he's in. 

His final destination is the African continent, driven by the hopes of a man as stubborn as he is at his age. He knows he might obtain what he so desperately seeks, and with a bit of luck, perhaps even gain more knowledge there: Yuuji Itadori, a Japanese exchange student, spends a long time there, adapting to a new lifestyle and, naturally, being nomadic. His life is filled with new experiences and people, superficially filling the void in his chest that only deepens, and the silence that dwells within him is truly heavy.

Ryoumen disappeared after his 37th birthday. He remembers that particularly cold night in Germany as strange. He had spent 21 years of his life being the most insufferable person on the planet, becoming a parasite that forced him to move more often than expected when he had the self-imposed task of making his life miserable. But his cold, sepulchral silence is a ghostly reminder of what Yuuji truly is: not just a poor wretch; he is also an artifact, an object to be possessed. He decides to return to Japan to recover the remnants of his life when he has a small fling with a boy in Africa, a young Chinese man with pale skin and jet-black hair who kisses him with infinite tenderness, and whispers his name against his skin with his hot breath making his skin tingle. 

The weather in Japan is really strange this time of year, Yuuji thinks as he feels the spring rain fall on his head and soak his clothes, the lunch he's carrying in a cardboard bag that was delivered to him at the convenience store a while ago.  The heavy drops don't help his mood; the last two weeks have been harder than he had expected—at least harder than he had mentally prepared himself for. 

For years, ever since death became a myth in his life, he has had to live with the idea of ​​having to watch his friends die, attending each of their funerals. Becoming the last link in the chain. Maki was first on that list. Okkotsu Maki was probably one of the strongest women Yuuji ever met. A determined woman who, after so many misfortunes in her younger years, managed to achieve a fulfilling life in adulthood alongside the strongest man—and sorcerer—since Satoru Gojo's death.

Yuuji hates death: his hatred has led him to never experience it himself. He hates the funeral ritual, he's tired of seeing his friends inside a coffin; his only consolation is that Maki managed to live a life after so much sorrow, sometimes he believes that she has finally been reunited with her younger sister. He was there that afternoon, lurking in the shadows, avoiding everyone's gaze at the Okkotsu clan inn. It was a rash decision, but he did it because of the memories he still held. Nobara was a great motivator for his actions; he was the only one who knew he was there.  It was just a moment, you pay your due respects to a great woman who carried so much from such a young age, Yuuji almost wanted to make sure that, at least, she could have her last moments of happiness before for the first time: death will present itself as a patient friend for her. 

Secretly, it was something Yuuji had been waiting for for many years. He was there, but not among the mourners offering incense, nor among those receiving condolences with stiff backs and bloodshot eyes. He remained in the background, almost hidden by the dark wooden pillars of the Okkotsu clan inn, his body only seemingly relaxed, his face tilted just enough so that no one could immediately recognize him. It was a habit by now. To be the silent spectator of farewells that didn't seem to concern him. From afar, he observed the coffin, simple and solemn, surrounded by white floral arrangements. Maki had hated ostentation; even in death, she had managed to impose her will. Yuuji thought that was very much in her nature. He smiled slightly, a weary grimace that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

He observed those who did have the right to say goodbye openly. He saw clan members, retired sorcerers, people who had shared a life with Maki that he had only glimpsed from afar. He saw him, too. Okkotsu Yuuta stood straight beside the coffin, his shoulders straight despite the evident weight of years. He received condolences and bows of ninety degrees from men who probably hated him for his power and his rank. His hair, once deep black, was now almost completely white, meticulously combed. His face was etched with deep wrinkles, and the scar on his forehead stood as an eternal reminder of the most difficult sacrifice of his life, marks of a long life plagued by pain. But his eyes remained the same: tired, attentive, filled with a sadness that didn't need exaggeration to be evident. Close to his leg, clinging to his black trousers like an anchor, was Yuuka.

The princess of the Okkotsu Clan wore a simple black kimono with understated details and held a small condolence envelope that seemed far too large for her childish hands. She regarded everything with a seriousness beyond her years, her lips pressed tightly together, her large eyes observing the coffin with a confused mixture of curiosity and sorrow. At one point, she glanced up at her grandfather and whispered something to him; Yuuta leaned forward slightly to hear her and replied softly, his gentleness contrasting sharply with the rigidity of his posture. 

Yuuji turned his gaze forward, to the place where Maki's name was engraved in sober characters. He thought of the teenager he had known, the woman she had become, and how life had turned her into what he had once despised: Okkotsu Maki, head of the most powerful clan today. 

If Mai were alive, would Maki have been her?

He left before the ceremony ended. He didn't hear the speeches in full, nor the closing of the ritual. He couldn't. The sound of the wood, the earth, the farewells, always ended up reminding him of the same thing: he was still there.

The rain stopped four days after the funeral, but the humidity lingered in the air with an almost symbolic obstinacy. The sky remained covered by a uniform layer of low clouds that filtered the light and flattened the city's colors. During that time, Yuuji Itadori avoided central Tokyo and moved through quieter areas, as if searching for spaces where the noise wouldn't force him to think.

Kugisaki Nobara's residence stood in an affluent neighborhood west of the capital, on a wide street lined with meticulously trimmed maple trees. The houses were set a respectful distance apart; low walls of light-colored stone enclosed manicured gardens where ornamental ponds reflected the overcast sky. Nobara's property was notable for its traditional architecture with modern adaptations: dark, treated wood, large windows with minimalist frames, and a pristine gray tile roof. The austere, geometric front garden featured white gravel raked in concentric patterns and a single plum tree whose late blooming withstood the erratic weather.

Yuuji crossed the stone path with purposeful steps, carrying a discreetly wrapped box in one hand. He was no longer soaked by the rain, but a sense of sadness still clung to him like a second skin. His build remained athletic, though the years hadn't hardened his features; the open youthfulness that once dominated his expression had now transformed into an impersonal serenity. He still had short hair, as vibrant a pink as in his youth, but he wore sober clothes: a white sports jacket, straight-leg trousers, and unpolished shoes.

Nobara greeted him in the genkan without haste. “Yuuji, you’re back.” Her voice, husky and low, showed that time had also left its mark on her. Her once vibrant hair was now gathered in a low bun of silver strands. Her posture remained upright; her elegance hadn’t faded, but rather been refined. She wore a fine wool sweater and a long skirt that fell precisely over her ankles. Her face showed fine wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, but she retained a firmness of expression that made her instantly recognizable. She looked Yuuji up and down with a silent assessment, as if that verified that he was truly there. 

She led him inside. The main room combined traditional tatami mats with clean-lined Western furniture. A tokonoma displayed a simple calligraphic scroll and a floral arrangement in shades of white and green. Light filtered softly through the large windows; the air smelled of freshly brewed tea. They sat facing each other on firm cushions. Nobara poured the tea with precise movements, her hands unwavering. Yuuji held the warm cup between his fingers and let the steam brush against his face. They remained silent long enough for the silence to carry weight. “After so many years, Japan welcomes you back. This is the third time in eighty-three years that I’ve seen you reborn.” 

Yuuji suppressed an almost sad smile. “I worked so hard. Since I left here, I haven’t been myself again. I’m always that new kid everywhere I go since I was sixteen, and I can’t find anywhere to stay except here. Does that make any sense?” A nasal laugh escaped him, and he found the words as the warm tea rolled down his throat. “At the end of the day, it’s just my reflection, my own face, which means nothing to me, Kugisaki. I want to be able to embrace my old age, like you, like everyone else. It’s so difficult, and I’ve tried to finish things so many times, but I never get what I want. It’s so frustrating. I just wish I could have died, executed by Gojo-sensei or Yuuta-senpai. An early death would have prevented so much for everyone.” 

Nobara manages to extend her hand on the table, a simple gesture that Yuuji reciprocates by placing his own hand on top. “Yuuji, we’ve all been waiting for you for so many years that you never considered that time passes for all of us mortals. You never sought help; you’re as stubborn as a teenager even though you’re almost ninety.” The woman laughs, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening on her face. “Working for so many years must have been exhausting. Did you finally come back to retire? You’re the second strongest now.” 

“No, I came back because the funeral of an old friend brought me here, but I don’t consider my presence necessary after so many years.” Yuuji strokes the back of Nobara’s wrinkled hand as he looks away at the nearly empty, steaming teacup. 

Nobara showed no surprise; “I know, I know you were there, I saw you in the shadows and thought you were an illusion.” Instead, she focused her attention on, “A woman like her, being the first of us after a lifetime of regrets about her blood and what happened with Iori, she couldn't be the same again. Those two grandchildren of hers took her best years before she left.” She remembered precisely the defiant-eyed teenager who trained until she bled, the young woman who rejected any hint of weakness. The transformation into a maternal figure, dedicated to the work of a clan, was utterly disconcerting. “I would never have expected that from her, dedicating herself to motherhood out of love. Although sorcery owed her nothing, she could have been a great sorceress as well.” 

