Archive of Our Own

Fine dining. Amazing job.

Kesa-Kesa is a very tiny, absolutely absurd, not-so-hole in the wall restaurant with five regular stars, one Michelin silver, and a fantastic pastry station that Yuuji had stumbled into by accident. It was Sukuna’s fault, above everything, because somehow his uncle had gone from working the line at the burger shop to the back-of-house at one of the (honest-to-god) best rated restaurants in all of Shibuya, and at some point there had been a conversation with his name in it, and suddenly he’d had to explain to his sous chef that sorry, he knows the pastry isn’t up to proof and he should totally wait another seventy-two hours or something but also he really really needed to head back to Japan ASAP because he has an interview tomorrow, and the general manager had popped up in his email had requested that they sit down and have a chat, and has he mentioned that the guy has one Michelin Star?? One whole Michelin??

Tengen almost bought him the ticket themself. Yuuji had zoomed home as fast as he possibly could, touched down in Haneda, and had stopped at Sukuna’s flat to dump his shit off. Then he was changing into the nicest white shirt and black pants he had and catching the nearest express train down, because, like, what the what? He’s not gonna miss this for anything. To hell with the world!

Upon his first inspection, the restaurant exterior isn’t what he’d thought it would be. Certianly not like the Google Photos. Maybe he thought it would be spiffier, or something, or maybe Google Reviews was a liar. He’d forecasted something more stand-offish, but no. Dwarfed by the silver and gold high-rises around it, it’s small, a square, two-story house shoved between monuments. Regardless, very intimidating. Shit-your-pants sort of intimidating. Scary stuff, because he’s scared. His interview is at twelve and it takes him FIFTEEN minutes to whip up enough courage to cross the street and go inside.

There’s a platinum windchime above his head. Very non-traditional, very eccentric and modern, very expensive, yes, but that’s not the most important thing on his plate. It’s the layout of the restaurant, which Yuuji does his best to memorize as his eyes adjust to the low light, the warmth and the dark. The place is longer than it is wide, skinny and slender, yet not small at all. It’s homey, hanging lanterns along the left side above a row of wooden, scarlet and crimson booths– which he sees when he sticks his big-ass head around the corner. Along the middle there are two squiggly columns of four tables each, both of the square shaped, the center all diagonals, the right one perfect lines, a total of three sections probably micromanaged by extremely competent servers who knew how the hell to carry a tray. Behind this and furthest to the right is a bar that looks ripped straight from a high-class hotel, a swirling red and blue dragon mural covered up by scaling shelves of alcohol that would probably send him into debt with one sip, plush upholstered stools lining the counter and overshadowed by cross-hatched wooden lights. In the corner near the bar is a decently tall bonsai tree. This is not exactly relevant, but Yuuji finds it kinda cute. Only acceptable presentation of tree mutilation, he thinks.

The restaurant opens at four. It’s just before noon, but Geto-san had been kind enough to tell him the door would be unlocked at eleven forty-five. Risque move, yeah, but this place looks rich enough to make up for whatever the fuck in property damage Yuuji could hope to inflict in here. He could pop up one of his middle school boxing matches and knock over every chair and table and it probably wouldn’t even make a dent in the finances of these guys.

Yuuji is not broke. He won’t break anything. His bank account is coming dangerously close to red, though, so maybe he should stop entertaining thoughts of messing shit up and sit his ass down.

He does. The cushion of the chair taking up most of the lobby shifts underneath him, decompressing as he slouches and then unslouches, remembering who he is and where. He is not entirely out of his depth, here– four years studying in America had done a world of work for his skills, especially considering he was the only Japanese student in a class of thirty and his skills were so obviously judged harder by his professor. Not that he was a bad professor, or anything! Reggie was great. Said he had talent. Proceeded to ship him right off to Tengen, who had dropped him all over New England until he finally landed at the D’Caramel in New York, where he’d had his fair share of fun as a sous. He knew how to put together a pie! And a canape, and marzipan, and his choux is better than any other twenty-three year old’s. He is so competent. Shockingly. That’s why he is operating under the assumption that he is going to ace this interview (please) and begin working with Kento Nanami, the greatest pastry chef in all of Japan.

Yuuji knows exactly how to answer everything. He practiced so much on the flight home. He’ll start with a cut and dry introduction with a brief segway into his childhood that illustrates his passion, his dedication and determination at Cambridge and his graduation in the top ranks of their class, his various experiences and internships and his positions, and the slightest touch on his family, although he sort of wants to put a little distance between himself and Sukuna. Not that his uncle sucked, or anything! He was literally the reason he has this job. Yuuji just sort of maybe wants to be considered for his own capability and not as some weird astringent generational talent result, and he’ll be paid handsomely for being his own person, considering he straight up jumped shift and left one of the biggest fucking gigs in his entire life to come here without a second thought and approximately three thousand fucking dollars. It’s gonna be great! Really, truly great. It's gonna b-

Someone is yelling.

He can't exactly pinpoint what the voice is saying, but it sounds scathing. The tone makes him wince; the volume– and it’s loud, because whoever’s speaking is clearly not in the same room as him and somehow he can hear the walls rumble with it– makes him want to shrink. He feels his hands twitch.

Was this a bad time, actually? his brain wonders, and suddenly he’s nervous again. Would it really be smart to do this now?

He’s used to angry people. Sort of standard, when you work in any type of kitchen for more than thirty minutes. People can be nasty. Their demands can be nasty. You learn to deal with it, though, because the ovens and freezers require thick skin. Yuuji is not exactly sure how to deal with an angry question, though. It’s been a minute since he’d last done that.

There’s a bang, and Yuuji jumps. Then another, and he leaps to his feet. Did someone get shot? Were guns even legal in Japan now? He’d gotten one pulled on him once. It was in the American south, of course, because they’re all nuts despite the fact that they tip wonderfully. He’s pretty sure one of his tarts was missing half its lemon custard, but he’s pretty sure he wasn’t feeling the greatest that day, so. Bummer.

It’s not a gun, fortunately. It’s just the back door, the one near the crippled tree. From it, a dark shadow whirls out, hissing something venomous over its shoulder. Yuuji tries to relax when he realizes it’s only a person, but then whoever it is turns to him with fury sparkling in their dark eyes and Yuuji is suddenly very scared. And also possibly a little turned on.

What? No. Wrong. Nothing is sexy about this at all. This is his future. What is wrong with him?

Silence. Recognition. “Shit,” the man breathes , and suddenly the pieces click together in his mind and a memory flashes at the front of his frontal cortex and so does an instagram profile, and shit, yes, because this is Geto-san.

