Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yuuji wakes slowly, his awareness drifting up through the fog of sleep. The first thing he notices is a faint chill.

He knows something is off the moment he opens his eyes, a quiet sense of wrongness lodged deep in his mind.

For one thing, he can see the sky above him. He can feel the solid earth beneath his back, the wind brushing against his face. None of that is right. He had gone to bed in his own house, in his own bed, the night before.

Yuuji slowly sits up, trying to make sense of where he is, and quickly realizes he has no idea. All he can tell is that he’s in the middle of a field.

And as strange as it is to wake up outside, lying in the grass with no one and nothing around, that isn’t what’s wrong.

He stands up, brushing the dew off his pants. Yuuji groans as he twists and stretches, trying to shake off the stiffness in his neck and the dull ache in his hips from lying on the ground.

Yuuji looks around, relief washing over him as he spots a cluster of buildings in the distance.

“Thank God,” he mumbles to himself.

At least he isn’t completely lost. He doesn’t want to think about what he’d do if he truly had no sense of direction.

Walking into the town and seeing people going about their day eases the panic he felt earlier, but it doesn’t erase the lingering sense that something is wrong.

A faint squeak of a gate catches Yuuji’s attention. He turns his head and sees a mother and her child walking in a park. The child is holding their mother’s hand, dragging her toward the swing and pointing at it. The scene holds Yuuji’s attention more than he means it to. It’s a small park, a little sparse with playground equipment: a swing set, a slide, and a sandbox. There’s only one other family there. Something about it tugs at his memory.

Yuuji shakes his head and continues walking before the parents notice and get uncomfortable with a hooded man just standing at the entrance watching them.

He walks through a narrow street lined with houses before reaching the main street.

Yuuji isn’t really sure what he’s looking for – maybe a police station so he can figure out where he is or call someone – but then he wouldn’t even know who he would call. Or maybe he just needs to walk until something clicks.

Something about the shops he passes, the way the street curves, feels right in a way he can’t place. A bakery with a faded sign, a grocery store with a sale for beef in the display window – it makes him think, Yeah, that’s how that should be, without knowing why.

Then he passes a bookstore tucked away on a side street, its window cluttered with posters of old releases. His pace slows. A flicker of recognition stirs. That awning… I thought that place closed down years ago…

Yuuji freezes, his mind pulling at the threads of memory, a place he went so long without thinking about. His gaze flicks across the shop windows and he thinks back to the park he passed.

Each fragment floats up, disjointed and hazy, until it forms a solid, undeniable picture.

Finally, it clicks together, and the lingering wrongness drifts away, only to leave Yuuji feeling completely lost.

Slowly, his shock settles into awe, tinged with unease. Yuuji realizes this is his old hometown.

But not as it should be – yet, yes, exactly as it should be. This is what it looked like when he was a child.

In the past.

***

Yuuji feels as though he should feel a sense of displacement, out of bounds. For God’s sake, he’s been thrown back in time.

But he doesn’t.

As surreal as it all is, he feels no sense of not belonging, even while knowing he’s out of place.

Because the truth is, Yuuji hasn’t felt tethered for a long time. Being outside of what is normal – what is natural – isn’t something that applies to him. Not anymore. With his existence, his entire being, there comes a dissonance. Everything else is bound together by mortality. He is not.

“What to do…” Yuuji mumbles to himself as he stands on the curb, waiting for the crosswalk to change.

Time passed with aching slowness as he watched the people he loved fade away. The loneliness only grew the further he isolated himself.

How much slower will time move now that he’s been thrown back?

Did it not stop at never aging? At living a life where he watches everyone he knows die while he remains the same?

Does he have to relive that same pain over and over?

If Yuuji lets that thought catch up to him, his despondent apathy will give way to the tidal wave of anger and unfairness that surges through him.

The light changes, and he crosses toward the far sidewalk. A small cluster of people drifts with him and past him, reaching the curb before scattering in separate directions. Yuuji wishes he had any idea which way to turn.

His feet move numbly, carrying him back to places he used to know. Beyond the questions of how and why, Yuuji just keeps going.

He feels a detached indifference, what is he supposed to do? If this isn’t meant to curse him further, then what was the reason? Why him?

Yuuji has been walking for a while now, drifting through town like an apparition. As he passes a café, the scent of something sweet hits him, and his stomach twists in reminder that just because he is fine moving on, his body is not.

That’s when he realizes he has no money. Worse than that, no form of ID. It’s almost absurd that this is what finally forces him to think.

How is he even supposed to do anything like this?

Yuuji pats his pockets as if that will make his wallet suddenly appear. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket, sighs in frustration, and moves on.

Maybe he should go to the police station. But what story could he even tell? They’d ask where he came from, his last address, whether he knew his ID number.

Yuuji would have no answer that made sense. If he gave his ID, it would register to his younger self, a child, not the grown man standing before them.

It would cause more trouble than it would help. He’d end up looking crazy, or maybe like a stalker. Definitely a no-go.

***

After all his wandering, he ends up on a bridge.

He walks to the edge and stops at the railing, leaning forward as he crosses his arms, his forearms resting on the guardrail. It’s quiet, with few people walking across every so often.

Yuuji looks ahead at the sky. It offers no more answers than anything else. He’s been aimlessly walking around for so long that the sun has begun to set, spilling gold across the horizon. It’s a pretty view, at least. Below him, he hears the water trickle faintly. In a few hours, it’ll get dark. And he’ll still be just as lost as before.

If he really has no other choice, should he just go to the school? Ask to see if he could speak with Tengen, but how would that go? Yuuji muses the thought in his head. He wouldn’t be able to get to Tengen without going through the faculty first, would Yaga be the principal at this time? Would they believe him if he told them the truth? That he’s from the future, that in his time he used to be a student here, that he’s actually eighty-three years old despite his appearance, and that he has no idea why he woke up in the past? And how he would very much like to get back to his own time and not be stuck here, thanks. Yeah, that wouldn’t go over so well. He wonders which would be harder to believe first: his time-travel dilemma or his supposed age.

They wouldn’t let an unregistered sorcerer just waltz right into their territory. Would he have to speak to the higher-ups first? That would go even worse. Even with Yuuji’s control of his cursed energy, reducing the output of it, it would take one look to know something isn’t right. No matter how much he keeps his cursed energy contained, he’d still give off the aura of a curse. If they asked what his technique was, he couldn’t for reasons very clear show off dismantle, and if he showed his blood manipulation, he’d be seen as a Kamo bastard. Which would just bring up more questions and accusations, and not any help. If he somehow managed to lie his way out of explaining himself and showing his technique, they still would see him as a half-curse hybrid. He’s an amalgamation of everything they’d want dead in the ground.