“But it’s what Okkotsu-senpai  offered her.” Nobara recalled the shy man who held the coffin with dignity. “It was impressive to see how he’s changed over the years. I hadn’t seen him like this since the Shinjuku tragedy, so unyielding in the face of pain to maintain an image. Before, it was his need to win; this time, he does it so as not to appear defeated in a position he unexpectedly inherited.” 

“Yuuta-senpai was always a special guy, to say the least… reasonably enough, he was Gojo-sensei’s favorite for a reason.” They both share a sigh of defeat, an undeniable truth. “Of course, I remember his school days and how much he changed after everyday life returned, and comparing him to the man who was recently standing beside his wife’s coffin of many years is so strange… the remnants of time, to say the least.” Yuuji reflects, taking a long breath as the hushed silence hangs between them for several minutes. “Many years ago, while I was studying in Denmark, I thought about our high school years and how normal life is without curses; I imagined that would be my dream adolescence.” 

“Well, according to Fushiguro, he didn’t force you to eat Sukuna’s finger that night.” Kugisaki added the comment in an amused murmur, hiding her smile behind the ceramic cup as she sipped her tea. Yuuji rolled his eyes in amusement and mimicked her action: he took the rest of his tea to swallow his own tears that were crowding in his throat. 

“Let me finish my point.” Yuuji complained, throwing a tantrum, and Kugisaki just nodded to avoid further complaints. “I remembered those afternoons training at the dojo when we all trained together, or sneaking off to the cafeteria to steal Gojo-sensei’s sweets before a mission.” Itadori lowered his gaze, his fingertip circling the rim of his cup, repetitive thoughts swirling in his mind. He mustered the courage to continue. “What I mean is, all those little moments could have lasted if only I had died that night. Or maybe…”

Nobara remained silent, aware that this peace had been exceptional and brief. “Don’t blame yourself.” She gently poured more steaming tea into his cup, wanting to warmly dispel the boy’s sadness. “We were happy too. Amidst all the sadness after Shinjuku, we managed to pull through, didn’t we? Even you, you’re here.” Yuuji simply stared at the elderly woman before him, the sun beginning to peek through the dissipating storm illuminating her aged face. He nodded, his smile barely concealing his sadness, and it ended in a strange grimace. 

She's known that gesture since their teenagers years. She saw it when he shouldered blame that wasn't his, when he decided to take on impossible responsibilities, when he chose to leave. She recognizes the inner conflict before he even articulates it himself. It was then that Nobara addressed what she had always considered an intimate truth. "Going back to what we were saying, you reach an age where everything can touch your heart," she says, with a sigh worthy of sad longing. When she looks up, Yuuji's confused, almost mocking gaze makes her frown in response to one of his raised eyebrows, a questioning one at that. "Don't look at me like that, I have feelings too."

"What could possibly move the great Kugisaki Nobara, a worthy heartbreaker girl since high school?" Yuuji couldn't hide the amusement in his words, and his eyebrow remained raised, trying to come up with some logical conclusion. 

“Children are a great weakness for older women, Yuuji.” Kugisaki muses, a little too solemnly. “As long as they aren’t your own, of course. Although when you reach the age where you could have grandchildren and you raise them the way Maki did with hers, you can’t help but wonder what life is like for those children after the death of a figure like her.” 

The confession caught Yuuji off guard, causing his brows to furrow in even more confusion. Something about those words bothered him, but he didn't interrupt Nobara's speech, and for a moment he wondered if age had finally driven her mad. Kugisaki continued, "I'm not surprised by her ending. I mean, Maki-senpai always had feelings for Yuuta, even before they officially started dating in their third year, unfortunately."  They exchange knowing glances, and a nasal laugh escapes from Kugisaki. "What I'm trying to say is that I never noticed Yuuta's fascination with her in the same way. I don't doubt that he liked her, but at first, he didn't love her in the same way." 

Yuuji received that observation without any visible shock. He lowered his gaze to the almost cold tea and carefully set the cup down. “Wait, wait. What are you getting at with all this? I always believed they would end up together, even after what happened in Shinjuku. Yuuta-senpai was always clearly interested in her; it wasn't a surprise to anyone when they started dating afterward.” 

Kugisaki laughs, as if at the best joke ever told, and sets her mug down on the table so she can reach out and gently pinch one of his best friend's cheeks. The gesture visibly surprises Yuuji, and if possible, a big question mark forms above his head. "You're still as innocent as the day I met you. Please, never change," she says, gently releasing his face and returning to her seat, her expression composed. "Yuuji, we all knew Yuuta was just as in love with you." 

The afternoon wears on, and the light slowly fades. In the living room, the air still carries the faint smell of tea, now cold in the cups. Itadori stops speaking there with a gentle tap of his cup on the table; he needs to blink a couple of times to process it. His breathing remains steady, but the gesture of his hands betrays a slight tension. His back is straight, but his shoulders have barely dropped, as if the invisible weight he carries has finally found a point of support in this house. 

Nobara watches him openly; she doesn't need words to recognize the tension vibrating in her friend's chest. She sees it in the stiffness of his hands, in the way his fingers press against the rim of the cup, in the way his gaze lingers a few seconds longer than necessary in the dark garden. "I'm surprised it surprises you so much. Or did you never notice, you idiot?"

“You’re crazy, age is catching up with you. I could even blame it on sleep; I imagine a woman as old as you has her own schedule.” Yuuji tries to joke, but his jaw clenches the moment Yuuta’s name echoes through the room again. Memory floods him with overlapping images: a friend who fought by his side, the leader who held the clan’s power with unwavering determination and made all the decisions a young man his age shouldn’t have to. He can’t help but notice his hand resting on the dark wood and the two missing fingers on his right hand, a sacrifice for the greater good. That wound never healed; it was so precious to him. 

Itadori also remembers the silent pursuit after his escape, the search reports, the certainty that Yuuta was among those who tracked him for so many years. Nobara doesn't need to mention it; they both know. The team formed by the Gojo clan under the pretext that a sorcerer like him couldn't possibly shirk his responsibilities—a blatant lie to lure him back—knows that the man dedicated as much time to them as the others, as Fushiguro and Kugisaki themselves did, or as much as the rest of his friends. Right? 

“Think what you want, idiot.” Nobara leans slightly forward, resting her hands on her knees with a firmness that hasn't diminished with age. Her gaze remains fixed on Yuuji, not intrusive, but calculatedly persistent. She doesn't need to raise her voice or emphasize gestures; her presence continues to be a solid structure before him. “But now that you're back, it's not a bad idea to go see him. He's one of the few of ours still here, and you don't know how much longer he'll be. Don't regret it again like you did when he left us and you weren't here.” 

Yuuji keeps his back straight, avoids direct eye contact for a few seconds, and fixes his gaze on the edge of the tatami mat, as if examining the weave of the fibers. His breathing slows, deepens, and he bites his lip at the implied mention of his best friend. “I don’t understand what you expect from me. You just said the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, and now you’re telling me to go see him.” There’s a childish pout on his lips. 

Inside, the air retains the aroma of tea, the garden is in semi-darkness, the white stones lose definition, and the plum tree casts an irregular shadow on the carefully raked gravel. The afternoon slowly descends upon Kugisaki Nobara's house. The gray light grows denser and begins to take on a soft golden hue as it filters through the windows. Nobara doesn't press him. She shifts her posture slightly, crosses her legs carefully, and continues, "I told you to think I'm a crazy old woman if you want, but you know I'm right. Yuuji, you're still the same sweet boy who brings flowers when someone's feels bad, and now your friend needs you; a poor man who lost his wife. He'll welcome you warmly, you know that."

Yuuji finally looks up, his eyes retaining their usual serenity, inevitably carrying the memories of his high school years and the constant pressure of fear he didn't always acknowledge. He remembers the decisions he made to protect Yuuta when guilt and the curse of his chosen destiny enveloped him like a second skin. It doesn't visibly unsettle him, but it does briefly harden his expression. His jaw clenches. He doesn't offer a clear answer. He merely nods ambiguously, as if assessing logistical possibilities rather than feelings, his fingers gradually relax, and his palms rest on the tatami. His posture remains upright, but his body is no longer resisting. There is acceptance in the way he exhales, even though he doesn't verbalize it.

Nobara observes him closely. Her lips curve slightly, a small smile she doesn't try to hide. She recognizes every one of these gestures; she has since they were students. She identifies the tilt of his head, the way he avoids committing with words when the decision is already made within him. She knows he'll go, and satisfaction is clearly etched on his face. It's not an arrogant expression; he straightens his back and adopts an almost ceremonial posture, as if he's completed a pending task. "Fine, take it or leave it. You know how it is, Yuuji." 

Itadori senses this satisfaction and narrows his eyes in feigned annoyance. He frowns dramatically and lets out a gesture of protest that lacks any real harshness. He leans back and places his hands behind him, adopting a more relaxed posture that contrasts sharply with his previous tension. The stern expression quickly fades, replaced by a restrained grimace. “Why do you seem so pleased about it? You don’t know if I’ll do it or not; I’m not the man I used to be.” 