Yuuji has the gall to wave. He regrets it as soon as he does, but Geto-san must take this as some sort of invisible olive branch, because suddenly he’s smiling and striding forward in what may be the most stylish outfit Yuuji has ever seen (or maybe he’s just been amongst Americans and their pajama pants for too long, sue him) a white shirt and tailored best and black slacks and leather shoes, because he’s probably a billionaire, and maybe he actually he is in over his head.

“Itadori,” Geto-san says warmly, offering him a lifted hand in greeting as he steps into range, and then sticking it out for a shake when he’s close enough. “Hello, hi! Hey, so glad you could make it! Thanks for coming in!”

Okay. He knows how to function; watch this. “Geto-san,” Yuuji beams, accepting the offer and shaking his hand with as much casual firmness as he can, which is a decent amount. “Thank you for having me, sir. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“Of course.” Geto’s smile is tight, but his eyes are kind, and even though Yuuji has maybe an inch on the man, he feels like he’s the one that’s being gazed down on. “I hope you didn’t wait too long. I got caught up in a tepid little affair back there.”

Yuuji tries a laugh. “No, not at all!” he replies, shaking his head. “Even if it was, I wouldn’t mind sitting here for a little while longer. This is a wonderful entrance. Really– uh– really open.”

A wonderful entrance. Jesus, way to go with the butter, Yuuji. Fold it over a couple hundred times and chuck it in the oven for a croissant, won’t you? Fuck.

Geto-san does not seem to find his comment strange. He actually takes it as a compliment, brushing his bangs out of his face. “Thank you,” he says, instead of you are such a little freak, kid, go back to your half of the world IMMEDIATELY. “One of my girls designed it when we renovated a couple years ago. She painted the fan over the host’s stand by hand in an afternoon.”

He has kids. Two girls he sort of adopted. Both fashion designers. Yuuji knows this, because he is, in fact, a little freak and has done his fair share of stalking in advance. “That’s awesome, sir. Really.”

“Isn’t it?” Geto waves him forward. “Let’s have a seat, shall we?”

Yuuji finds himself being led to a table closer to the back, one of the four tables not too far from the bar, right in the center, the last in the row.. From here, the restaurant looks even larger, a large mural across the back he’s pretty sure is a Senju painting, beautiful and elegant and probably also worth more than the entire apartment.

Geto-san sits first, and gestures for him to follow. Yuuji practically throws himself into the chair– embarrassing, yes, and the other man chuckles, and wow, if he doesn’t get this the humiliation might just kill him before he makes it back to America.

“I can see you’re happy to be here,” Geto-san smiles, and wow, Yuuji should probably have invested in a decent father figure. “Most people aren’t, so I appreciate it more than you know.”

Is he talking about turnover, or something? Yuuji is particularily fond of apple. “Of course,” he replies. “I was thrilled when I saw your email, believe me. I came straight here without a second thought.”

“Really?” The lilt of Geto’s voice borders on surprise, and he leans forward. “Why’s that?”

Does this count as an interview question? Yuuji takes it as one. “It’s just incredible,” he laughs, sort of feeling a little breathless. “I’ve heard about this– your– place before, Geto-san. I was so impressed by what I saw. And your menu. And the fact that you got a michelin star so young. That’s amazing.”

Geto-san’s eyes twinkle. “We tried,” he says, and maybe it’s just Yuuji being sentimental, but there’s a sort of heaviness in those words that wasn’t in any of the ones before. “It was less of me than anything, if I’m perfectly honest with you. As a matter of fact, all the praise can go to my–”

A boom. Yuuji finds himself jumping, again. Loud noises, what the fuck? He has a quick heart, please–

“–friend,” Geto mutters, and Yuuji, for the second time in five minutes, has to physically recalibrate himself again. “Coincidentally enough, it’s not this one.”

“SUGURU!” someone crows, and the there’s a blur of motion and white, a starched blue shirt tucked into gray pants, and a black sash on top of that, and what the fuck that is Gojo FUCKING Satoru– the Six-Eyed Somnilier– in the SAME room as him, WHAT the fucking fuck is this–

“Suguru,” Gojo insists, flouncing closer with the dangerous kind of grace Yuuji has only seen in celebrities who stopped by for a piece of his work or in the kind of spun sugar clouds only Uro managed to perfect. “Suguru, what is this?’

Poor Geto-san. He looks like he wants to blow a gasket. “Satoru,” he grits out, and how familiar and weird. “You know–”

Gojo’s attention swivels to him like a lighthouse. Yuuji, suddenly, feels very scared. “You,” he mutters, sounding very pinched, and under the black silk covering his eyes– and how the fuck is he seeing like that? “You’re the newbie!”

What. “Uh,” Yuuji manages. “Yes? I’m sorry??”

“Suguru, you liar!” Gojo screeches, a hand flicking out to slap– yes, slap, it’s a slap, and if this is the most domestic unprofessionalism Yuuji has ever borne witness to, he doesn’t know what else. “What is this?! You said you didn’t have anything to do today!”

“I said you didn’t have anything to do today, Gojo,” Geto hisses, and suddenly two plus two makes four and butter and flour make roux, and Yuuji pinpoints the earlier commotion to this, right here, Gojo Satoru. “Do you know what that means? That entire sentence?”

“It means I’m doing whatever you’re doing, Suguru! Which is–” Gojo pauses. Yuuji is pretty sure he’s squinting. “Wait. What is this?”

Yuuji really, really feels like he should say something here. “Geto-san is interviewing me, sir,” he says meekly, and Geto’s face, appropriately, scrunches up in a way that resembles a clerk-assaulted sheet of produce. “For your pâtissier position…?”

Gojo stares at him, mouth slightly open. Geto, too, a vein pulsing on the side of his once placid face, and Yuuji, suddenly, realizes that maybe he is not about to be interviewed for the aforementioned pastry-chef position and actually may just be crammed head-first into an extruder.

A strange sound slips between Gojo’s brilliantly white teeth. It escapes into the air. It takes Yuuji a few seconds, but when it hits him he realizes he’s being laughed at, and a hole opens up into his stomach and his body folds into itself and he falls into it like icing squeezed from a pipe.

“Oh my god,” Gojo wheezes, the hand that had been smacking Suguru’s shoulder clutching into it so hard Yuuji is sure he hears silk begin to rip. “Oh my God, he really thinks he– Suguru, don’t–”

Suguru, with some violence, rips Gojo off of him. Then he grabs him by the biceps, shoves him down into the seat he had been sitting in, and grabs the nearest available chair, scrapes it over the wooden floor, and drops it right at Gojo’s side, which says more about him than it does about Gojo, Yuuji decides. Gone is the tranquil man from moments ago, replaced by a barely contained beast that he is not sure he wants to personally know, triggered to a rage beyond mortal understanding by the giggles of Gojo Satoru.