He'd get an execution order on the spot.

Even if he managed to convince Yaga about anything, his presence wouldn’t be kept secret for long. He’d be found out eventually and that’s the last thing Yuuji wants. He doesn’t want to involve himself or cause any trouble, but eyes would be on him immediately if he stepped one foot back into that world. An unheard-of sorcerer who appeared out of nowhere, more curse than human? Chaos would inevitably follow, drawing the attention of all who lurk in the shadows, and especially Kenjaku.

Yuuji didn’t feel like seeing how that route would go.

Could he try to sneak his way to Tengen? Yuuji knows he could force his way in before any of the guards could blink. Would Tengen be willing to speak to him? And what if, after all that, he manages to speak with Tengen only to be told that nothing can be done? That Yuuji's situation is a permanent one.

The hope Yuuji once carried had become little more than ash, but learning that he truly is stuck in the past would scatter even those remnants. Having to be here again, as what? An observer? To be his own witness to his life: see what he once thought would be a short life, and watch as, one day, that life begins to stretch endlessly.

A thought slips into his mind, a hesitant whisper: maybe he should ask for help. Maybe he should go to the person he has always trusted completely.

It’s 2009, it’s still spring, so Gojo-sensei would still be a teenager, right? Yuuji would be older than him. He’d be older than all of them, Nanamin, Shoko, Ijichi, and Yaga. He wasn’t even really thinking about it until right this moment.

Yuuji knows he’s older and that he doesn’t look his age, but this time-travel situation is really beating him over the head with it.

The thought of seeing his old sensei again, a younger version of the one he knew, leaves him feeling cold. A deep sinking pit opens inside him, his hands start to tremble.

No, he couldn’t go back there. He doesn’t want to.

Yuuji has grown avoidant of pain. He’d walk away if it meant hurting less. Even when it only traps him in an endless cycle of isolation and loneliness.

Yuuji drags out a sigh. "Ahh, what a mess,"

Whatever this was, couldn’t it have come with some instructions, to give him some clue what he’s supposed to do?

Yuuji lets out a shaky breath, pressing his face into his forearms.

Please just tell me what I should do, he pushes his thought, prayer, into the universe. He sends it off like a ship in a bottle, floating away, hoping it finds something.

He lifts his head and looks at the water below him. The river mirrors the sky, each ripple scattering color like slow ribbons of light, like trembling streaks of gold. Sunlight glints off the surface, creating a shimmering path that stretches across the water.

Something ugly twists inside his chest, growing stronger the longer he stands there looking over the edge.

Without much thought, Yuuji plants his palms on the cool stone, and lifts himself up to sit on the balustrade. Legs idly swinging as he settles himself onto his seat.

He leans forward slightly, looking down, letting his gaze fall with the hypnotic rhythms of the current.

He desperately wants this to be a dream, wishing he'll wake up by the day's end, even as the bone-settling truth tells him it isn't.

Can he force himself out of this? Can he just finally decide he's had enough?

The bridge is empty, no one has walked by yet. The water below is shallow, it would only reach his ankles. He's sitting at a decent height. It wouldn’t break his fall.

A wave of numbness washes over him. It isn’t violent; it doesn’t topple him. It settles instead – heavy and blank – filling the space behind his eyes. The world grows distant, as though viewed through glass. Everything softens and dulls. For a long moment, there is no sense of surface or shore; he cannot tell where it ends or begins. Then it recedes just as quietly. Yuuji blinks as his mind pulls free from the spiral of his thoughts, and the ever-present ache of regret settles in his heart.

Yuuji huffs and shakes his head, dispelling the rest of the lingering emotions. He’s too old to be this melodramatic.

A fall from this height wouldn’t even kill him. He’s fell from places higher than this, this wouldn’t even bruise him. Even if he landed on his head, he’d just give himself a headache.

He can’t believe he even let the notion pass through his mind. Ending his own life – despite everything – he simply doesn’t have it in him.

No matter how many times he breaks apart, no matter how much of himself is lost in that miserable scattering, he pieces himself back together. Sometimes, he struggles to break free of the darkness, even if only for a fleeting moment. Fate has a cruel irony, yet Yuuji couldn’t lose himself. His spirit, for better or worse, is relentless.

That is all true. But there is another truth that coexists with it: Yuuji has grown tired. An extinguished flame of the person he once was. He has grown less attached to life. And he dreams of the day that will be his last.

This whole thing must really be getting to him. Maybe tomorrow he’ll wake up with a clearer head. For now, he needs to figure out where he’s going to sleep.

Yuuji is so lost in his own thoughts that he almost misses the light echo of footsteps as someone steps onto the bridge.

He casts a quick glance at the figure coming over the arch. It’s an older man – well, not older than him, but physically looking, yes – carrying a plastic bag in one hand. He looks away, this will probably look strange, maybe if he stays still the man won’t pay him any mind. If he does notice Yuuji, hopefully he’s the type of person who keeps on going with their day.

But that’s not what happens.

Yuuji feels when the man’s gaze lands on his back. Something about it makes him tense slightly, he’s not worried, but he’d like to avoid a conversation. Despite the stare, he still hears the steady pace of the man’s footsteps. He’ll pass right by Yuuji and keep walking.

He doesn’t.

The footsteps slow, then pause. Yuuji stays perfectly still.

The man's footsteps approach him, stopping just a few paces behind him.

When the man speaks, it’s in a low-pitched voice; his words are gruff and direct. “What are you doing there, kid?”

Yuuji feels a flicker of faint amusement, he isn’t even looking at the man, but he can tell the man’s attitude probably matches his face. The man sounds like he’s annoyed but he could’ve kept on walking if he didn’t want to involve himself.

But that voice sends a twitch across Yuuji’s face, his chest tightening with a sensation he can’t name, gone before he can even process it.

Yuuji continues to stay still, he doesn’t turn around. He can hear the man shift as he lets out a deep sigh.

“Aren’t you too young to know how bad life gets?” he asks.

Yuuji lets out a short, humorless huff of air through his nose. He shakes his head, staying silent. Honestly, this guy has no idea. Even if Yuuji was young, he would still know just how bad life gets and how it always has something worse to offer.

The man is quiet for a moment before he says, “Get down from there, kid. You have no business being up there. Your parents are probably waiting for you at home, it’s almost time for dinner. Go now, and don’t let being late make the food go cold.”

His tone doesn’t soften, despite the kind words. He delivers them with the awkward grace of someone unused to saying such things.

The contrast almost genuinely makes Yuuji laugh.

But the longer Yuuji hears him talk, the more his mind goes blank. With each word, a click strikes somewhere deep in his mind. There’s something in the cadence of the voice.