Nobara responds with a slow nod and a look that combines affection and authority. She raises an eyebrow and meticulously adjusts the fold of her skirt, as if also ordering Yuuji's behavior. "You cheeky brat." The gesture is almost comical, but she maintains it with absolute conviction. Her expression shifts to that of a strict grandmother scolding a reckless grandson. “You’re obviously the same as before, you only have to look in the mirror. You haven’t even been able to change your old high school habits.” 

Yuuji feigns indignation. He places a hand on his chest and opens his eyes with calculated drama, as if deeply offended. “Obviously I know I haven’t changed, you crazy old woman. Always spouting nonsense since we were kids.” However, the tension in his face has already dissipated. The previously heavy atmosphere lightens with this interaction. The house seems warmer; even the light streaming through the window takes on a gentler tone.

The initial stiffness has vanished, and Nobara observes him for a few more seconds. Inside, the silence is no longer oppressive; it is the silence before an inevitable action. Night descends gently upon the residential area. The streetlights illuminate one by one along the street, projecting circles of warm light onto the damp pavement. Inside the house, the atmosphere takes on a more intimate stillness.  She rises slowly, placing a hand on the floor before standing up. Her age is evident in the calculated pauses in her movements. She smooths the sweater over her torso, adjusts her silver bow, and collects the teacups with meticulous efficiency. The nightly routine is woven into every gesture.

Yuuji also gets up after glancing at the clock. He's still several centimeters taller than her; his athletic build casts a long shadow in the warm light from the ceiling. He watches Nobara tidy the living room, checking that the sliding doors are closed and that the garden is protected by the discreet outdoor lighting. He doesn't interfere. He remains still for a few seconds, as if taking in every detail of the house.  They head towards the genkan. Nobara bends down to adjust her sandals, a small gesture that underscores the contrast between the peaceful present and the years of combat they both endured. Yuuji slowly puts on his shoes. The front door remains closed, but the farewell hangs in the air. “I’m sorry you can’t stay longer.”

When he turns to face her, Yuuji's expression has changed. The usual serenity is barely broken at the edges of his eyes. He takes a step forward without warning and wraps his arms around Nobara. The embrace is firm and lasts longer than necessary for a simple goodbye. "Thank you for still being here."  He leans forward, burying his face in her clothes, his forehead resting against her shoulder. The wool fabric absorbs his deep breaths. His large hands, weathered by years of combat, close tightly around Nobara's back, as if trying to anchor something he fears losing. "I was afraid you wouldn't be here when I returned." 

The gesture is not impulsive; it is the accumulated result of decades. Sixty years away from Japan, in which he chose missions, voluntary exiles, and responsibilities that kept him apart from the life he had known, and the guilt is not expressed in words, but vibrates in the tension of his arms and in the way his back bends slightly, breaking the straightness he always maintains. Kugisaki takes a second to react, surprised by the intensity of the touch. Then she raises her arms and wraps them around him with a firmness that belies her age. Her hands rest on Yuuji's shoulders and hold him without hesitation. She closes her eyes briefly and senses the subtle trembling he tries to control. "Don't be an idiot, I knew you'd come back, that's why I waited for you."

He feels the worry in the pressure of her fingers, in the way her breathing quickens and then forcefully slows. He recognizes the burden he carries: the lingering feeling of having abandoned a home that needed him. The distance of six decades is concentrated in that prolonged embrace. “Your home will always be here, where you always belonged.”

Nobara's face softens. The characteristic rigidity of her features gives way to a profound emotion. She tilts her head slightly and rests her cheek against Yuuji's pink hair. Slowly, she loosens the embrace just enough to look at him. Her hands rise to his face. She cups Yuuji's cheeks between her fingers, noticing the same smooth skin, the youthful sparkle in his eyes, and the scars that remain unchanged. She studies him closely, intently. Her thumbs gently trace the curve of his cheekbones in a deliberate caress, firm yet warm. "It doesn't matter how much time passes, only what your soul feels."

Yuuji keeps his gaze lowered for a moment before raising it. In his eyes there is gratitude and such genuine vulnerability; the caress doesn't embarrass him; it stabilizes him. Nobara senses this change and gently withdraws her hands, almost automatically smoothing the collar of Yuuji's coat, correcting a nonexistent wrinkle. The gesture is simple, domestic, profoundly human.

Finally, he opens the door. The night air enters with a cool breeze that barely stirs the hem of Nobara's skirt. Yuuji crosses the threshold and turns one last time. The interior light frames his friend's small but upright figure. "Don't worry, I'll still be here, Yuuji." She declares her feelings and remains there until she sees him walking along the stone path. Only when his silhouette disappears under the lamppost does she close the door with a deliberate movement. Outside, Yuuji walks toward the street with measured steps. The pressure in her chest doesn't disappear, but she manages to compose herself. The embrace still lingers in her physical memory, a confirmation that, despite all the time that has passed, she still has a place to return to.

The morning dawned clear. Two months has passed since he last saw Kugisaki, and the sky is a uniform pale blue. The air retains a slight chill that compels Yuuji to button his coat up to the neck. Time moves with an almost indifferent regularity, but within him, the decision slowly matures, like a wound healing from the inside. During these weeks, he avoids uttering Okkotsu Yuuta's name, even in his most conscious thoughts. Yet, every morning he awakens with the same idea: Finally, he will act.

The drive takes him out of the town center. The streets widen, the walls grow higher, and the property extends beyond what the eye can see from the main gate: Polished stone walls define the perimeter, and a traditional dark wood fence protects the entrance. The grounds open into expansive, manicured gardens, with white gravel pathways winding towards main buildings of classical architecture, curved roofs, and exposed beams that evoke a bygone era. Yuuji stops in front of the gate without hesitation, but his figure, still youthful in appearance despite the decades that have passed, contrasts sharply with the solemnity of the place. His pink hair, his face without deep wrinkles, his firm and balanced build: everything about him is out of place, and he suddenly feels like an intruder.

He presses the doorbell with a hesitant movement, his mind filled with irrational thoughts like thousands of alarms blaring at once, overwhelming him. Suddenly, he's regretting his decision and muttering a tantrum at his best friend. He waits until the side door opens with controlled stiffness. Two servants emerge, standing upright with neutral expressions. They wear somber uniforms; their gazes assess Yuuji without overt hostility, but with evident distrust. He bows politely. "Good morning. I apologize for interrupting so early, but I need to see Okkotsu Yuuta-san."

The ensuing silence is not accidental; the employees exchange a brief, almost imperceptible glance until one of them responds with a dry, evasive formality. “The boss is running late to receive guests right now, but we can add you to the to-do list if you’d like, sir.” 

They provide no concrete information nor invite him in; the door remains barely open, creating a physical barrier that reinforces the symbolic distance. Yuuji bites the inside of his cheek but keeps it closed. Composure: He doesn't insist. He notices the extra glances from the windows of the main building: figures moving behind the translucent paper panels, watching the stranger who doesn't fit the protocol. "Of course, I'd like you to contact me as soon as he's available to receive me." The ensuing silence becomes uncomfortable. The estate, despite its vastness, seems to close in on him. He understands then that for many there he is simply a stranger, a strange young man with no history or name, not listed in the clan's official records.

The door closes softly and definitively. Yuuji stands before the closed gate, quickly realizing his own egocentrism: Yuuta is still grappling with the loss of his wife, and it must be a huge bureaucratic problem for him to now be an old widower with no one to inherit the Clan. He feels a surge of obvious compassion. The determination that brought him here falters. He takes a half-step back, ready to withdraw with the discretion he has always practiced.

He glances towards the gardens, barely visible above the wall, and recalls old training sessions there with his teammates in his youth, Satoru's presence among them, laughter never ceasing, and everything becoming a happier time, the feeling of belonging to a unique and irreplaceable group. Now, he can only observe that the property seems impersonal, institutional, impenetrable.  He takes a deep breath as he puts a hand in his coat pocket and hides his face with the hood of his jacket. The silent refusal begins to plant an uncomfortable seed of doubt, and he wonders if perhaps the visit isn't appropriate; perhaps time has eroded bonds that exist only in his memory, and the servants' practical rejection offers him a convenient way out: to withdraw with dignity and accept that some doors no longer open.

At that moment, he hears the hurried scrape of wooden sandals on the stone. An older woman appears from a side entrance he hadn't noticed before. Her completely white hair is pulled back in a low bun; her slightly hunched back doesn't hinder her purposeful movements. She wears a uniform similar to the rest of the staff, but the fabric shows wear on the sleeves and collar, a sign of years of service. "Wait, young man, please come closer for a moment." She stops a few feet from Yuuji and observes him intently. She squints, as if comparing his face to a distant memory. Then she nods with growing conviction. She moves a little closer, closing the distance the others had rigidly maintained. Yuuji is almost paralyzed in place, his feet moving of their own accord. “I’ve seen it before. Beautiful hair like yours is hard to forget.”