Yuuji wonders if they are related. That would explain this entire interaction in less words than it would take to call Todo his brother. Which is, naturally, very few: he's not my brother, no thank you.

“Yuuji,” Geto says stiffly, lines drawn taut, and he snaps to attention as quickly as he can. “I am sorry–”

“We don’t have the money to hire!” Gojo snorts, and there’s the icing bag again, except this time Yuuji has been plastered onto a sheet cake and his insides have been stretched from one corner of the pan to another, a neat little Itadori rectangle of 18’’ X 26’’. “We’re about to go broke, actually! Sorry!”

“Satoru,” Geto seethes, voice brimming with rage just teetering on the edge of overflowing, and Gojo hiccups to stop his next manic inhale. “That is not true–”

“It’s so true,” Gojo’s essence coalesces into something icy and dangerous, and it’s his turn to lean closer, but he’s nowhere near the warm reassurance Geto had been, and Yuuji thinks there might be snakes in his jar of pickles. “It doesn’t look like it, Yuuji-kun, does it? We have no money to spare for you. Not a penny or a yen or the smallest unit in any other currency in any of the illustrious places you may have worked in or been, because even though I’m sure you’re good, we’re not. We’re in the red. We’re done, so sorry to break it to you, kiddo, but you’d better think about going home.”

Impossible, Yuuji thinks, even as the earthy and warm word swirls around him while he stays still, as Geto-san’s fingers dig into the silken tablecloth and his jaw works so hard his molars splinter into even tinier teeth. This is impossible. This is impossible. Actually, genuinely impossible. Not his life!

By any and all means, Yuuji is not an idiot. He knows how to plan. He didn’t just throw his life away– Tengen had said, on the off chance that things fell through, that they would be more than happy to come back. If he begged Reggie, he’s pretty sure that he could scrape together enough relevance to do this all over again. Sukuna would probably be less than thrilled at having to live with him again, but they’re family, so he’ll shoulder his burden and move on with his fragile pride. But this is–

“Then don’t,” he forces out, and Geto’s eyes snap open just as Gojo’s jaw drops, because there was no way in fresh hell he was expecting that answer. “I don’t care about the money. I’ll work for you without any compensation–”

“Absolutely not,” Geto snaps, quickly spinning from shock to anger, and Gojo, beside him, winces in a way that probably means he’s getting a hand twisted into his skin. “Itadori, even if we couldn’t hire you– which we can, and we will– you deserve every cent you earn. I’m not degenerate enough to stoop to extortion–”

“You wouldn’t even be able to be a pâtissier,” Gojo groans, waving a veiny, double-ringed hand. “He wouldn’t, Suguru! Not only do we have an excellent a pastry chef, Yuuji–”

“Who you fucked,” Geto growls, and Yuuji tries not to choke–

“But also, in the event that we did manage to scrounge together enough to keep you on payroll, you would get a waiter’s wages. That’s–” a pause, fingers lifted. “Three-fifty. Five hundred yen an hour, which, of course, is nowhere near what a properly pastry chef trained in America deserves, so–”

“Then I’ll do it.” Firmly, Yuuji nods, and the sick sense of satisfaction that wells up in him at the way Gojo double takes barely manages to swallow up the plain old sick that swirls in his gut. “I’ll be a server. You can pay me a hundred yen for that, I don’t care. I’m likely overqualified for it, anyway.”

“Itadori,” Geto says calmly. “It’s alright, truly–”

“I want to be here,” Yuuji insists. “I worked hard to be here, sir.” Too rough? Tone it down, Yuuji. Chill the hell out. “Respectfully, of course. I really did.”

“You’re from New York,” Gojo laughs, sounding somewhat incredulous. “You went to Cambridge, kid. You’re just as famous as I used to be.”

Geto scowls. “You were never famous.”

“I’m the Six-Eyed Sommelier, Suguru.” Gojo sniffs, pointed nose turned up, and it feels mean in a way Yuuji is not sure he’s supposed to see. “I’m more well known than you’ll ever be–”

“And where’s your Michelin, Gojo?”

“On the shelf in our office, Suguru, because it’s also mine because I worked for it, too–”

“It’s hers, you idiot–”

These guys are pushing forty and arguing like middle schoolers. Jesus. “That, too,” Yuuji interrupts, and he’s sure he’ll get points deducted for it, but, hey, take a look at his bosses. “I’ve been striving towards that achievement for my entire life, Geto-san, Gojo-san. I would do anything to be part of a team that would let me pursue that dream, even if I get nothing in return.”

Geto seems equal parts impressed and concerned with his persistence. “Itadori…”

“Even as a server?” Gojo drawls, fingers tapping a rhythmic beat on the table, pinky jittering. “Even as less than that? You know what people are like, don’t you? Horrible, horrible!”

“Stop trying to scare him, Gojo; he’s already committed to it.” Geto-san rubs a rough thumb between his brows. “Itadori. I will pay you, just so we’re clear–”

“You don’t have to–”

“I will,” he pushes. “Because it’s not fair to ask you to uproot your life on a whim, least of all to fulfill a role you were never intended to. When Nanami-san’s contract with us is up–”

Gojo snorts. Geto glares. “I’ll likely have you take his position if that’s alright,” he scowls. “He’d probably be happy knowing that his station is in the hands of someone as competent as you.”

Once again, Yuuji nods, but this time he makes sure it’s infused with gratitude. “Thank you,” he says softly, and maybe he should have been more enthusiastic about it, because Geto’s face only seems to fall further, like he’s dooming him to a life of shoulder trays and aerating Stella Rose. “I would love to, truly.”

Geto looks as if Yuuji has personally just cleaved his heart in two. “Of course, Itadori. When would you like to star–”

“Today.”

Gojo chokes on another laugh. Geto seems to seep into his chair even further, and Yuuji rolls back on that. “Or, uh– whenever you would like me to, I don’t mind–”

“No, tonight would be wonderful.” Geto gives him another fragile smile. “One of our other servers recently moved to a more upscale location–”

“Maki-chan quit!” Gojo chirps.

“I,” says Geto, perfectly calmly, pushing himself to his feet, “will go get your paperwork. Excuse me.”

He’s up and gone before Yuuji has a chance to protest or ask himself what he’s gotten to, disappearing behind the swinging steel door with a gust of wind and flash of black. Yuuji instantly wishes he would come back, but only for the sake of himself, because now he is alone at a table with Gojo Satoru, who will clearly appear in his dreams as his worst nightmare in less than twelve hours, assuming they close on time. Assuming.

“You’re so cute,” Gojo sighs, head propped up in his hand across the table, and what the fuck? What? “If you want to run, Yuuji-kun, I won’t tell.”

First of all. “I’m twenty-three,” Yuuji says politely, hoping that’s enough, but Gojo just laughs at him a little condescendingly, which is a little mean. “And I don’t walk out on anyone ever, sorry.”