It spreads through his mind like the gentle strum of an instrument, echoing until it fades, and Yuuji finally recognizes it.

It’s younger, but he knows it.

Yuuji is silent and still for a long moment. It can’t be true, not even in a situation this bizarre, but it is. Now that he knows who is standing behind him, he can’t deny it. He’s almost afraid that if he turns around, there’ll be nothing there – that he imagined it.

But no, his grandpa’s steady presence remains behind him, waiting.

The wind chose that moment to pick up, and he feels the breeze rolling past him, nudging his hood back until it slips onto his shoulders.

There’s a sharp inhale behind him.

Yuuji turns around.

His grandpa still looks old – gray hair, a face mapped with familiar lines – but they’re softer now. He seems steadier. Healthier. Not like the frail, pale man Yuuji remembers lying in that hospital bed.

Something Yuuji thought had scarred over tears open again at the sight of him. The feeling is both comforting and destabilizing – unreal, and yet painfully real.

His mouth goes dry. He swallows hard. His lips part, and a quiet, breathless, disbelieving “Huh,” slips out.

Wasuke, whose brows knit together at the sight of pink hair, now stands frozen. The color drains from his face so quickly it leaves him ashen. He stares a beat too long, half shock, half something like rapture.

“Jin?” he breathes.

The name hits Yuuji like a punch to the gut. He opens his mouth, instinctively, because something in that voice sounds fragile, almost broken, and he doesn’t know how to stop it. The edge of hope in it makes it worse. His grandpa just called him by his father’s name, and he doesn’t know what to say. How much of the truth would fix this, and how much would break it?

But then Wasuke shakes his head sharply, as if scolding himself.

“No… no.” His eyes refocus, sharper now, cutting past the years. He looks closer. Really looks.

Wasuke’s face freezes mid-expression, a mix of disbelief and horror. “…Yuuji?” The bag slips from his fingers and hits the ground.

“I–” The words tangle in Yuuji’s throat. He feels like a ghost. A mistake. A grandson who shouldn’t exist here. He regrets stepping onto this bridge at all.

Yuuji’s lips tremble, parting and closing as the words struggle to catch up.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, because it’s the only thing that fits in his mouth.

Wasuke lets out a short, dismissive scoff, the sound forced through a tight exhale. His eyes are cold and sharp. His gaze snaps to Yuuji’s  forehead, searching. It takes a second to understand. His grandpa has reached a conclusion, that Yuuji is that thing that puppeteered his mother’s corpse. Of course he would. The alternative is too impossible to believe.

Yuuji hunches in on himself, flinching inward. He almost wants to admonish his grandpa for the accusation.

“I’m not,” he rasps, unable to keep the hurt from bleeding into his voice. “I’m not her.”

Wasuke pins him with a hard stare. “You know then?” he asks.

Yuuji shrugs, looking away. Because he really doesn’t know anything about that. He never cared to learn. He should have left the moment his grandpa stopped behind him.

Silence stretches between them. Wasuke keeps staring, and slowly the edge drains from his expression, leaving him tired. Sad.

“Have I finally lost my mind,” he mutters, “or did I die crossing this bridge?”

Yuuji blanches and snaps his head up. “God, jiichan, don’t be so morbid.”

The word hangs in the air. Both of them blink – Wasuke in surprise, Yuuji in horror at himself. Jiichan. He hadn’t meant to say it; it slipped out before he even realized. Hearing it again, from his own lips, feels like stepping into someone else’s past.

“Morbid,” Wasuke echoes flatly once he gathers himself. “What would you call what you’re doing?”

Heat creeps up Yuuji’s neck. He folds in on himself again, feeling like a scolded child. “I wasn’t going to do anything,” he mumbles. “I was just looking at the view.” And, really, he wasn’t going to do anything. But he knows how it must have looked.

Wasuke lets out a sigh, bone-deep and weary, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I must really be losing it,” he murmurs to himself. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, as if bracing against a headache, then looks back at Yuuji. Drained, though his eyes are clear and unguarded.

“Yuuji,” he says very firmly. “Get down from there.”

Yuuji climbs down without argument. He wipes his hands on his pants before shoving them into his jacket pockets, standing a careful foot away.

Up close, Wasuke studies his face again. Whatever he sees makes something in his expression tighten.

With a small groan, he crouches to retrieve the fallen bag. Yuuji drops down automatically to help. Their hands brush – it's warm. Solid. Real. Wasuke freezes. Then he jerks his hand back and stands abruptly, gripping the bag a little too tightly. That’s worse, somehow.

“You’ve grown tall,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like time hasn’t folded in on itself. Like this isn’t impossible. He hesitates before adding, “What’s with your eyes?”

“My eyes?” Yuuji asks.

Wasuke scowls. “Your eyes belong to someone drowning in soul-deep misery. A corpse would have more light in them than you do. What happened to you?”

A faint, hollow chuckle escapes Yuuji before he can stop it. He doesn’t even know where to begin. “A lot,” he says simply.

The silence settles between them, heavy as the river below.

Wasuke searches his face once more, then exhales. “Walk home with me,” he says, already turning, “You can tell me why you look like you’ve seen hell.”

“Oh – um–” Yuuji falters, caught off guard. “I wasn’t going to – that’s not necessary.”

He doesn’t know why he resists, maybe because that would make this more real in a way it hasn’t been.

Wasuke doesn’t even give him the chance to come up with a poor excuse why he can’t.

Wasuke stops mid-step and turns to face him.

“Do you have somewhere to go tonight?” he asks sharply.

Yuuji winces. “No.”

Wasuke arches a brow. “Do you have any idea how to fix whatever this is?”

“…No,” Yuuji mumbles sulkily.

“Then the choice is clear,” Wasuke says evenly.

He turns and resumes walking. After a brief pause, Yuuji hesitates, then follows.

***

They walk silently side by side.

Yuuji follows out of the firm belief that Wasuke will raise hell and try to drag him by the ear if he doesn’t comply. Stubborn old man. 

The sun hangs low in the sky, a deep amber disc sinking toward the horizon.

Wasuke keeps glancing at him, his gaze fervent. Searching.

“How old are you?” Wasuke asks after a while.

Older than you, Yuuji almost says, but he holds his tongue.

“Do I look old?” he asks instead, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He knows he doesn’t. Not as old as he should.

“You do,” Wasuke says flatly.

The bluntness nearly makes Yuuji stumble.

Wasuke huffs and finally looks away. “It’s in your eyes. I can tell just by looking at you.”

Yuuji swallows. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Who’s looking after him?” he asks instead. He doesn’t need to clarify who "him" is. Wasuke understands.

“A neighbor,” Wasuke says. “Fujimori. She lives right across from me.”