The revelation freezes Yuuji. His shoulders, which had begun to relax in resignation, tense again. “I don't t-think-it’ possible, Oba-san… I…” 

The woman possessed an unparalleled warmth, and when she smiled, dismissing Itadori's nervous words, she moved close enough to him to keep the conversation almost a secret. Yuuji had to bend down a little lower when she made a small gesture with her hand. "You're in a photo that Yuuta-sama has kept in his personal office for years, and you're also seen with Maki-sama there. I can't help but think you're not a stranger to the boss's family."  The woman continued, her voice instinctively lowering. “Yuuta-sama hasn’t been at the estate for some time. Shortly after Maki-sama’s funeral, he fell gravely ill and is currently in the hospital in Sendai, fulfilling his duties from there.” She rested one of her wrinkled hands against her cheek and let out a sigh of obvious concern. “It’s sad to see Yuuta-sama in this state. He was always been a  strong man, as far back as I’ve known him. The loss of his beloved wife affected him deeply.” 

The word "illness" isn't exaggerated; it's spoken with restrained gravity. The woman describes a weakness that doesn't respond to conventional treatments. Grief hasn't just affected his spirits; it's sapped his body, and Yuuji feels the information reorganizing his priorities. The doubt that had been pushing him to withdraw disintegrates. His breathing deepens. He bows his head to the woman in gratitude. "Thank you for that, though you know I could also be a stranger, right? Telling this to a boy who's sixteen, considering Yuuta-san left the magic school so many years ago..." 

Her features harden, not with anger, but with curiosity, and the woman cradles his cheeks in her cold hands. They share a fleeting glance before she must withdraw when footsteps sound near the entrance again. She turns for a second before disappearing the way she came. “I’m almost the same age as Yuuta-sama. I recognize the one who saved the world once, long ago. Good luck.” 

The name Sendai lingers in his mind even after he leaves the property. Yuuji doesn't look back at the gate; he walks with purposeful steps until the stone walls are out of sight, and only then does he allow the cold air to hit his face more clearly. There is no visible hesitation in his posture, but the information he has just received settles inside him like a weight. He heads towards the station, thinking of nothing but getting there. The journey back to the city center unfolds under a still-clear sky, almost indifferent to his inner turmoil. He buys the ticket with automatic movements, studying the timetable with excessive attention, as if the precision of the itinerary could also bring order to his confusion. The bullet train will take him north, far from the capital, to a city he hasn't spoken aloud in years.

When he leaves Tokyo, Yuuji stays by the window. The city quickly recedes: glass buildings, elevated highways, the dense network of antennas and cables transform into a succession of lines that dissolve into the distance. The cityscape gives way to industrial zones, then to lower-lying neighborhoods, and finally to agricultural expanses where the bare winter earth retains a muted hue.

The train's constant movement imposes a rhythm that allows no escape. Yuuji clasps his hands in his lap and fixes his gaze on his reflection in the window. The face reflected back at him is that of a young man with smooth skin, a firm jaw, wide eyes that retain an almost naive clarity, and his pink hair, impossible to ignore, falls haphazardly over his forehead; there is no visible trace of the passage of time. This contradiction has accompanied him for decades, but at this moment it takes on a different nuance: returning to his hometown looking exactly as he did when he left borders on the absurd.

Sendai is his genesis and the starting point of everything that came after; his grandfather died there, making promises that still haunt him, and his connection to the world of witchcraft began there with those who transformed him forever. He rests his forehead against the cold glass. The train's vibration seeps into his bones and accompanies the jumbled sequence of memories: the quiet residential streets and the hospital where he spent so many hours amidst the scent of disinfectant.

The gray afternoons that seemed endless in his grandfather's room—for years he disciplined himself to avoid those memories. He didn't need to return; there was nothing there that demanded his presence, and Tokyo, with its noise and speed, offered him a convenient anonymity. Now, however, the journey forces him to confront that escape. He wonders if his decision to leave was a form of survival or simply cowardice. He mentally reproaches himself for how easily he justified his absence for so many years and recognizes that returning isn't solely about Yuuta; the wound that reopens is much older.

The landscape gradually widens, and low mountains are silhouetted against the horizon; winter fields stretch out like a sleeping surface. The midday light falls with a clean clarity that encounters no resistance from clouds or mist. Everything seems orderly, stable. Yuuji closes his eyes for a few seconds and allows his breathing to settle into a deep rhythm, yet the proximity of Sendai introduces another layer of unease. Returning means exposing himself to the possibility that nothing has changed… or that everything is unrecognizable. It means traversing streets that preserve the memory of his adolescence while he remains trapped in that same youthful body. It means accepting that, although time has moved on for everyone else, for him it has taken an irregular and cruel form.

The train slows as it approaches the station. The mechanical announcement echoes through the carriage with impeccable neutrality. Yuuji opens his eyes and straightens his back. There's no ceremony in his gesture; only restrained determination. He adjusts his coat, making sure the hood partially conceals his hair, and picks up his bag with a steady hand. When he steps onto the platform, the Sendai air greets him with a chill more penetrating than that of the capital. It's not a drastic difference, but enough to remind him where he is. The station retains its familiar structure; some shops have changed, others remain unchanged. He recognizes the layout of the corridors with a familiarity he hadn't anticipated. His steps are guided almost reflexively.

He pauses for a moment before going outside. He observes the flow of people coming and going: students in uniforms, workers in dark suits, elderly people walking at a leisurely pace. No one pays him any attention. He's just another young man among many. The normalcy of his surroundings contrasts sharply with the tension that grips his chest. He steps through the automatic doors, and the cold air hits his face with greater force. The city stretches out before him with a serenity bordering on indifference. The avenues seem neither hostile nor welcoming; they simply exist, and Yuuji remains motionless for a few seconds, aware that the hospital isn't far, that he could head straight there and avoid any detour through his old neighborhood.

Even so, he doesn't move forward immediately. The feeling of being part of a cruel joke settles in clearly: he fled for years to avoid looking back, and now he returns for someone whose presence he would never have associated with that place. Itadori clenches his teeth gently, not out of anger, but out of acceptance. He can't undo the past or alter the irony of the situation. He can only move forward; he takes the first step outside the station.

Turning onto a side street, the scent of plants reaches him before he sees anything. A small flower stand occupies a stretch of sidewalk next to a closed shop. A folding table holds metal buckets filled with water; green stems emerge in neat clusters. The color contrasts with the gray of the damp pavement. Behind the table, a boy, no more than seven years old, carefully adjusts the wrapping paper of a bouquet. His hands are small, slightly reddened from the cold, but they move with meticulous concentration.

Yuuji slows down and stops in front of the stall. He observes the flowers without speaking at first. He recognizes white lilies, yellow chrysanthemums, pink carnations, and, in a separate container, a bouquet of freesias in soft shades: creamy white, pale lilac, and soft yellow. The freesias give off a light, clean fragrance that can be detected even in the cold air. Their meaning seems fitting to him: reunion, memory. “Good afternoon, kiddo, those are beautiful flowers. How much is a bouquet?”

The boy looks up and meets Yuuji's gaze with a mixture of curiosity and precocious professionalism. He straightens his back and tucks a strand of dark hair behind his ear, his honey-colored eyes observing him with curiosity. "These are 160 yen." Yuuji gestures gently toward the freesias and leans in slightly to examine them more closely; his fingers carefully brush against a petal, checking the firmness of the stem and the freshness of the cut. He doesn't choose randomly. He selects flowers that still have closed buds alongside others that are already open, as if he needs to symbolize continuity and return. "These are fine, can you decorate them to give as gift?" 

The boy wraps the bouquet in translucent paper and secures it with a pretty white ribbon. Yuuji holds the arrangement in his hands and feels the damp coolness of the stems through the wrapping. The contrast between the delicacy of the flowers and the reason for his visit makes his jaw clench. This is not a ceremonial gesture; it is a concrete affirmation that the encounter will not be casual or superficial.

“Here, don’t worry about the change.” He pays with a tip without prolonging the exchange, and before continuing on his way, he turns to look at the boy there, who had been arranging the bills with a shy smile on his lips. For a moment, he sees himself in the color of the boy’s eyes, and in his messy black hair and the small dark circles forming under his eyelids. As he walks, he observes the bouquet with critical attention. The freesias, associated with trust and reunion after a long separation, take on an almost unsettling meaning: He doesn’t know if Yuuta will want to see him, nor does he know if the accumulated distance can be reduced with a simple gesture. Nevertheless, he holds the flowers, as if by doing so he is affirming his right to introduce himself.

As you approach the hospital, the traffic becomes more orderly and quiet. The building's silhouette appears at the end of the avenue: a spacious structure with functional lines, clad in light tones that reflect the cool daylight. Windows aligned with geometric precision reveal evenly lit interiors. There is no grandeur; there is efficiency. Before crossing the street, Yuuji pauses in the shade of a bare tree. He takes a black face mask from his pocket and puts it on with confident movements. He adjusts the straps behind his ears, completely covering the lower half of his face and checking that it fits snugly over the bridge of his nose. Then he pulls up the hood of his jacket, concealing his pink hair beneath the dark fabric. The outfit alters his appearance just enough to soften any recognizable features.