“Resilient,” Gojo coos, a finger tapping at his cheek. “My kid would like you. You’d piss him off. Nobara-chan, too.”

Yuuji has no idea who those people are, because all he knows about Gojo Satoru is that he’s one of the best bartenders in the whole world, which is incredible considering the fact that he’s never actually drank a drop of liquor. “I– I would hope that wouldn’t be the case–”

“Oh, you will!” Gojo brushes him off. “Assuming you stay, of course, the three of you’ll be an adorable little trio. I used to have one of those, back in my day.”

“A trio?”

“A Megumi.” Gojo sniffles. “And a Nobara, too. Why don’t you enjoy your youth?”

Holy pivot. Yuuji scrambles for an answer. “I’m twenty-three,” he says again. “That’s not very young, Gojo-san.”

Gojo bristles. “Don’t insult me like that, Yuuji-kun! I’m thirty-eight, y’know!!”

Levels. Yuuji tries not to shrug. “I didn’t know that,” he admits, and yeah, horribly bad interview etiquette to not research every little thing about the person who would be interviewing you, but like he said, he had no frigging clue that Gojo Satoru would be interviewing him today. “You’re sort of a legend, sir.”

Instantly, Gojo brightens. “Ooh? Really?”

“Yes. A myth.”

Underneath his blindfold, Gojo squints. “I feel like you might be pulling my leg,” he mutters. “What have you heard about me?”

Where’s his arsenal of culinary master knowledge when he needs it. “Uh,” Yuuji supplies, somewhat unhelpfully. “Well. You were born in Japan–”

“Cork found in barrel.”

“And you went to college in Tokyo and studied alcohol overseas in Europe for several years,” he continues. “And you are very good at it. Extremely good.”

Gojo seems to jitter at his deduction, strangely enough. “Uhhuh. Anything else?”

No! “And now you work here,” Yuuji tries, and it’s very lame and he’s never going to go into an interview without researching every possible outcome ever again. “After disappearing from the map. And everyone’s been looking for your artistry, because your tastes revolutionized the culinary world.”

“I did not disappear,” Gojo scoffs. “I just got married. Love takes a lot out of any man!”

Yuuji can't imagine a union with someone he simply tolerates. That’s why he doesn’t date. “I don’t think so, sir,” he replies, and yes, also horribly poor interview etiquette to disagree with your future boss who you are pretty sure sees you as a child but also may or may not already have some secret animosity towards you, but he doesn’t care. “Because, like– why would you keep putting effort into something you know is naturally favorless if you didn’t think it could be fixed? Surely you must have seen something worth saving? Or tasted?”

Ggojo wrinkles his nose at him. “Philosophy,” he mutters. “Why would you say that, Yuuji-kun? I hate that. Ew.”

“It’s– um.” Yuuji scratches at the inside of his thumb. “I don’t know, sir? I just think it’s just true?”

“Perhaps.” Gojo lolls his head. “You won’t like it here.”

“I already love it.”

“Angry customers aren’t the only thing you’ll have to deal with. The chefs are insane, too.”

“I’m very adaptable.”

“The food sucks, sometimes.”

“I ate dirt as a kid, sir.”

Gojo gags. “Ew,” he grumbles, glaring from under his blindfold. “You gotta stop talking so much, Yuuji-kun. I’ll puke.”

Yuuji zips his lips and throws away the key. Gojo stares at him for a second too long, then he sighs.

“I ate dirt as a kid, too,” he admits, sighing with defeat, and Yuuji has to gulp down his laugh. “I can taste it every time we get a shipment of wine from Tuscany. I can see it, too. Color’s different. It's pretty awsome, actually.”

Yuuji thought the Six-Eyed Sommelier didn’t drink. Yuuji also can’t respond to this, or ask what the discrepancy is for, so he smiles extra hard instead, and shrugs again just to say that’s too bad, old man.

“I’m really serious,” Gojo murmurs, just as there’s a bang from somewhere behind the door. “Contrary to what Suguru believes, I actually did do my reading up on you. I’ve seen your work. You’ve got good things going for you, kid. You don’t have to waste your life chasing someone else’s pipe dream.”

It’s Yuuji’s pipe dream, though. That’s what Gojo Satoru doesn’t know. He cups his hands into a heart, and offers it over. Gojo stares at him like he’s stupid, which is pretty close.

“Well,” he concedes, after a moment of Yuuji holding his stupid hands up, and just to fuck with him, he sticks his fingers into the space between his palms, pinches at something invisible, and brings it close to his face. “I guess all I can ask is that you don’t end up like me” A grin, split teeth as Gojo pops the unseeable heart between his heart and mimes chewing, swallowing. “Don’t love a dish like Suguru, ‘kay? You’ll hate this life for the rest of yours if that’s what you choose to do.”

Wait. Yuuji goes cold, but then Geto-san is coming back, dropping the papers on the table, and offering him kindness and a pen.

“Take your time reading them,” he smiles, and Yuuji flips to the last page, squints at the text, and signs his name on the line. “Or don’t,” he says weakly, voice strangely faint. “Uh, okay. Itadori, I think you really should read that–”

“I’m good!” he beams, released from his binding vow of Silence by Gojo now that his better half is back. “Just don’t torture me, and everything should be fine!”

Geto blanches. “Torture?!” he asks, and then whirls on his counterpart. “Satoru–”

“I didn’t say any of that,” Gojo snickers. “If only you could be so quick with our papers, Suguru–”

“You haven’t even looked at them, Gojo!”

“I did–”

“You didn’t! They’re still in your drawer!”

“Oh?! See, I knew you were snooping–”

“You kept my toothbrush in there–”

“You put my washcloths in with your bathmats!”

“You spilled the laundry soap!”

“After YOU put it on the edge of the washer!”

“Because I had to go back and get your laundry–”

“Papers?” asks Yuuji. “Washer??”

“We’re married!” Gojo beams.

“We’re getting a divorce,” Geto growls, and suddenly this all makes a whole lot of scary sense. “And by the way, I put a one hundred thousand signing bonus on the end of that, just in case.” A smile, but not really. “Welcome to the family, Itadori. My husband and I will do our very best to make sure that you love it here.”

Gojo giggles. “You said husband,” he croons, voice sappily soft, and Yuuji blinks down at the stack of papers on the table in front of him and briefly– very briefly– contemplates contemplating regret.

｡𖦹°‧

“So,” the woman hums contemplatively, her orange hair a velvet drip in her face. “You’re Itadori Yuuji, huh?”