“Oh.” Yuuji’s lips part like he’s going to say more, but nothing comes. He falls silent again.

Wasuke’s gaze drifts back to him, settling on Yuuji’s face.

“…Those scars,” he says at last. A silent question sits in the words. Yuuji stiffens before he can stop himself.

Wasuke gestures vaguely toward his own cheek. “How’d you get those?”

Of course he notices. Yuuji is a fool to think he wouldn’t ask. Yuuji lifts a hand, fingers brushing the scar by his lip, then the one over his brow. He forgets they’re there sometimes.

“A fight,” he says, because it’s the closest thing to the truth.

“A fight,” Wasuke repeats, unimpressed. “With who?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Yuuji says quietly.

Wasuke stops walking. He looks angry again.

“Doesn’t matter?” he repeats, voice level – too level. Each word deliberate. His knuckles are white where he grips the bag in his hand.

Yuuji’s mouth opens. Closes. Wasuke takes a sharp step toward him.

“And this –” His face twists as he grabs Yuuji’s wrist and jerks his hand up between them. His left hand.

Yuuji doesn’t look at it. He doesn’t have to. His ring and pinky finger are nothing more than stumps.

“You think I didn’t notice?” Wasuke demands, shaking Yuuji’s hand in front of him. “I did.”

“What happened?” His voice rises now, frantic – angry and full of grief all at once. “How did you lose your fingers?”

The hand gripping Yuuji’s wrist trembles.

From a curse.

From trying to save a friend.

From fighting things no one should have to know exist.

Yuuji doesn’t know which answer to give.

“…Jiichan,” he starts, but Wasuke cuts him off.

“Stop it! You’re standing here, lying to me, being vague!” His breath stutters. “How is this happening? Why are you here? What happened to you?”

He cuts himself off abruptly and lets go of Yuuji’s wrist like he’s forgotten he’s holding it. Wasuke turns away, breathing deeply. One hand presses to his chest, like he’s trying to calm his heart.

“This is what you grow into?” he asks, and there’s the slightest tremble in his voice, something dangerously close to a sob. “You’ve changed in a way I never thought you would.”

Yuuji’s heart may as well have shattered. He stares at the ground.

“I tried,” he says, voice small. His fists start to clench. “I tried so hard to live by the words you left me.”

He snaps his head up.

“And you know what?” His voice rises, edging toward hysteria. “I think I did pretty good, considering the circumstances. But my life was never mine. I wasn’t meant to win – I wasn’t even meant to live.”

He drags a hand through his hair.

“But that was fine,” he says, breath uneven. “Because I still helped people. And I was surrounded by people who cared about me. It might’ve been selfish – knowing they’d have to watch me die – but it made me happy. I wouldn’t be alone when I died.”

His laugh comes out wrong. More sob than sound.

“But that’s not what happened. I lived – and for a while, that was good. But I didn’t get to grow old with them! One day I noticed everyone was changing and I wasn’t. I had to be the one who watched the people I love die.

I was just trying to live the way you told me to!”

His chest heaves. The words break out of him before he can stop them.

“If this was how my life was going to turn out, I would’ve never visited you the day you died in that hospital—”

Yuuji goes white the second the words leave his mouth.

Silence.

Wasuke stares at him, mouth slightly open.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please – I don’t mean that.” The words tumble out of him in his haste.

“I would’ve visited you. Of course I would’ve. Even when you tried to cut my visits short, I stayed until visiting hours were over. I love you, jiichan.” His voice softens toward the end.

Wasuke doesn’t answer right away.

The silence stretches.

Yuuji can’t bring himself to look up. He braces for anger. For rejection. For disappointment.

Instead–

“You idiot.” The words are rough. Hoarse.

Yuuji blinks.

Wasuke steps forward and smacks the back of his head – not hard, but firm enough to sting.

“You absolute idiot,” he repeats.

Yuuji stares at him, stunned.

Wasuke’s eyes are wet.

“You think I’d ever regret you visiting me?” His voice wavers despite himself. “You think I was counting the minutes because I didn’t want you there?”

Yuuji’s throat tightens.

“If I was sending you home early it was because I wouldn’t have wanted you to waste your time on me. I would’ve wanted you to be out there living your life,” Wasuke snaps. “Not spend your days with a dying man.”

He exhales sharply, wiping at his face with the heel of his palm.

Yuuji’s vision blurs.

Wasuke looks at him long and hard, at the scars, at his maimed hand, at the way he stands like someone waiting for a verdict.

“So you lived,” Wasuke says at last. It isn’t a question. “You lived when you weren’t supposed to.”

Yuuji gives the smallest nod.

“And you watched everyone else go.”

Another nod. Smaller.

Wasuke’s jaw tightens. “Good.”

Yuuji looks up sharply. “Good?” His voice cracks.

“Yes. Good.” Wasuke steps closer and jabs a finger into Yuuji’s chest. “It means you survived. It means you fought. It means you didn’t lie down and die just because someone decided that’s what you were meant for. Did you think I’d want a future where you die young?”

“That’s not—”

“I don’t care what you were meant for!” Wasuke barks. “I care about what you did.” His voice steadies, though it still shakes at the edges. “You helped people?”

“Yes,” Yuuji whispers.

“You saved them when you could?”

“Yes.”

“You kept going?”

“…Yes.”

“Then you did exactly what I raised you to do.”

Yuuji’s breath stutters.

Wasuke’s hand drops, but his gaze doesn’t soften.

“And don’t you dare blame my words for your suffering,” he says, quieter now. “If I told you to help people, that wasn’t a curse. That was me trusting you.” His expression twists. “I would rather you live and suffer and struggle than die young just to make things easier.”

The words hit like a blow.

“You hear me?” Wasuke demands.

Yuuji nods, a lone tear sliding down his cheek.

Wasuke clicks his tongue in irritation and reaches out, grabbing Yuuji by the collar and pulling him into a rough, brief embrace. It’s clumsy. Awkward. Solid.

“You don’t get to decide your life isn’t yours,” Wasuke mutters against his shoulder. “Not while you’re still breathing.”

Yuuji’s hands hover before finally gripping the back of Wasuke’s shirt.

“I was lonely,” he admits, voice muffled.

Wasuke stills. “…I know.”

They stay like that for a moment longer. Then Wasuke pulls away, clearing his throat like nothing happened. “Stop crying in the middle of the road. People will stare.”

Yuuji lets out a weak, watery laugh.

Wasuke turns and starts walking again. “Well?” he says gruffly. “Are you coming or not?”

Yuuji wipes his eyes and falls into step beside him.

The sky has darkened to a bruised violet. Streetlights flicker on one by one. For a while, they walk in silence again. But it’s different now.