He's not acting out of paranoia, but out of foresight. His appearance, unchanged over the years, raises unnecessary questions, and in a hospital, where eyes are easily drawn to the unusual, he prefers to minimize any cause for curiosity. He briefly observes his reflection in a nearby display case: visible eyes, restrained expression, identity partially erased. He crosses the street as the light changes and approaches the main entrance. The automatic doors open with a soft click. The scent of disinfectant and recycled air immediately envelops him, triggering memories he thought were faded. He carefully squeezes the bouquet of freesias, careful not to damage them, and moves inside, aware that each step brings him closer to the moment he has postponed for a month… and perhaps for years.

The hospital lobby stretches out before him with an impersonal clarity. The polished floor reflects the white light from the overhead panels; the air maintains a controlled temperature that contrasts sharply with the cold outside. The steady murmur of footsteps, gurney wheels, and hushed voices creates an atmosphere of disciplined activity. Yuuji moves forward unhurriedly, holding the bouquet of freesias steady in one hand and keeping the other in his coat pocket, and stops in front of the information desk. Two uniformed women review documents on digital screens; their movements are efficient, repetitive, and devoid of distraction. When Yuuji bows his head slightly, he says, “Good afternoon, I’d like to know where I might find Okkotsu Yuuta, please.” 

One of them looks up. Her eyes scan the hooded figure with an automatic assessment: young, simply dressed, identity hidden behind a black face mask. Yuuji doesn't add titles or explanations. The reaction is immediate, though subtle: the woman attending to him stops moving her hands for a fraction of a second. The other exchanges a brief, professional but closed glance with her. They type into the system without completely taking their eyes off him. The response comes with neutral politeness and administrative firmness. “Okkotsu-san doesn’t receive visitors without prior authorization from the Gojo Clan, young man. There are protocols you must follow to find him available.” The second woman barely sits up, adopting a more rigid posture

Yuuji remains motionless. He doesn't raise his voice or insist immediately. He feels, however, a dense pressure beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. It's not humiliation; it's suppressed irritation. He's crossed half the region to be there, and once again, he finds himself facing a closed door.  He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat with his free hand and pulls out a small object wrapped in cloth. He holds it for a few seconds before unfolding it on the counter with a controlled gesture. It is a rectangular fragment of dark wood, polished by time. On its surface, a precise carving depicts the emblem of the Gojo Clan: clean lines, ancient symbolism executed with artisanal skill. The piece bears marks of use along the edges, signs of having been transported for years. “Of course, I have the privilege of bypassing the bureaucracy. So, could you tell me where to find Okkotsu Yuuta?”

Satoru Gojo gave it to him in his high school days, not as a symbol of hierarchy but as a silent acknowledgment of belonging, and Yuuji does not display it as a threat; he places it on the desk with the serenity of someone who knows the weight of the object. The women glance at the wood. The reaction isn't theatrical, but it is unmistakable. One of them straightens her back more rigidly; the other takes her hand away from the keyboard and studies the emblem with keen attention. The initial assessment is reconfigured in a matter of seconds, and first, she modulates her tone.

The symbol's implied authority acts as a password. After a few additional seconds of verification in the system, one of them states, "The north wing of the hospital has restricted access for visitors, but you can use the second elevator on the right to reach the top floor."  Yuuji picks up the piece of wood and carefully puts it away again. He gives a slight nod, without smiling. The pressure in his stomach doesn't go away; it transforms into a silent sulk. The initial refusal, though understandable from a medical standpoint, triggers a sharp awareness of his own condition. He has lived longer than many of those who look at him condescendingly. He finally heads toward the designated elevator, his footsteps echoing regularly on the gleaming floor, the bouquet of freesias untouched, its delicate fragrance barely perceptible beneath the antiseptic smell of the hospital. In front of the metal doors, he waits motionless, observing the distorted reflection of his figure: hood concealing his face, black mask, watchful eyes. "I'm so tired." 

Upon arrival, the hallway is narrower and less busy, the doors are spaced further apart; small metal plaques indicate names and health codes, and with dimmer lighting, designed not to disturb the patients' rest, the atmosphere conveys controlled isolation. Yuuji advances patiently, reading each nameplate without rushing, not wanting to make a mistake, his irritation settling into a cold determination. He searches for Yuuta's private room with the same discipline he would employ on a mission. Finally, he stops in front of the correct door, and his name is there, discreet like him. Yuuji observes the handle without yet touching it. He adjusts his grip on the bouquet, slowly pulls back his hood, and lets his pink hair fall over his forehead. He keeps his mask on. He remains for a few seconds in absolute silence, aware that his next gesture cannot be undone.

Yuuji knocks on the door with his knuckles, two firm, restrained taps. He doesn't expect an explicit response; he hears movement inside, the rustling of fabric, the faint sound of clinical instruments being arranged on a metal tray. He pushes the door open carefully, just enough to enter smoothly. "Sorry to interrupt," he murmurs.

The smell of disinfectant is more concentrated inside. The private room is illuminated by a diffused white light that descends from the ceiling and by natural light streaming through a large window partially covered by translucent curtains. An adjustable gurney occupies the center, surrounded by monitors that emit rhythmic pulses and green lines that move with mathematical precision. A nurse with an upright posture leans over the patient, checking an IV catheter and adjusting the pressure of an automatic cuff. Her hair is pulled back in two braids that hang from behind her ears; her movements are technical, precise. She doesn't immediately notice Yuuji's presence.

Yuuji takes a step inside and the door closes softly behind him. The bouquet of freesias remains in his left hand. The face mask covers the lower half of his face, but his eyes open involuntarily when his gaze falls upon the figure on the stretcher until the shock immobilizes him. The man reclining opposite him has white hair, not merely gray, but an almost luminous white under the artificial light. The strands, though shorter and more disciplined than before, immediately evoke an image Yuuji knows with too much longing and pain. A scar crosses his forehead, a line that blends seamlessly with the rest; uniform and well-groomed, it is partially hidden by his bangs. The contour of his face is more angular than he remembered; his cheeks have lost volume, his skin displays a pallor that belongs not to rest but to wear and tear.

For a moment, memory betrays his perception: the tired posture of the body, the structure of the shoulders, even the way the light slides over the hair, make up the vivid representation of Satoru, and the association is so immediate that Yuuji's chest contracts with silent violence. However, when the man slightly turns his face towards the door and their eyes meet, the confusion dissolves and those eyes that observe him are not a bright and unreal blue; they do not possess that luminous intensity that once defined another man, they are a deep bluish gray, dulled by tiredness but unmistakable, completely human.

Yuuta stops just as he's about to sit up, and the nurse continues adjusting the equipment, still oblivious to the silent tension settling in the room. For several seconds, neither of them speaks. The distance between the door and the gurney seems to expand, as if the air were growing denser. Yuuta remains frozen. The untouched youth of his face contrasts sharply with the fragile image before him. He feels the irritation that had been building in the hallway evaporate, replaced by a complex mix of surprise, compassion, and an old pain he hadn't expected to face in this way. He gently squeezes the paper wrapping the freesias; the soft rustle breaks the stillness. "I'm sorry, I..."

Yuuta reacts first. His lips curve into a discreet, barely perceptible, yet genuine smile. "Yuuji, Itadori Yuuji himself." It's a restrained expression that originates more in his eyes than his mouth. The initial surprise gives way to silent recognition, and his smile transforms his weary face, softening the severity of the scar and, for a moment, restoring a trace of the young man Yuuji once knew. "I didn't expect the honor of the strongest sorcerer to be here today."

He makes a gesture that catches the nurse's attention. "Usami, please." She looks up, following her patient's gaze, and notices the figure by the door. Her expression changes immediately; she adopts a protective rigidity. She straightens her back and partially positions herself between the gurney and the visitor. “It’s not visiting hours yet, sir. I’m sorry to have to ask you to leave.” Her eyes scan the face mask, the hood fallen over his shoulders, the bouquet of flowers held with excessive tension. 

The assessment is swift and wary, and before Yuuji can respond, Yuuta moves his hand with a slight but clear gesture. The effort is visible: the tendons of his forearm are prominent beneath his pale skin. His voice emerges lower than before, but steady. “Don’t worry, he can stay. You’re done for today, right, Usami-chan?”  The nurse hesitates for a few seconds. She observes Yuuta with professional attention, as if assessing whether the extra effort will tire him. Finally, she nods, carefully adjusts the sheet over the man's torso, and temporarily switches off one of the portable devices. She picks up the metal tray and heads for the door, but not before giving Yuuji one last silent warning glance. "I'll see you tomorrow, Yuuta-san."

Yuuji finally moves forward. Each step is deliberate, almost cautious, as if afraid that a sudden movement might shatter the image before him. He stops beside the stretcher and places the bouquet of freesias on the side table, carefully arranging them so the stems aren't compressed. "I'm sorry for showing up unannounced."

He slowly removes his mask. The fabric descends, revealing a face untouched by time. His eyes, however, carry decades of experience. Before him, Yuuta observes with a mixture of disbelief and serene acceptance. The resemblance to his former teacher remains unsettling, but now Yuuji clearly perceives the differences: the way Yuuta holds his gaze, more introspective; the way his breathing is rhythmic, a controlled effort; his fragility. “It doesn’t matter, it’s good to finally see you after disappearing from the face of the earth for so many years.”