It’s two p.m. Yuuji is being sized up in the kitchen– which is very professional looking and very nice– not exactly very pleasantly. The lady pinches her chin, squinting, and then whirls around to possibly the cutest man Yuuji has ever seen in his presence in his entire life, mouth already opened to scathe. “Say, Megumi, you think–”

“I don’t have an opinion on him.”

Yuuji deflates. “Sorry,” he mutters, feeling very hapless, and the girl scoffs and rolls her eyes, the rose tattoos curling along the side of her face as she scowls. They’re dressed just like he is, if but a little more polished. Black pants– skirt for the woman– pointed shoes, white collars, colored ties. Both of their uniforms, while different, have a golden button pinned above the left sides of their chest, swirling with shadowy threads. The two of them are very attractive– the man (Megumi?) taller than him and scarily sharp, the woman a burning amber blaze– which is obviously a disaster for his heart. In the burning ice of the kitchen with all its silver pots and black edges, they’re a navy and blue blob Yuuji thinks works well together.

The woman sniffs, awfully resembling Gojo-san for a second there. “Kugisaki Nobara,” she introduces, and yeah, that makes a whole lot of sense. “I’m your head waiter. Also the hostess while we figure things out.”

Oh boy. He’s gonna be reporting to her? This is gonna be bad. “Yes ma’am,” he says quickly, slathering on thick so he’s not miserable for the rest of his life, and is rewarded with the slightest flush. “I’ll do whatever you say–”

“Oh, quit it,” she grumbles, one hand pressed to her pale face as the other shoos him away, and behind her, Megumi does some rolling of his eyes,, visibly disgusted. “See, Megumi! I knew he was adorable–”

“Oh my god,” Megumi sighs, and Yuuji has to swallow down a laugh. “Call me Fushiguro, Itadori. Thank you for coming in tonight.”

“Of course!” Yuuji offers them both a thumbs up. “I wanted to get started as soon as possible. It’s been a while since I’ve served anything, so.”

Nobara’s bright red lips purse up. “A while?” she echoes. “I thought you had a whole bunch of experience?”

“He’s a pastry chef, Nobara,” Megumi cuts in, and they’re clearly very close, because she doesn’t immediately attack him for the use of her first name, just squints even harder. “From the Cambridge in Boston. Didn’t you read Geto’s email?”

“What the hell.” Nobara gapes. “You’re American?”

“You didn’t.” Megumi, like Geto-san had earlier, digs a finger into the space between his eyebrows. “Read your email. Okay. Yuuji. I’m going to assume that you know the bare minimum of this job? Running, bussing, standards of customer service?”

Was that his name? From Fushiguro Megumi’s beautiful, sexy-looking mouth? “Uh,” Yuuji attempts, feeling like a racehorse with a misaligned heart. “Mayb– Yes? I worked at Applebee's during school? For three years?”

“Great.” Megumi moves to the door, gesturing, a current streaming him ahead like a fish. “Hate that place, but it’ll do. You’ve seen the layout already, haven’t you? It’s not very complicated–”

“Megumi!” Nobara exclaims, and Megumi waves him ahead even faster. “Why’s this guy here with us?! He should be in the kitchen with everyone else!”

“You know why, Kugisaki,” Megumi replies, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder. “If you forgot, I would encourage you to pull out your phone and check your email.”

Megumi shows him around. The different types of tables he’d seen earlier– the booths, the diagonals, the plain squares, the two-tops near the front– are in three sections, numbered one to twelve moving from the front to the back, then back to front, then front to back, and then jumping to the front, and then the large table is the odd man out. They choose their own sections, so Nobara usually picks the straight square column and the twos, just because they’re easier to get to, and Megumi does the booths, because he likes working in small spaces. Currently, split the middle, two tables each for the both of them.

“Maki-san used to take Kugisaki’s column,” Megumi explains, jerking his head to his left, and Yuuji remembers the name from his interview and is grateful he files it away. “She was the previous host, but she left, so she and I just do what we can. I try to give her priority, because she cares more about it than I do.”

So. Good-looking, considerate, and soft-spoken? Yeah, he’s gonna be in love with this guy by the end of the month. “That’s nice,” he says softly, and maybe he is a little closer to this guy than he should be, edging on his personal space, but he’s so nice. Also, he smells amazing, like a very clean shower with soap suds along the walls. Or maybe the hot side of the iron. “If you don’t mind me asking, why’d she leave?”

“Family stuff,” Megumi says curtly, which is more than Yuuji was expecting, because that’s the sort of question that gets you weird stares and a properly placed piss off, dude. “You’ll hear all about it eventually. This place is one big clusterfuck.”

Nobara has been sitting at the bar for the past ten minutes, scrolling through Instagram in a way that makes Yuuji wonder how she’d ever become the hostess. “Family wreath,” she snorts. “Highly incestuous, too. Speaking of that, actually– Yuuji– Megumi, don’t you think he looks an awful lot like, uh–”

Oh no. Dangerous territory. “I’m an only child!” Yuuji blurts out, and Megumi’s brows fly off his face. “Also, my parents are dead!”

Nobara makes a face. It is somewhat resemblant of an inflamed pufferfish. “My bad.”

“You don’t look like anybody at all,” Megumi says, words clipped. “Now, uh–”

In the corner, just out of view from the entryway and behind a booth, is an extra long table. “Parties of eight to twelve,” Megumi tells him. “Obviously, we can combine the other tables to get six-tops and tens, but that’s not really preferred. We also never get that many people.”

“Oh.” Yuuji frowns. “Aren’t you–”

“One of the best restaurants in all of Tokyo, yes, yes.” Megumi exudes the same annoyed flippiance Gojo had given him, if but a little nicer. “Fifteen years ago. Those old men hang onto their dream of a single Michelin like a full party refusing to decide how they want their checks. Don’t let them rope you into believing them, too.”

Oh, okay. That’s actually really bad news, actually. “Then–”

“Why do I work here?” Megumi shrugs. “Who knows. I don’t really have a choice.”

“He has attachment issues!” Nobara hollers. “And he’s broker than me!”

“I have money,” snaps Megumi. “I’m not the one who spends it all on tattoos and flowers–”

“You buy me the flowers, Megumi, don’t be a liar–”

Dating? Maybe? Yuuji sort of deflates. “Uh,” he croaks, feeling at a loss, “are you guys. Y’know.”

Megumi looks at him with so much disgust Yuuji wonders where he’d kept his contract. “I would rather order every piece of meat I had to eat for the rest of my life past the point of congratulations,” Megumi bites. “No.”

“Great!” Yuuji exclaims, only to be met with a gape from Nobara and Megumi’s twitching, bushy eyebrows. “I mean. Not great. Horrible. Sorry. Really sorry. Uh, I’ll– lemme just–”

“Where are you going?” Megumi calls, watching him scurry away in the general direction of the kitchen. “I haven’t shown you all the stuff in the lobby.”