Wasuke glances sideways. “You said you don’t age?”

Yuuji hesitates. “…Not like I’m supposed to.”

“Hmph.”

A few more steps.

“Then you’ll outlive me again.”

The bluntness makes Yuuji flinch. It makes his heart constrict all over again.

“But listen carefully,” Wasuke continues. “If that happens, you don’t waste it. You don’t shrink yourself just because it hurts. You don’t avoid people just because you’re afraid to lose them.”

Yuuji swallows.

“You keep choosing them anyway,” Wasuke says. “Every time.”

The house is coming into view now. The porch light is already on.

“And if you’re lonely,” Wasuke adds, not looking at him, “that just means you loved properly.”

Yuuji’s chest aches.

They reach the gate. Wasuke pauses before opening it.

“One more thing,” he says.

Yuuji tenses slightly.

“If you ever think my words are a curse again…” Wasuke shoots him a sharp look. “I’ll haunt you myself.”

Despite everything, Yuuji laughs – a real one this time.

“…Yes, sir.”

Wasuke snorts and slides the gate open. “Good. Now get inside. I need to start making dinner.”

They step into the yard together. For the first time since he woke in the past, the suffocating sense of loss eases. Normal. It feels almost normal.

“So what’s for dinner?” Yuuji asks.

“Steak,” Wasuke says.

At the mention of food, his stomach betrays him with a perfectly timed growl. Wasuke raises a brow.

Yuuji’s cheeks flush. “Uh, I haven’t eaten since morning,” he says sheepishly.

Wasuke gives him a flat look and shakes his head. “…And you were trying to argue with me about coming here.”

Yuuji rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry…”

Wasuke huffs and turns away, pulling a keychain out of his pocket. The door opens before he can put the key in.

“Oh!” a woman exclaims. “I thought I heard voices out here.”

An older woman stands in front of them. Her eyes widen when she turns to face Yuuji.

“Oh my,” she says, looking Yuuji up and down. “You must be Itadori-san’s relative. Your resemblance is striking!” She looks between the two of them with something close to fascination.

“Fujimori,” Wasuke says with a polite nod. “How’s Yuuji been?” 

Fujimori laughs. “Oh, he’s been a delight as always! That boy is such an angel.”

She glances back at Yuuji, her gaze curious. “I’m sorry for staring,” she says. “It’s just – you two look incredibly similar. Good looks must run in the family, hmm?”

“Ah – thank you, that’s kind of you to say, ma’am.” Yuuji replies, dipping his head. He feels a flicker of awkwardness. He wasn’t prepared to introduce himself to anyone.

Fujimori laughs, her cheeks slightly flushed. “Ma’am! How polite this one is! Are you his cousin?”

Before Yuuji can say anything, Wasuke answers for him.

“He’s my son,” he says.

Heavy static fills Yuuji’s mind. His face remains blank, but inside there’s a sudden storm of emotions.

Fujimori’s jaw drops slightly, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Oh!” she exclaims. She turns to Wasuke. “I didn’t know you had two sons.”

Wasuke only gives a firm “Mhm.”

She looks at Yuuji with a bright smile. “He really did get his good looks from you!”

Yuuji stares at the side of Wasuke’s face, who resolutely ignores him.

“Yes,” Yuuji finally manages, forcing the word out, his ears ringing.

She steps back and waves them inside. Wasuke moves past her into the entryway. Yuuji pauses at the threshold.

Wasuke doesn’t miss it and shoots him a sharp look. “Don’t just stand there. Come inside.”

Yuuji obeys automatically, stepping in after him.

“Where’s Yuuji?” Wasuke asks as he toes off his shoes and lines them up neatly.

“He’s in the living room watching TV right now—” Fujimori begins before the bellow of a small voice echoes from deeper in the house.

“JIICHAN!”

They all turn as quick little feet thunder down the hall.

Yuuji watches with a small amount of amusement – and a strange twist in his stomach at the sight of his younger self – as the child emerges in a flurry of movement. Wasuke instinctively kneels to catch the tiny body that all but slams into him, letting out only a small grunt at the impact.

“Yes, yes, I’m back,” he says, patting the boy’s back. “Did you behave for Fujimori?”

The child pulls back from the hug, looking scandalized by the mere suggestion that he could be anything less than perfectly behaved.

“Of course I did! Wasn’t I good, Auntie?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at Fujimori.

Yuuji stares. That was my voice…

Fujimori covers her mouth, muffling her chuckle. She nods. “Yes, he was very well behaved.” She reaches down to brush the boy’s hair back.

The child turns and finally notices him.

“Oh!” he says, eyes wide. Curious. Open. “Hi,” he adds, waving slightly.

Yuuji swallows, looking down at his younger self. There’s a strange feeling tightening in his chest as he looks at the boy who once was him. “Hello,” he says, a little stiffly.

His younger self studies him intently, unblinking, curious in that pure, unguarded way children have when confronted with something new. Every scar, every line, seems to be cataloged without judgment. Yuuji’s stomach twists. Fujimori hadn’t said anything about his scars – only a brief flicker of her eyes hinted she’d noticed – but his child self stares openly, unashamed.

Suddenly, shyness floods the boy. He shuffles behind Wasuke, hiding at his leg and tugging at his pants.

“Who’s that?” he asks.

Yuuji feels suddenly enormous. Too tall. Too broad. Like something that doesn’t belong in this house.

Wasuke sighs, placing a steady hand on Yuuji’s back and nudging him out of his hiding spot. He hands him the bag. “Go put this in the kitchen. Introductions can wait.” The plastic bag crinkles as it’s passed over.

“Okay!” the child says, taking the bag and sprinting toward the kitchen.

Yuuji watches him go. He remembers this hallway being bigger. Now it looks small.

“Has he never met you before?” Fujimori asks once the child leaves.

“Um, no, he hasn’t,” Yuuji says. He hasn’t met me yet. He hasn’t lost anything yet.

“He’s been abroad up until now,” Wasuke adds.

“Yes!” Yuuji nods, forcing a smile. “For, uh… work!” His words feel brittle.

Fujimori extends her hand. “Well, it was nice to meet you!”

Yuuji nods and smiles, polite but a little plastic. He shakes her hand. “Yes, it was nice to meet you too.”

Fujimori’s smile is much more genuine. “I’ll be going now.” She turns to Wasuke. “Take care, Itadori-san!”

“You too. Thank you for looking after him,” Wasuke says.

Fujimori waves him off. “Oh, no trouble at all!”

Yuuji exhales and lets some tension drain from his shoulders as she slips on her shoes and moves toward the door. Relief washes over him, and beneath there’s a sharp flicker of guilt. She’s clearly kind – but he’s exhausted. He stiffens at the sound of small feet returning.