Yuuji stands beside the cot, his shoulders straight, but the tension still visible in the rigid line of his jaw. The white light outlines his youthful features, unaltered by time, and at the same time reveals the disparity between his appearance and the weight accumulated in his gaze. In front of him, Yuuta maintains his composure with discipline. The joy of their reunion barely filters through the restrained gleam of his blue eyes, but his overall expression retains a controlled serenity, as if he has learned to manage even his most intimate emotions. “What has become of a man like you?”

Yuuta sits up slowly, bracing himself with his hand on the mattress. The movement reveals the weakness in his muscles; the sheet slips slightly across his thinner torso, and the monitor registers a brief fluctuation in his heart rate before it stabilizes again. He doesn't dramatize the effort. He adjusts the pillow behind his back and adopts a more upright posture, more like someone accustomed to receiving visitors as the center of attention, not as a patient.

Yuuji avoids looking directly at him for a few seconds, but a smile hides behind his tightly pressed lips. The rhetorical question amuses him slightly, and he glances at the metal edge of the side table, the polished surface where he's placed the freesias. "I've lived many lives in one. It was fun. I understand why you chose to travel when you were young, but... unlike you, I was afraid to come back."  He acknowledges the shame in the way his fingers intertwine in front of him, “I lost contact with everyone from the day I decided to leave, Kugisaki was the one who watched my back for a while but it was time to return the favor to an old woman like her, and taking care of her for now is my priority.” He doesn’t say it with drama, but with an almost raw honesty.

Yuuta doesn't frown or express reproach; his reaction is immediate and silent: he barely inclines his head, understanding before making any judgment. His voice, though deeper and slightly eroded by the years, remains clear. "It may sound repetitive, but don't blame yourself for it. Having to live with a curse like that isn't easy, Yuuji, and you did what seemed best." 

From there, his gaze focuses on specific points in the room, as if projecting scenes onto the air that only he can see. “Since you left, I think your search brought us all closer together. We were the same as always, and the loss hadn't brought us closer together over the years. Maki and I tried to stay in touch with everyone, and we were as present as we could be. The Gojo Clan is particularly demanding.” A nasal laugh escapes him unintentionally, concealing a tender, almost nostalgic smile. “Panda has been under our care since I got married, kept under lock and key at the estate. Masamichi-sensei would have scolded us for that.” Yuuta sighs softly before continuing, fidgeting with his fingers involuntarily. “After his work in sorcery, Toge ran a small traditional sushi shop in Tokyo. He even had a son who now manages the business, a good lad who is also part of the Inumaki Clan.” 

His tone shifts, and his expression softens with a naturalness he can't quite conceal. "Of course, Maki and I got married after Shoko-san gave us her blessing. And we had our little baby; they had adored Iori since he was little." The firmness of his posture falters, mingling with suppressed sadness. "Since becoming a father, despite the complaints from the higher-ups, I decided to leave the world of sorcery behind because I couldn't have borne the thought of him being in danger because of me." His voice falters, and Yuuji can only reach out and place his hands over the older man's, a movement almost without thinking. 

“Senpai…that’s very kind of you.” Yuuji whispers, noticing the older man’s cracking voice and how his fingers close into a trembling fist, noticing the sadness in his gaze, lost in the surroundings as if his mind were truly far from that room right now. “Your strength was always admirable.”

Yuuta turns back to himself, his voice taking on a different tone when he speaks of his grandchildren. “The only good thing that’s come out of it all is that I’ve been able to dedicate myself to caring for my grandchildren, and seeing them brings back the happiest time of my life.” He can’t help but smile as he glances at the other bouquets of flowers also decorating the room; Yuuji assumes they’re the ones the family gave him. “Yuuka is the one who reminds me most of him, and of me—a princess with honors. You’d love to meet her; she’s a lot like you, too.” 

That last sentence had such a profound impact on Itadori that he had to bite the inside of his cheeks, and his eyebrows couldn't help but furrow in complete confusion, which Yuuta noticed with amusement in his eyes and a slight smile on his lips. The silence between them vibrated, and Yuuji's initial stiffness gradually dissolved. He shook his head, and Nobara's distant voice shouting, "I told you so," echoed in his chest. "How? I haven't been here so long, how would you know she looks like me if..."

“Because she has the same warmth in her eyes and is just as mischievous as you were.” Yuuji listens without interrupting, his head still spinning, and observes Yuuta’s hands as he speaks: thinner, marked by prominent veins, but still firm. He can’t help but play with them, his fingertips weaving between the older man’s fingers, and for a moment he recalls the intimacy of their actions back in high school. 

The room, which at first felt clinical and distant, takes on a new dimension. The monitors continue to emit regular pulses, but they no longer dominate the scene. The white light remains relentless, but the space feels less cold. Yuuta doesn't complain about the gentle touch; on the contrary, he extends his fingers to feel the natural warmth of Yuuji's young skin tickling his palm, and he can't help but think that the boy is extremely nervous and that this is nothing more than a small comfort to him. He takes a long breath before continuing. 

“Iori won’t carry on the legacy of sorcery, and neither will the kids.” Yuuta’s voice is serene and calm, his head tilted slightly as he tries to take in every detail of Yuuji’s youthful features reflected in the slowly turning orange sunlight. “I don’t want him or the kids to carry the burden of having to surpass me. I always hated the title of the greatest of all time. It doesn’t belong to them. Maki would have wanted the same.” 

Yuuji feels the impact like a dull thud in his chest, and his posture shifts; he abandons the gentle gestures in his hand to straighten up completely. He observes Yuuta with renewed attention, the pallor of his face, the scar on his forehead that marked the beginning of a new era with him, the way his body no longer responds with its former speed, and everything takes on a new meaning: Giving up wasn't weakness; rather, an act of absolute control over his own story. 

The monitor pulses steadily as the room maintains its clinical light, but the conversation has transformed the space into something more intimate. Yuuji breathes more deeply, and the initial tension has given way to reflection. “All this time I still have, I will be the one to carry Gojo-sensei’s teachings to the sorcerers of the world. Don’t worry, senpai.” 

He moved a step closer to the stretcher and, as if trying to compose himself, offered the man a calm smile. “I’ve learned a lot from everyone, discovered rituals that aren’t in the records of Jujutsu, and had some strange adventures with shamanic practices in remote regions of the Philippines.”  As he speaks, his eyes no longer avoid Yuuta; he maintains firm eye contact. “I can’t help but recall when my travels took me to the Mediterranean, and the way your reports are written about the area served as a guide.” 

The comparison isn't competitive; Yuuta can't help but let out a short laugh and reaches out to take Yuuji's hands and cradle them tenderly. "I suppose that was the main reason for my travels, to be a guide for the future that will need my knowledge. It's nice to know that I was there with you on your journeys, even though I was here searching for you." 

Yuuji stares at the older man's hands, imagining those same hands holding him when he was young; the image fits perfectly. When he looks up, he nervously scratches his cheek in a shy gesture and suddenly feels scolded by the man's words; guilt crushes him, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, I was very immature." 

Yuuta observes him with a mixture of satisfaction and tranquility. Before him is not the impulsive teenager he once knew, but a man who has traveled the world and returned with his own judgment. “We understood then that not everyone can grieve in the same way, and we closed your search when Megumi-kun asked us to. You shouldn't apologize for suffering; you never should have.”

Yuuta doesn't move immediately when Fushiguro's name breaks the surface of the conversation. The reaction occurs first in his eyes: a slight, almost imperceptible narrowing, followed by a change in the rhythm of his breathing. The monitor registers the change with a brief beep that stabilizes seconds later. He remains upright, but his attention is completely fixed on Yuuji.

Yuuji, on the other hand, loses his composure with a speed that contrasts sharply with the firmness he had maintained until that moment. Tension rises up his spine like a suppressed spasm, his shoulders rise just before they fall, and the hand Yuuta had been holding stiffens between his fingers. There is no drama in the first breakdown; it happens silently, treacherously. His breathing becomes ragged, too shallow for someone with his lung capacity.

Yuuta notices it instantly and tilts his head slightly, precisely observing how Itadori's expression fragments and the boy no longer looks at the room, the monitors, or the flowers; his gaze sinks to an indeterminate point on the floor, as if the weight of memory had physically pulled him down. "Yuuji..." The first visible tremor runs through Yuuta, who extends his free hand with deliberate slowness, a gentle gesture, and slides his hand from Yuuji's cheek, his long fingers gliding down to the nape of his neck, bringing him closer, barely resting his hand against his cheek. His palm is cold, a stark contrast to Itadori's warmth.

Yuuji breaks down against that contact, there is no resistance. The crying does not erupt loudly; first as a trembling exhalation, then as a progressive collapse of all the rigidity that had sustained his posture; his shoulders hunch forward and his forehead drops until it almost touches Yuuta's wrist.

His thumb moves slowly across his moist cheekbone, an automatic gesture that betrays years of learned restraint; his expressions soften, but he doesn't lose the sharp focus that characterizes him. Yuuji speaks between ragged breaths.