Yuuji bumps into the corner of a table. “Bathroom!” he squeaks.

“You’ll need to run faster than that, Yuuji,” Nobara snorts, hiding a snicker behind her hand. “It’s a disease!”

｡𖦹°‧

Everyone starts coming in around thirty minutes before three. Uraume is the first, which scares the dish soap out of him. They don’t say anything, though, just have their eyes twinkle with ice in a way that means he’s totally going to be chargrilled when he goes home tonight, and offers to tour him around the kitchen. Yuuji has already gone over it once, but it’s probably helpful to revisit the doesn’t get his head chopped off by Sukuna when the man conveniently forgets to yell behind.

That only happened once. Yuuji never forgot.

It’s pretty simple, honestly. There’s a hot line along one wall, with a flat-top grill, the usual twelve burners, two deep fryers, a salamander, blah, blah, blah. Cold station with salads and mise tupperware in every one of the three lowboy right next to that, which Yuuji has never seen, because what the fuck, Uraume? You definitely designed that shit yourself on purpose, didn’t you.

“I’ll get you fired,” Urume says placidly, which is only half a threat Yuuji only considers shuddering at, considering they had been saying similar things ever since Yuuji was, like, ten. I’ll tell on you, Yuuji. I’ll get you for that, Yuuji. Sukuna-san isn’t gonna be very happy you ate one of his cigars even though it was my idea, Yuuji, so eat two more and I won’t let him know BEFORE you die. “I only work near Sukuna-sama because he’s the only competent one in the kitchen. You know this.”

“Shut up,” Yuuji hisses, even though Nobara and Megumi are talking to Geto-san outside and totally not listening, because even the slighted whiff of his relation to Sukuna would doom him for all eternity, probably. “Don’t tell anyone about that.”

Uraume, not very childishly, sticks a tongue at him. Yuuji wonders how much trouble he would be in if he chopped it off and then diced it into tartare.

Probably a lot. Damn shame.

Expo is at the end of the counter in the middle, a shelf hanging down from the ceiling stacked high with fine plates of every kind. Yuuji plucks one off and inspects it before Uraume can think to smack him, and they both know they have enough common sense not to poke at him while he’s holding something valuable, so they wait until Yuuji is done peering at it under his invisible microscope, and then the hit lands.

“You’ve gotta stop abusing me,” Yuuji sighs, rubbing his wrist. “It’s getting old. You’re getting old. How many plates on a tray?”

“Four, usually. Five or six if you must. They’re pretty big.”

“Trays or dishes?”

“Both. Spacing makes it look better, however, so try to remember that.”

“I’m the one plating?”

“No, Geto-san usually does that.”

Yuui blinks, startled. “I thought he was our GM,” he mutters. “What’s he doing as an expo?”

“Geto does everything.” Uraume rolls their eyes. “He’s the head. Not second to the wonderful Sukuna-sama, of course–”

“That’s your parent,” Yuuji reminds them.

“I’ll slap you. Geto plays every role when someone can’t, but Shoko comes in, too, whenever she can. She’s far more competent than he is, so appreciate her time.”

Yuuji has heard this name before. “Sure. Shoko?”

“She’ll be here today.” Uraume takes him to the walk-in, points to the jars and the cans and the vegetables of every color and meats and fishes of every cut, from high to low. “Don’t mess up my ordering. Everyone knows where everything is, so if you screw it up you better fix it before I catch you.”

“I’m a server, Uraume! I won't even be back here!”

“You will!” They jab an icy finger at him. “It is literally inevitable. You will get trained on other things and cover when someone falls out. That’s just how it goes.”

“Pâtissier,” Yuuji deadpans.

“You’ll be lucky if you see a shred of dough in the next six months, boy,” Uraume sneers, marching past him to the door. “Also, the failsafe’s broken. If you lock yourself in here during a rush, I’ll kill you.”

Sous chef. More like the most annoying older cousin he’s ever had in his entire life. “Whatever, man. Give me the rest of the tour.”

Uraume does. There’s not much else, though, besides his beloved dessert station tucked away in a corner, and the dish pit over there, and the astringent extra prep table. There’s the locker-slash-break area, which Uraume spends ten minutes in pointing out everyone’s differently decorated lockers– and his is the worst, because it’s right next to Megumi’s but also in the corner, which basically means they will be bumping hip dips the whole time, and then next to that is the office, which has a big DO NOT ENTER sign slapped on the door and polaroid strips long faded by the fluorescent lighting, but Yuuji is pretty sure he catches Megumi in two of them and Nobara in at least one, but none of Gojo and Geto-san together, which checks out. Y’know. Because they’re divorcing.

Nanami-san comes in surprisingly late. He is blonde and his apron is leopard spotted, which is funny considering the fact that everyone else is pretty uniformly dressed. Minus, of course, Uraume’s horrible looking toga thing that is probably not very food safe.

Anyway. Nanami-san is very nice. His voice is very deep. He shows him the intricacies of his station before he starts working on prep. Yuuji, briefly, is reminded of his father. Also, he wonders if he gives good hugs. Also– he hopes it is clear by now– but he has some weird older figure emotional intimacy issue, probably related to his years of kitchen beratings at the hands of older figures with regular emotional issues. Hopefully this will have no negative impacts on his future.

“Geto-san informed me that you were from Cambridge, Itadori-san.” Nanami says, recalibrating his scales yet again. “I hope you don’t feel as if your hard work is being wasted on something as simple as running.”

“Oh, no!” Yuuji blurts out quickly. “No, not at all. I’m more than happy to do what I can to help everyone out, really.”

Nanami glances at him in a way that makes him sure that he just said something utterly defunct and he should probably walk out within the next fifty seconds. “You are so optimistic,” he mutters. “I think you should quit.”

WHAT?! “WHAT?!” he exclaims, his voice rising a wee louder than he meant it to, and there goes any future positions he could have held. “Why would I– Nanami-san! I would never!”

“Geto wouldn’t have hired you if he wasn’t aware of my imminent departure,” Nanami drawls, his blond hair releasing one perfect strand into his face. “Which means that one day you will eventually make my place, after which you will grow tired of the pains of this job, suffer through it for a few more years out of respect to your seniors, and eventually turn in the handtowel like you should have done decades ago instead of remaining in this hellhole out of obligation to a dear friend.”

There is a ring on Nanami-san’s finger. It is thin, separated into seven distinct sections. Three of them are dark zirconium, four of them gold. As Yuuji watches, he takes it off and slips it into his pocket.

“To taste,” he murmurs, tapping tare just as the door swings open once more, and another figure steps in. “And to savor. Both are truly wonderful experiences, Itadori-kun. I hope you never find a reason to stop doing it.”