“Jiichan! I put the groceries away,” little Yuuji calls, pride in his voice.

Wasuke ruffles his head. “Good. Now say goodbye to Fujimori.”

“Bye, Auntie!” The child rushes to her, and she bends down so he can hug her.

“Bye, Yuuji!” she coos.

Wasuke opens the door for her, and she thanks him before stepping outside.

“It was nice meeting you again!” she calls, waving at Yuuji.

Yuuji waves back, stiff and mechanical.

The door clicks shut. Silence.

Yuuji slowly turns. Between Wasuke and himself stands… himself. His younger self clinging to Wasuke’s pant leg, eyes wide, studying him in that fearless, unfiltered way children have. Yuuji’s stomach drops. He remembers being that small. He remembers believing the world was straightforward. That if you tried hard enough, you could fix things. Looking at the boy, Yuuji’s breath is taken away a little. Is this really what he looked like? A little face full of youth, big amber eyes untainted by all the things Yuuji has seen. Seeing himself this free… even though he knows he had once been like this… feels more like a dream than memory. The air feels too thick. His hands are clenched inside his pockets. His chest tightens. Heart hammering. Throat constricting. Seeing him, young and unguarded, makes Yuuji feel both fragile and alien. He doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing, if it matches the cold horror curling in his stomach.

He feels like an intruder in his own childhood.

Wasuke’s lips press thin as he eyes Yuuji, his child self still clinging to his pant leg, staring between them.

“Take your shoes off,” Wasuke mutters. “Don’t stand there like you’ve never been here before.”

Yuuji moves, stiff, the echo of the child’s gaze still burning into him. His hands shake as he reaches for his laces. For a split second, he imagines blood on them.

There isn’t any.

But the nausea doesn’t leave.

***

The living room feels smaller than Yuuji remembers.

All three of them gather there. Yuuji and his younger self sit across from each other on the couch. They stare. Neither blinks. Neither breathes.

“Hello!” the boy says again, trying to break the silence.

Both Yuuji and Wasuke remain very still. Watching. Holding their breath.

“Who are you?” the child asks when neither of them answers.

Yuuji feels frozen. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. Words vanish into the air, swallowed by the strangeness of seeing that small, familiar face.

Wasuke exhales sharply. “You’re hopeless,” he mutters at Yuuji, then nudges the boy gently forward.

“Yuuji, this is your uncle. Forgive him. He’s a bit absent-minded.”

The boy’s eyes snap wide. “Oh! Are you really my uncle?!” He bounces in place, energy unrestrained.

“Yes,” Yuuji forces out. His voice feels foreign even to him.

That is all the confirmation the child needs. He scrambles off the couch and rushes to him, hugging his legs without hesitation. Yuuji freezes. Every muscle rigid, every thought spinning. Then something shifts. A small part of him lets go. A breathless laugh escapes as his hand lifts, tentatively, to pat the boy’s head. The hair is softer than he expects.

He crouches, lowering himself to meet those amber eyes, so full of wonder, so untarnished. His younger self looks back without fear, without hesitation, open.

Seeing that little face… it’s like staring at an old photograph, one he had forgotten existed. The Yuuji in front of him is both himself and a stranger. Hope and innocence radiate in the boy’s expression, and it cuts through the weight he carries, almost painfully. Here in this surreal moment, he feels an odd tether, a fragile thread connecting who he was to who he is now.

“Hello, Yuuji,” he says softly, voice trembling, catching a hint of warmth. “I’m… your father’s brother.”

The boy beams at him like he’s been handed treasure. The trust is immediate, unthinking.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

Yuuji blinks, caught completely off guard. The question should be simple, shouldn’t it? But seeing that small face makes everything slippery. He can’t say it. Not like this. Not while staring into his own untouched face.

“I – uh – it’s…” His brain short-circuits. “Yu.” He blurts. Yuuji, Yu now, exhales internally. Brilliant.

“My name’s Yu,” he repeats, steadier this time, all while cringing on the inside.

The boy gasps, eyes sparkling. “That sounds like mine!”

Yu smiles stiffly. “Yeah…”

The boy beams, so unselfconscious, so utterly himself. And somehow, that makes Yu feel simultaneously enormous and tiny all at once.

“Was I named after you?” He asks eagerly.

Yu startles. “No.”

The smile falters only briefly. “Oh. Okay.”

Wasuke, who had been lingering near the doorway, shifts his weight and finally walks to the kitchen. He pulls a packet of meat from the plastic bag and sets it on the cutting board. The crinkle of the bag sounds loud in the quiet room. He glances at Yu, lets out a short, sharp sigh, and throws him the most unimpressed look imaginable.

“Yu? Really?” he mutters under his breath.

Yu shrugs defensively; he’s never good at lying.

“I was caught off guard,” he hisses quietly when the boy hops away to grab a comic book from the shelf. “What was I supposed to say?”

Wasuke scoffs and begins to cut the meat.

Yu glances at the boy again. The same amber eyes, the same bounce in his step – yet something about the way this little version of himself moves, the way he observes the world, makes Yu feel… unmoored. Like he’s watching a memory in motion, but the memory is alive, and staring right back at him.

He shakes it off and forces another small smile.

***

Dinner is… fine.

The table sits within view of the open kitchen. Wasuke moves between stove and counter, pretending not to watch them while absolutely watching.

Yuuji chatters about his day. Yu listens, submerged, almost detached. Every word from that small, energetic voice carries echoes of himself, memories he can’t quite touch. Right now, the boy is describing a beetle he found in the yard.

“I wanted to catch it,” Yuuji mumbles sadly, “but it flew away.”

Yu lets out a small huff of amusement before he can stop himself. The boy perks up instantly. He is far too interested in him.

“Uncle, do you like catching beetles?”

Wasuke frowns from the stove. “He’s a grown man.”

“You can still like catching beetles if you’re an adult!” Yuuji insists. “I would!”

“That’s because you have no brain,” Wasuke replies flatly.

“Hmph!”

Yu swallows. “I liked catching beetles when I was young,” he admits carefully.

Yuuji’s eyes light up, like someone flipped a switch.

“You did?! You can help me catch some! There’s a rice field nearby! We can catch grasshoppers and—”

The words dissolve into a blur. The ringing in Yu’s ears grows louder. Rice fields. Summer heat. Cicadas screaming. Bare feet slapping soft dirt. Sunlight bleeding through tall grass. The fragmented sensations hit him all at once.

He nods automatically. The memory presses against him like a tide. His face must betray him.

“Stop harassing him and eat your food,” Wasuke cuts in sharply.