“I came back every year, without fail. I came to visit Gojo-sensei and Nanamin-san to honor their memory whenever I needed to…” Each name carries a different weight in his voice. “It hurts so much to know that Fushiguro joined that list, so many of them, it hurts. I hate it, I hate bringing him flowers and mourning his loss as if it weren’t my damn fault for abandoning him for so many years because of my selfish feelings… as if he didn’t feel, as if none of you did.” 

Yuuta senses the change and his fingers tense slightly against Yuuji's cheek, a brief but real reaction, before regaining their initial softness.

“I’m so selfish that even seeking my own death, I can’t achieve it. I’m destined to suffer for so long to atone for my sins. It’s divine punishment, don’t you think? The gods decided that continuing to attend funerals was the path I had to take.” Yuuji laughs harshly, resting his dripping face against the hand that gently holds him. Tears continue to flow, and Yuuta’s thumbs keep wiping them away. “Sukuna’s reverse technique keeps me alive constantly. I can never die. It haunts me like a pair of heavy chains that will never let me go.” 

The revelation brings a thick silence to the room, and the monitor continues to display Yuuta's pulse with mechanical regularity, but the atmosphere has become heavy, intimate, almost oppressive, and for the first time since the conversation began, Yuuta hesitates to respond; his gaze falls to Yuuji's tilted face. He studies him closely: the redness around his eyes, the tension building in his jaw, the way even now his body seems poised to endure more than it should.

When his voice emerges, it's lower than before, like an intimate sigh. "I know you want to die, Yuuji." His thumb traces a short line at the base of the boy's neck, as if checking that he's still there, present, anchored to the moment.

He keeps his hand steady on the back of Yuuji's neck, holding him with a patience that demands no immediate response, allowing him to break down without moving away, as if he understands, from experience, that some burdens can only begin to be lifted when someone else remains still enough to bear the weight. "I understand," he says, "I also understand that a man like me can't say much when death lurks on the other side of the door."

Yuuta exhales slowly, his gaze lingering for a moment on the boy's profile: the taut line of his jaw, the still-fresh moisture on his pink eyelashes matching his cheeks flushed with exertion, the way his body, even broken, retains an almost unnatural resilience. His voice is softer, its cadence seeking to lessen the emotional intensity of the moment. "It's awful not being able to consider your last words before dying, perhaps your last memories before everything becomes an endless peace."  

As he speaks, his eyes never leave the young man's face, and Yuuji listens between childish hiccups, his posture shifting almost involuntarily: his shoulders remain tense, but his attention is now completely focused on Yuuta. There's something about the older man's measured way of speaking, the serene gravity of his weathered voice, that compels him to quiet down. Confusion still lingers in his expression, but the urge to interrupt fades for a few seconds.

Yuuta continues. “Over the years, I’ve decided what my own will be before the end, repeating them in my mind every night before I fall asleep.” The older man pauses, the words forming on the tip of his tongue as he’s too focused on the reflection of the sun in Yuuji’s honey-colored eyes; sunset is approaching. “My grandchildren are there, my Iori and Maki are there too. After a life filled with pain, it’s warming to be surrounded by so much love these days, and to have been able to live a life of dignity.” 

His fingers intertwine in the pink strands of hair that fall from the nape of Yuuji's neck, an unconscious gesture that betrays the emotional current he's trying to hold back, and the atmosphere gradually shifts. It's not abrupt, is slow, almost imperceptible shift at first; a warmth softens the lines of his aged face. His voice loses some of the analytical distance it had maintained until now. "But you, Itadori Yuuji, are the first thought I've had before dying for over sixty years." 

Yuuji notices it late; at first, he barely inclines his head, listening with the docile attention of someone who deeply respects the person before him. But as the sentences progress, his brow begins to furrow with growing confusion. His breathing becomes irregular again for a different reason.

Yuuta doesn't stop. “You were the first joy in my life that was sincere, honest, and warm. The sincere and kind smile I needed even in the most difficult times…in loss and pain. You never let me fall apart even though you yourself couldn't pick up the pieces of your broken heart.”

The nuance changes and the nostalgia becomes more intimate, more directed with his eyes remaining on the young man's face with a sustained attention that no longer tries to disguise itself as mere observation and the impact on Yuuji is immediate, he blinks hard, as if trying to reorganize the information in real time. 

The color visibly rises up his neck to his cheeks, and his hand moves nervously against the hands that gently hold him, moving away as if those words burned him, as if Yuuta's touch were boiling.He tries to interrupt, his voice thick with shyness and growing confusion. He takes a short breath, the beginning of a word that never quite forms. His body leans slightly forward, caught between the urge to stop and the inability to do so abruptly in front of Yuuta. “Yuuta-senpai, please wait, I…”

Yuuta continues speaking, and vulnerability surfaces in the smallest details: in the way his fingers clench into a fist and, with almost physical pain, he pulls his hand away from the other's face; it's reflected in the longer pauses between breaths; in the unusual softness that settles in his gaze when he mentions Yuuji again. "It's taken me so many years to accept it. I knew you were in love with Megumi the same way he was with you, that's why I never interfered." 

His gaze momentarily shifts to the flowers beside him, and he inhales the soft scent of the freesias that fill the tense air between them. “That’s why, when he asked me to stop searching for you, the search ceased, because I knew there was no other reason to do it than for him and my own selfish desire to have you here, even if you weren’t with me.” 

Yuuji tries again to stop him, and this time the gesture is more obvious: he barely shakes his head, confusion mixed with a palpable nervousness running through his shoulders. His fingers curl on the sheet as if searching for physical anchorage. “It doesn’t make sense, none of this makes sense. You love Maki, Yuuta, it’s always been like this since we were teenagers… I can’t understand it, it doesn’t make sense to me.” 

Kugisaki's name flashes through Yuuji's mind with irritating clarity. And right now, he can picture her with unsettling precision: her arms crossed, her gaze sharp, her voice laced with that insolent confidence that always defined her, a mental echo of "I told you so, idiot" resonating with a clarity that tightens his jaw even further. Yuuji swallows, the movement of his throat visible. "It's pointless, senpai... stop." 

He barely shakes his head, momentarily avoiding Yuuta's direct gaze, as if eye contact would make everything too real. It's an awkward plea, laced with genuine discomfort, and color rises to his neck again, but now it's not just embarrassment: there's a clear moral tension in the rigidity of his shoulders. "Maki-san, you... you can't confess this to me two months after your wife passed away, you can't, you mustn't." 

His gaze finally returns to the older man, but he cannot hold it steady for long: he hesitates and looks away and then returns, and his inner conflict is transparent in the way his posture oscillates between retreating and remaining. Yuuta observes him without interrupting, his expression devoid of annoyance. He is patient, as if he had anticipated this exact breaking point while lying there, but his focus is absolute; even the slight labored breathing seems deliberately regulated, maintaining the monitor's pulse at an almost obstinate stability. "Don't get me wrong, Yuuji. I love Maki. She was a wonderful woman who stood by me during the most difficult times. She became a mother to my son and an exemplary grandmother to her grandchildren amidst all the pain she endured throughout her life."

Yuuji's lips twitched, trying to find the right words to organize his thoughts, but nothing but a soft, questioning sound escaped. Yuuta watched him, noticing how his pupils were dilated and his nervous fingers fidgeted with the edge of the examination table's sheets, how his breathing tried to slow but couldn't, how his cheeks were flushed a soft pink that blended into the orange silk of the sunset reflected through the window. "Wait, I... then... why me?"

Yuuta laughs, not hiding the genuine laughter that trembles in his chest. “Yuuji, why wouldn’t you be me? My days are numbered, and I couldn’t allow myself to die a coward after a lifetime of pretending to be so brave.” He reflects, and the open smile he had maintained slowly fades. The shadows of the setting sun make his face appear longer, slightly more colorful even. “When you left, it was truly painful for everyone, and Megumi-kun was the first to want to look for you; he was desperate to know where you were. But if you left everything without looking back, it was for a reason, right?”

 Itadori feels a lump in his throat, and guilt weighs heavily on his shoulders once more. He stands frozen, his knees trembling uncontrollably. It's all so confusing and painful that he can't find the right words, nor can he apologize. He stands there, watching Okkotsu Yuuta lay his heart bare for him, for someone like him. He can't comprehend it, he can't understand it. His head throbs. 

“I was no exception, and I was almost as desperate as Fushiguro to find you. I needed to find a reason why you did it without a word.” Yuuta shifts on the bed, his head moving to avoid Itadori’s intense gaze, and the way the corners of his eyes begin to sting with pent-up tears—God, he hadn’t cried in so long.

 “Maki’s pregnancy stopped me in my tracks, and the news of our first child on the way turned my life upside down. I then decided to grieve in silence while taking on the role of head of the clan and my responsibilities as a father and sorcerer for as long as I could.”

Yuuji remains motionless for a few seconds, his breath coming in and out of his nose in short cycles as he processes the information, visibly overwhelmed. Tension builds again in his jaw, and his hands, unable to stay still, search for something to do. Yuuta, without moving from his spot, observes him with infinite patience. 