Okay. This is fine. Yuuji is nothing if not endlessly optimistic. Nanami and Gojo-san are just old! Of course they’re a little disillusioned. Yuuji had been very disillusioned at one point. One could even call him– gasp– depressed. Not now, however! Nothing’s gonna get him down! Maybe in thirty years, sure. Not today!

“Yuuji,” someone asks, a rumble that borders on a tremor the way an earthquake shifts on a tsunami, and all of Yuuji’s will goes out the back of his head. “What. When did you get here?”

Well. Maybe he’ll be happier tomorrow. Yuuji, trying hard not to gulp too loud, turns very slowly, and then quicker when Sukuna hacks up a cough, because that means he’s about to get yelled at, only somewhat nicely.

His uncle hasn’t changed much. He’s still two and a quarter meters tall. His hair is still red. His shoulders are still wide. He’s a little paler, but that’s probably because he spends a lot more time inside now. He’s gotten more piercings, and more tattoos, too, his thick wrists wrapped with two sets of black bands. The dark lines crawling up his neck haven’t gotten any lighter. His face is still mean, but his eyes are anything but. Actually, he looks really, really freaking unhappy to see him, which isn’t normal, but usually that goes away after a few seconds, and Yuuji is shoved into a car and Sukuna buys him all the illegal substances he probably shouldn’t be having and could absolutely get himself, just for old time’s sake.

“Hey, man,” Yuuji forces out, thrown totally off balance even though he should have known this was going to happen, and wow, he sounds sorta pathetic. “Long time no see, Suk–”

“I told that bastard not to hire you for another MONTH!” Sukuna bellows, and maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but Nanami’s brows jerk. “You had your own things to run, boy! You had your own shit–”

“I know!” Yuuji sticks his hands up in the air. “I know, man, alright?! I–”

“Then WHY–”

“I’m not gonna say NO–”

Sukuna storms over to him before he can get another word out, and Nanami-san– who Yuuji decides is a pretty big coward despite his stature– dodges out of the way. Then there’s fingers clamped around his head and a hand on his shoulder, and in what may be the most humiliating moment of his entire life, Yuuji is being wheeled, bodily, out of the kitchen, one hour and thirty minutes before they open.

Yuuji tries to fight, despite having a track record of unsuccess. “SUKUNA!”

“Save it, brat,” Sukuna snaps, and shoves him into the dining area, still holding onto him, and Geto-san, Gojo-san, Nobara and Megumi– all who had been respectably convening about how to tackle tonight– all look up. “Go home!”

“Um,” Nobara says, not helpfully. “Hello?”

“Itadori-san,” Geto nods, perfectly calm despite the circumstances, and it takes Yuuji a second to realize that he’s referring to his uncle and not him, and if Gojo’s eyebrows jumping up from under his blindfold means anything of significance, he’s about to be so dead. “Good afternoon, once again. Please get your hands off of my waiter.”

In clear refusal, Sukuna’s grip tightens, and where it once would have been comforting, Yuuji just thinks he might choke. “Why?” he asks again, and this time it’s heavier. “I don’t want him in my kitchen, Geto. You KNOW that.”

Geto's smile is very, very thin. “Itadori-kun isn’t in your kitchen,” he insists, and yeah, Yuuji’s heart sort of twists when he drops the respect, because this is all he’ll ever be now that his uncle is here and in charge. “Like I said. He’s a server.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“He works for me, not for you.”

“You KNOW he’s m–”

“If I may interrupt,” Gojo purrs, and Yuuji does not say I really wish you wouldn’t. “I know you don’t have a watch. Or a phone. So. Totally don't know if you noticed the time, Ryomen–”

“That’s his real name?!” Nobara hisses.

“Shut up, Nobara,” Megumi bites.

“It’s probably going to take you thirty minutes to start working on firing the meats for tonight,” Gojo-san continues, sauntering dangerously close. “If not most of an hour. And we’re mostly booked tonight, including that ten-top over there. Three different parties.” A sniff. “And they all have different allergies to the extreme. Every. Single. One.”

Nobara looks over her shoulder. Slowly, Megumi begins inching away, probably to go find some more chairs.

Sukuna’s gaze flattens. “You’re assuming I can’t cook that fast, Gojo Satoru?” he snorts. “What a shame.”

“I never said that! I am, however, encouraging you to get started.”

“Please don’t antagonize my boss,” Yuuji mutters under his breath.

Sukuna pokes him in the shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Please go work,” Gojo scoffs. “Stop accosting innocent children, Christ. That wasn’t in your job description. We don’t pay you for that–”

“He’s not a child, you dithering idiot!” Sukuna sneers, but it's as close to backing off as he’ll ever get, so Yuuji will take it. “He’s a moron, and he’s my nephew.”

Six feet away, Megumi freezes, green eyes bugging out of his skull. Geto is as tranquil as the eye of a hurricane. Yuuji, feeling his metaphysical metaphorical new-born butterfly wings flap feebly in the wind, gives up trying.

“Oh,” Gojo murmurs, and then turns to his husband, a bright grin stretching his glossy lips. “Oh, honey, you didn’t tell me–”

Geto, in the moment before begins yelling, just smiles like he’s the happiest man in the world, and Yuuji, for the first time in a long time, including today, actually, genuinely, and not at all very seriously, wonders what sort of shitshow he’s gotten himself into.

｡𖦹°‧

Here’s the arrangement:

Yuuji is section two. Nobara and Megumi, having been kind enough to spare him pity for his earlier embarrassment, let him take the whole row, which gives Nobara enough time to play hostess and Megumi a few extra yen if he wants it. It’s a Friday, so they’re pretty much going to be at capacity the whole night, which means the bar will be busy, and so will Gojo-san.

He meets with Ieiri Shoko when she clocks in. Thankfully, he’s no longer as red as he was before, so he can look her in the eye and understand the lineup without the crushing feeling of embarrassment in his chest.

Shoko-san is very nice. She demands he call her by her first name, which Yuuji only tries to rationalize with for a second before he gives up. She works Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays. She reminds Yuuji of Nobara, save for the fact that she smells of ash and tar and Nobara’s hair is very distinctly bright orange. She’s also one of the most liked people in the entire restaurant.

“I can’t have problems with anyone,” she chuckles, voice heavy with smoke as she scrawls out plates and plans. “It’s pointless to be a bad hinge, right?”

Yuuji gets it. There had been a month where his expo had absolutely sucked– he was fucking the line, apparently; all of them, and no one wanted to trust him with anything. Granted, they were all adults and should have stepped up and not brought personal quarrels into the workplace, but come on. This is fine dining. It’s almost guaranteed that there will be drama.

“Give your tickets to me,” she instructs. “Not Kento. Not Uraume. Not your old man. If you give them to Inumaki I’ll put you in the dishwasher, too.”