Yuuji pouts and takes an exaggerated bite out of spite. After swallowing, he looks back at Yu.

“But we can go, right? Uncle?”

“Sure,” Yu hears himself say. The word feels distant, automatic.

He stares at his plate. Nothing tastes like anything. Despite starving earlier, his appetite is now gone.

Wasuke notices immediately. “Finish your food.”

The tone is so familiar it almost makes Yu laugh.

“I’m… full,” he says weakly.

Wasuke frowns. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” Yu whispers.

Wasuke’s jaw tightens, ready to argue, but he glances at Yuuji and swallows it.

“Fine. I’ll put it away for later.” He says.

Yu nods quietly, guilt pooling heavy in his chest.

***

Later that night, Wasuke prepares Yuuji for bed.

The boy is freshly bathed. His hair is damp and sticking up. Wasuke helps him into his pajamas.

“Jiichan,” Yuuji says as Wasuke buttons the top. “How come I haven’t met Uncle before? He’s so nice.”

Wasuke pauses. The boy had clung to Yu like he’d known him his whole life. Yu, on the other hand, had looked like he might fall apart at any second. It had taken effort to pry Yuuji apart from him for bedtime.

“He only recently came back to town,” Wasuke says.

“I like him,” Yuuji declares.

“Good.”

Wasuke tucks him in, but Yuuji tries to sit up again.

“Wait! I want to say goodnight to Uncle!”

“I’ll tell him,” Wasuke says, gently pushing him back down. “He’s had a long day. Let him rest.”

He doesn’t want to be harsh. But he also doesn’t want to see that hollow look in Yu’s eyes again.

“Fine,” Yuuji grumbles.

“Don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting,” Yuuji says, very clearly pouting.

Wasuke huffs and squeezes his cheeks lightly until the boy whines.

“Listen,” Wasuke says more quietly. “Your uncle… he’s been lost for a while. Not missing. Just… not knowing where he belongs. I’m hoping staying here will help.”

Yuuji immediately brightens. “He’s staying?!”

“He better, if he knows what’s good for him,” Wasuke mutters.

Yuuji giggles. Wasuke pulls the blanket up to his chin.

“So sleep. You’ll see him in the morning.” He says.

Yuuji sinks deeper into his pillow. Sleep is already creeping into his voice. “I’m happy Uncle is staying.”

Wasuke hums in acknowledgment. He lingers by the bed. Wasuke brushes his hair back.

Ten small fingers curl into the blanket. Unscarred skin. Clear eyes.

Yuuji blinks up at him again. “How come you never talk about him?”

Wasuke stills.

“…Sorry,” Yuuji says quickly when the silence stretches.

“Don’t apologize,” Wasuke says. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Yuuji frowns. “But I made you sad...”

When does it change? When do those scars appear? Was he still a child when it happened? When does he lose his fingers?

Wasuke has tried not to think about it. But now he’s seen both versions. The untouched child. And the haunted man.

The grief crashes in harder than expected.

Why him? He’s so kind. He’s just a boy.

“Jiichan?” The small voice pulls him back.

“Yes?” His own voice sounds rough. He clears his throat.

Yuuji's hand reaches up, touching his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Wasuke says automatically.

The boy’s hand lingers. “Then why are you crying?”

Wasuke stills. He hadn’t even noticed.

He covers Yuuji’s small hand with his own and gently lowers it. “Go to sleep,” he says, softer than before.

The boy studies him for another long second, as if deciding whether to argue. “…Okay.”

Wasuke gets up from the bed and walks to the door, hand on the light switch. “Remember, Yuuji, morning comes faster the quicker you go to sleep,” he says.

The boy nods and closes his eyes. Within minutes, his breathing evens out. Wasuke stays by the door longer than necessary. He memorizes the sight of him.

When does the world get its hands on him?

He flicks off the light, steps out, and gently closes the door behind him.

***

Wasuke wipes at his eyes and leans his head back against the door, taking a deep, steadying breath. That makes one too many times he’s gotten teary-eyed today. He’s completely done with emotions.

But the night isn’t over yet. There’s still one last conversation that needs to be had. Wasuke sighs before heading back to the living room.

His eyes land on the empty couch, and for a split second he thinks he somehow missed Yuuji leaving – that he’ll have to spend the rest of the night walking all over town trying to find him. Then his gaze flicks to the kitchen, and he sees him. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Yuuji stands near the sink with a glass of water in his hand. He hasn’t taken a sip. He looks up immediately when Wasuke enters.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

“He asleep?” Yuuji asks quietly.

“Yes, and there’s no need to whisper. Once he’s out nothing will wake him,” he says.

Yuuji smiles softly. “Right.”

Silence stretches between them.

Wasuke walks past him and reaches into the cabinet for a bottle of whisky. He takes down two glasses and sets them gently on the counter. He doesn’t look at Yuuji as he speaks.

“You look worse than you did earlier.”

Yuuji gives a faint huff that might almost be a laugh. “Thanks.”

Wasuke’s jaw clenches before he says, “Every time he spoke, your eyes went empty.”

Yuuji looks away. “I guess I wasn’t thinking how… strange it would be. Seeing myself,” he says. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “He… feels like a stranger.” His expression tightens slightly. “Or maybe I’m the stranger.”

“He’s…” Yuuji swallows. “He’s so small.”

“Yes.”

Yuuji hesitates before adding, “…and he’s nice.”

Wasuke raises a brow. “And you’re not?”

Yuuji shrugs.

“He said he thinks you’re nice,” Wasuke says.

At that, Yuuji smiles faintly. “Really?”

“He would not shut up about you when I was trying to put him to bed. Prepare yourself for the morning – he won’t let you have a moment alone.”

Wasuke turns just in time to see Yuuji’s face go blank. Something in him reacts before he can think about it. He snatches the hand towel from its hook and smacks Yuuji across the shoulder.

Yuuji yelps. “—What was that for?!”

“Wipe that look off your face already,” Wasuke snaps. “I’m tired of seeing it.”

“What look?”

“That one.” He gestures vaguely at him. “Either fix it or don’t make it at all.”

Yuuji rubs his shoulder, half-offended, half-amused. “Okay, okay, jeez.”

Wasuke shakes his head, hangs the towel back up, and walks to the dining table with the whiskey bottle and glasses. “Come,” he says.

They sit across from each other. Wasuke sets a glass in front of Yuuji and keeps one for himself. He pours his own drink first, then moves to Yuuji’s.

“You drink?” Wasuke asks, his hand hovering over the empty glass.

“Alcohol doesn’t really do anything for me,” Yuuji says.

Wasuke pauses. “Because of…?”

Yuuji looks down at his hands and says nothing.