“It’s a decision I don’t regret, Yuuji. I prioritized a long life of happiness over the love that beat deep in my heart for you… from the first time we met.” The affirmation is etched on his face before any other gesture: there is no hesitation in the firm line of his jaw or in the way his shoulders, though weary from years and illness, remain upright against the pillows. 

Yuuji reacts late, but when he does, the tension in his expression cracks into something more youthful. The corner of his eyes narrows, and the corner of his lips curls with an awkward, almost defensive irony. He tilts his head to one side, and the movement causes a few pink strands of hair to fall onto his damp forehead. “Though that time he was chasing me to kill me later?”  

The mockery doesn't stem from genuine lightheartedness; it's evident in the rigidity of his shoulders and the way his fingers remain clenched on the sheet. It's an attempt to regain emotional ground, to steer the conversation toward a less vulnerable place.

Yuuta isn't offended. On the contrary, a hint of genuine humor crosses his aged expression. The implied memory seems to weigh heavily on him and touch his heart at the same time. He shakes his head, hiding an almost knowing smile. "Yes, even though I killed you with my own hands. I spent three days and two nights stalking you in the shadows without your knowledge; that sadness you carried on your shoulders so young was what truly moved me, strange as that may sound." 

Without warning, Yuuta presses Yuuji's cheeks, compressing them between his fingers, and the effect is immediate: the young man's face contorts in a surprised and slightly indignant expression. The color already present in his skin intensifies suddenly, rising from his neck to his ears. His hands instinctively rise, but stop halfway, caught between pushing him away and not daring to do so roughly.

The rebuke comes with a brief tug of his head back, though Yuuta maintains the contact for barely a second longer, as if savoring the reaction. When he finally loosens the pressure, he does so with an almost indulgent gentleness. “Don’t say things like that.” 

Then he observes him. Yuuta really observes him.

Yuuta's gaze scans the face before him with meticulous, almost reverential attention, lingering on the still-youthful curve of the cheeks, the lingering moisture along the lash line, the way Yuuji's breathing has yet to regain its steady rhythm. Something in his expression visibly softens, and for the first time, warmth overcomes restraint. "You're just as beautiful as the day you left, Yuuji-kun." 

His name, spoken so gently, sends a tiny twitch through his shoulders. The earlier teasing completely vanishes. His lips part slightly, and air enters his nostrils unevenly. The discomfort returns, deeper now, tinged with something dangerously close to vulnerability. His voice cracks more than he expected. “Yuuta-senpai.” 

Yuuta leans slightly forward on the bed, ignoring the faint tug of the monitor wires. The machine emits a steady, steady pulse, but his breathing betrays the effort: slower, heavier in his chest; even so, he doesn't look away. "Let me tell you the things I couldn't tell you all these years, Itadori, let this poor old man go with a peaceful heart."

When he moves again, he does so with careful deliberation. His hand, which had previously withdrawn, returns to gently tuck a pink strand of hair behind Yuuji's ear. The gesture is intimate yet restrained, executed with the patience of someone who has waited too long to allow themselves something so simple.

The plea is not reflected as weakness in his posture, but in the way his fingers remain a second longer than necessary near the young man's temple and in how his chest rises with a deeper inhalation, as if gathering air also implies gathering courage; there is something intimate in the absolute stillness with which he waits.

Yuuji, meanwhile, remained motionless beneath that invisible weight. A stiffness settled back into his back. His hands, unable to decide what to do, ended up clutching the sheet again, crumpling it between his fingers. A dry swallow formed in his throat. “Yuuta-san, I can’t reciprocate your feelings. It would be strange for someone to hear a man your age saying these things to a boy who barely looks sixteen.”

But he doesn't look away, nor can he hold his gaze for more than a few seconds at a time.

The sunset, filtering through the window, bathes the space between them in a soft orange that does little to dispel the emotional weight that has accumulated in the room. The monitor continues to display a stubbornly regular rhythm, almost in stark contrast to the quiet agitation that grips the young man.

The resistance finally takes shape in Yuuji's body. He barely turns his face away, not abruptly, but with an almost painful caution, as if every inch of distance were a conscious decision. The light of the setting sun slides down the curve of his still-reddened cheek, revealing the open discomfort in his expression.

There's no harshness in him, but rather an awkward firmness, tinged with shame, and his fingers clench more tightly on the white sheet, wrinkling the fabric between his knuckles as if he needs to physically anchor himself to the present. Shame creeps up his neck in a slow, evident ascent. "We never learn, we've been here before. Long before." 

Yuuta remains motionless for a second that stretches longer than usual. The statement doesn't wound him on the surface; what appears on his face is something more complex and silent. His eyelids barely lower, and the air leaves his lungs in a slow, measured exhalation that doesn't quite reach the level of a sigh. "We're always stuck and running away." 

His hands, which had previously sought contact with a restrained naturalness, now withdraw completely to the surface of the bed. His fingers intertwine gently on the sheet, accepting the distance without drama. His back, supported by the pillows, sinks slightly further, as if finally allowing the weight of years to become visible in his posture.

The skin around his eyes tightens with an old weariness, but his gaze remains steady, anchored on the young man's face with an honesty devoid of expectation. "I neither want nor expect you to reciprocate my feelings. I have nothing more to offer you of but myself, only a sincerity kept in my heart for many years." 

He blinks sharply once; the monitor continues to show a steady pulse, but Yuuta's breathing becomes a little deeper, more conscious, as if each inhale pierces through layers of memory before leaving his chest. The warm light of the setting sun outlines the lines of his aging face, softening the wrinkles without erasing the evidence of time.

The decision materializes abruptly in Yuuji, and he stands up with an awkward movement, pushing the chair back with a sharp scrape against the floor. His knees take a fraction of a second to stabilize, as if his body needs to calibrate itself after being trapped in the same tension for too long. His hands, still raised halfway, tremble with a subtle vibration he can't quite control.

Sadness crosses his expression before he can hide it, mingling with confusion and a moral discomfort that hardens his jawline and forces him to swallow with visible difficulty. "I'm sorry, Okkotsu-senpai. For not being able to reciprocate your feelings."  

His breathing becomes shallower as he tries to sort through the conflict that grips his chest: the incongruity, the anticipatory guilt, the sharp feeling of occupying a place that isn't his. Even when he acknowledges that things could have been different at another point in his life, denial takes over, accompanied by a more pronounced tremor in his hands. 

He doesn't approach him and doesn't look at him again.

When he finally turns toward the door, the movement feels too swift for the stillness that had dominated the room until then. His footsteps sound muffled on the hospital floor, but his haste is betrayed by the rigidity of his back and the way he keeps his head slightly lowered, as if avoiding anything that might make him stop. “Yuuji, please wait.” 

Behind him, Yuuta's voice reaches him. Once and then again, but Yuuji doesn't stop, and his hand closes on the doorknob with more force than necessary, and he slides the wooden door so quickly, but the world stops, and in front of him is a little girl.

The little girl holds a bouquet of white roses in both hands, their stems barely graspable with her short fingers. A small, carefully wrapped square package, probably chocolates, rests in the crook of her arm. Her eyes widen as she sees Yuuji's tall figure blocking the exit.

Yuuji freezes, a chill running down his spine with a palpable clarity: The face staring back at him—the shape of those eyes, the gentle curve of his cheeks, even the surprised expression—is a disturbingly accurate echo of the Yuuta he once knew as a young man. An exact copy; the resemblance is enough to make his pulse race uncomfortably in his chest. 

He blinks rapidly. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t see you.” His voice comes out softer than he intended, and he barely tilts his head toward the girl, avoiding holding her gaze for too long. The trembling in his hands hasn’t disappeared; for a second, he seems to be debating whether to say something more… or give up. He does. He gives up.

He carefully steps aside to let him pass and leaves the threshold without looking back. The sound of his footsteps fades down the hallway.

And inside the room, the little girl remains still for just a moment longer, still processing the unknown boy's hurried departure, but enters without questioning it too much; the flowers sway gently as she takes the last few steps to the bed, placing the package of chocolates on the nearby table without hesitation, leans forward to hug Yuuta with surprising strength for her size—the impact is warm. “Grandpa! I missed you so much, Granny.” 

Yuuta closes his eyes for a brief moment as the small arms wrap around his body. His hand rises almost reflexively and rests on the girl's head, gently smoothing her hair with an automatic, deeply habitual gesture. "Hello, my little princess, I missed you so much too." 

The question, inevitably, comes laden with innocent curiosity. “Who was that, grandpa? He looked so sad.” 

Yuuta's body remained perfectly still, his fingers stopping mid-swing in Yuuka's hair. When he opened his eyes again, the warmth was still there… but something else settled behind it, heavier, more restrained. Even so, he decided to smile subtly, placing a chaste kiss on the girl's cheek and a final touch on her bare forehead. "An old friend of Grandpa's, dollie. Don't worry about him, he's very strong even when he's sad." 

And he pulls her a little closer to his chest with a slow, protective movement, while his gaze briefly shifts towards the door through which Yuuji is no longer, and he closes his eyes so that he can concentrate on the soft breathing of the girl against his chest and the subtle scent of jasmine that tickles his nose.