Wasuke exhales and sets the bottle down. He stares at the wall for a moment, eyes going distant before he blinks the look away. Then he lifts his glass and drains it in one swallow.

“Well. Drink anyway,” he mutters, leaning over to fill Yuuji’s glass.

Yuuji nods, fingers curling around it. “Sure. It’s kind of nice, actually… I didn’t get to have my first drink with you before.”

Wasuke hums softly. “Then cheers.”

Their glasses clink together.

“It’s surreal seeing yourself right in front of you,” Yuuji says after his first sip. “You remember yourself differently, I guess. I keep thinking the things he’s doing are so strange and normal at the same time.”

Wasuke watches him carefully.

“I just feel,” Yuuji continues, “very far removed from who I was.”

“Aren’t people supposed to change?” Wasuke asks.

Yuuji looks at him. “This much?”

He stares into his drink. “I feel like I’m a bad omen just being around him. He doesn’t know anything about where his life is going.”

“He’s not the one who has to know anything,” Wasuke says. The words come out harsher than intended.

Yuuji flinches.

Wasuke exhales through his nose.

Yuuji takes a small sip, as if to give himself something to do.

“He likes you,” Wasuke says after a moment.

Yuuji’s mouth twitches faintly. “He likes everyone.”

“No,” Wasuke corrects. “He attached himself to you.”

Yuuji shifts, uncomfortable. “He doesn’t know any better.”

“Or,” Wasuke says evenly, “he knows exactly what kind of person you are.”

Yuuji laughs under his breath, hollow. “Who better to know yourself than you, huh?”

Wasuke swirls his glass, then downs the rest. “He’s happy you’re here. And he’s rarely wrong about people.”

Yuuji sets his glass down carefully.

“I don’t know how to sit next to him,” he admits. “I don’t know how to look at him without feeling like I failed him.”

“You can start by not looking at him as if he’s already doomed,” Wasuke says.

Yuuji sighs and slowly looks around the room, eyes lingering on familiar corners. “This place felt bigger when I was a kid,” he murmurs.

“Are you hearing me?” Wasuke demands.

“Yes,” Yuuji says quietly, still holding his glass, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.

Yuuji huffs weakly. “It’s strange being here.”

“So you’ve said. Multiple times,” Wasuke replies, pouring himself another drink.

“And…” Yuuji hesitates. “I don’t know if I deserve to be.”

Wasuke stares at him. “Here, as in the past?”

“Well. Yes. I keep thinking there are better people who could’ve been thrown back in time – people who’d have a better idea what to do.” He swallows. “But I also meant… here.”

“Here?” Wasuke repeats, eyes narrowing.

Yuuji shrinks slightly. “Of all the places I could’ve ended up, it’s here. My hometown. Even when I realized where I was, I never thought the day would end with me back in this house.”

“And why not?” Wasuke asks carefully.

Yuuji looks at him, words caught in his throat.

“You are my grandson,” Wasuke says, voice low and firm. “You will never have to deserve walking into this house.”

Yuuji’s eyes glisten, but he blinks it back, letting the weight of the words settle between them. The quiet hum of the house feels both foreign and achingly familiar.

Of all the questions running through Wasuke’s head, he asks the simplest one.

“How old are you?”

Yuuji finishes his glass and says, “Guess.”

“Guess?” Wasuke echoes, flat and unimpressed.

Yuuji reaches for the bottle and fills his glass. “Come on, we can make it a drinking game. For every wrong guess, you take a shot.”

Wasuke’s expression goes even flatter. “These aren’t shot glasses.”

Yuuji shrugs. “A sip, then. Actually, make it three sips.”

Wasuke scoffs and lets his gaze linger on Yuuji. It’s the same thing he noticed the first time – he looks young. Very young. Wasuke would still consider him a boy. But his eyes… that’s the dead giveaway. Anyone who knows would see it. Yuuji carries a weight in them that you wouldn’t have in your early years.

“You look young,” he says at last.

“Mm.”

“But you’re not.”

“Mn.”

Wasuke sighs. “Are you older than me?” The answer will decide whether he stays sober for what comes next. He’s in his sixties. If Yuuji is older than that… He dreads the answer, and his throat tightens when he sees the sadness edging Yuuji’s expression.

“Yeah,” Yuuji says simply.

Wasuke slumps back in his chair and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Alright. I’m too sober for this.” He downs his glass in one go and pours another.

Yuuji snorts, and then a laugh slips out.

“What?” Wasuke asks, already suspicious.

There’s an unmistakable glint of humor in Yuuji’s eyes now. His lips curl, mischievous.

“I’m the elder in this house,” he says.

Wasuke immediately straightens. “If you think for even a second you don’t have to respect me, I’ll—!”

Yuuji snickers, placatingly waving him off. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’ll still be the respectable grandson. Or… son, I guess.” The glimmer of humor hasn’t left his eyes. “But—” he adds.

Yuuji leans forward and lowers his voice. “You have to acknowledge that I’m the oldest between us, sonny boy.”

Wasuke recoils, looking faintly ill. He stares at him like he’s grown a second head. For the first time since he stepped into the house, Yuuji laughs.

“You’ve well and truly lost your mind,” Wasuke says hoarsely. He shakes his head and knocks back his glass. “This might be the most horrid thing about this.”

Yuuji hums in amusement.

“This is nice,” Yuuji says after a moment.

“Don’t be foolish,” Wasuke grumbles.

“The circumstances could be better, but sharing a drink with you is nice,” he says. There’s a small smile on his face.

There’s a bleeding tenderness to this – raw, luminous, almost unbearable – and Wasuke doesn’t know how to navigate it. It gathers around him like deep water, heavy and lightless, each movement slowed. He has been wading through the night as if it were something viscous and tidal.

All he can think in response is: Sure. It’s nice. But there’s a darkness hanging over it – the truth – and Wasuke isn’t a man who can live in denial.

It isn’t nice.

Because this didn’t happen the first time. Wasuke dies before Yuuji turns twenty. His own death doesn’t faze him. It’s not surprising. He never thought he’d be around long anyway. But this paints a picture he doesn’t like. Did everything that shaped the boy he knows into the man sitting in front of him happen while Yuuji was still a teenager?

He feels sick.

The silence is calm despite the coldness growing inside him.

“Tell me,” he finds himself saying. He can’t take it anymore.

Yuuji wets his lips. “It’s not a good story. There’s nothing happy about it,” he says softly.

Wasuke slides his glass away and sits up straighter. He nods once. “I know. Tell me.”

Yuuji releases a deep exhale. His expression is a mix of things – open, wistful, somber. Honest. He turns fully to face his grandfather.

It was going to be a long, long night.

“There are these things called curses…”