There’s a lot of violence in this kitchen, Yuuji realizes. A lot of death threats. He does not like it yet.

The menu isn’t bad. There are basically ten entrees and ten sides, as well as five main desserts that could be modified to your heart’s content, and Shoko tells him that as long as he’s got the main stuff down and his handwriting is decent, she can puzzle whatever it is out. She’ll plate, tray, and drop whatever he needs to pick up on the tables near the door, and he looks competent enough to get them out before the food gets cold.

“Even if it does, I don’t care,” she laughs. “As long as Geto doesn’t hear about it and nothing gets back to me, it’s fine. If it does, we’ll just refire and it won’t be anyone’s problem but your tip’s.”

Geto-san seems to be the biggest threat to his sanity, it turns out. He’s actually very scary. Sukuna hasn’t said a word to him, which is even scarier. They’re probably going to get home and his uncle is gonna start straight ripping off the leaves of his weed and eating them. Raw.

“I do drinks?” Yuuji asks, and Shoko-san taps the end of her pen to her chin. “Me?”

“Depends on the drink. That corner over there–” she points to a stand littered with syrups and coffee pots and cups– “is for everything Gojo can’t make.”

“Gojo-san only does alcohol, though?”

Shoko’s eyes twinkle. “He did crack a couple times,” she snickers, and Yuuji actually is not sure what to do with this information so he just stares at her until she sighs and rolls her eyes. “Coffees, waters, and juices, Itadori. The recipes are written on the side if you need them.”

T-15, and the kitchen is mostly alive now. Sukuna is yelling something at Uraume over the sounds of the blender and the chop of his knife, Nanami-san’s timers are going off every few minutes– although for what, Yuuji doesn’t know; it’s way too early to start stacking things, but his compotes did smell insanely good. Inumaki– one of two dishwashers-slash-restockers that Yuuji has seen– “Okkotsu works the other half of the week, so you’ll see him soon enough,”– has already topped off everything that needed refreshing, which Sukuna had happily let him do (which was weird; the man never looked happy when he had to interact with anyone else besides maybe Uraume, but then again they were pretty much the same visually and maybe being almost-fifty had made his eyes not give a shit, so).

The dishes are relatively easy to memorize– dry aged wagyu that could also send him into debt with one strip, miso cod, lamb, pork, duck, scallops, three different cuts of steak, and disassembled sushi he’d only had once in Kyoto. Potatoes can be done three different ways, there’s broccoli and broccolini, uni fried rice (and white rice and brown rice, obviously), a market salad with assorted fruits, mashed ube, and mushrooms of every kind. Two tarts (fruit of your choice), two cakes (gourmand of your choice), and the typical crème brûlée. This whole menu, of course, changes four times a year, once per season.

And the chef’s special is weekly, of course. Sukuna’s special on paper, ARRANGED BY GETO SUGURU scribbled all over the back of the menu in invisible ink. Today it’s pig ribs, pommes anna, and Nanami-san contributes miniature sponge fruits covered in marzipan. They are very cute, and Nanami-san, begrudgingly, lets him have a pear the size of his thumb. Obviously, it’s the greatest thing he’s ever eaten. He nearly bursts into tears of joy, and then Nanami tells him to wash his hands and get lost.

Sniffles aside, Yuuji finds himself sort of stoked. For people who were so wrapped up in each other’s messes, everyone seemed to work shockingly well together, especially the three chefs. That probably has something to do with the fact that Gojo-san is outside and not in the same room as his husband, who comes in ten minutes before time with Megumi and Nobara to speak with them individually. Even Sukuna– who doesn’t turn away from his flames to look– doesn’t say anything.

Yuuji idles up to Megumi. “Nervous?” he asks, and doesn’t even budge when the other man shoots him a withering glare.

“Be realistic,” he replies. “You’re supposed to be better at this than I am, Yuuji.”

He needs to stop saying his name like that, Yuuji decides. “Whatever,” he snorts. “I’m a baker, Fushiguro. Not usually a busboy.”

“Well, you are today,” Megumi says, and it’s sort of warm in the way Yuuji imagines is worth sticking his hand into the oven for, and he’s just about to reply to that when Geto clears his throat and waits.

Commanding silence in the kitchen is something Yuuji has never mastered, because, like. Look at the material he’s working with. Geto-san gets it, though, totally and completely with just the nod of his head, and everyone semi-slows down what they were doing and gives him the section of the tile he stands on.

“This is probably really bad timing,” Geto begins, eyes twinkling with mirth (which is because, as Yuuji has come to discover over these past four hours– he is just as bad as Gojo, but in a uniquely different way that makes you want to laugh with him when you probably should be thinking about running for your life), “considering all of you are surely very busy with your prep–”

Immediately, someone snorts. Someone else yells “FOOD SAFETY!”

“But,” he continues, “I just wanted to thank you. Ten minutes till we open, and I can already tell tonight is going to be wonderful, and it’s not just because it smells amazing in here, or the fact that everything looks amazing out there, although both of those things are true. No, it’s because all of you are all very good at your jobs, and–”

“Obviously,” Nobara mutters, and Megumi settles a dangerous hand on her shoulder. She, of course, slaps it off.

“But it is not just talent, it’s your will. Your skill is what brought you here, but your strength is what’s kept you where you are, which–” a laugh. “I am very grateful for. Satoru and I would have been way over our head if any of you walked out on us before and up until now, so. Thank you for coming in tonight, and thank you for staying. Hopefully tonight will remind you why you’re here.”

“I think he would have made a very good cult leader,” Nobara whispers, and Yuuji, because he is a sucker, eagerly nods. Megumi glares at him some more.

“One last thing.” Geto gestures in his direction now, and Yuuji– who is not scared of anything and never has been– tries hard not to gulp. “I know every one of you likely met him already, but I personally wanted to introduce Itadori Yuuji, the newest member of our team. He’s come all the way from Cambridge to start with us, so please be as kind as you can.” Another laugh, this time just a little more intimidating. “We were all new once, weren’t we?”

That… feels… really undermining, actually. Ouch. Yuuji goes for a smile, because it’s the least he can do, and no one appears to want to bite his head off (even Inumaki, who sticks his head out and waves some more, and he can’t see Sukuna’s face (which is probably at its default scowl), so he doesn't count), so he tacks a thumbs up on the end of it as well. Uraume makes a very judgy face.

“Regardless!” Geto beams, face bright, and maybe he just naturally exudes confidence and charisma, because Yuuji does not feel the least bit worried at all. “It’s gonna be a great night, everyone, so let’s do our best to make sure it stays that way!”

And, of course, everyone claps.

｡𖦹°‧

Geto-san was right. It is a great night. For approximately the first twenty minutes of the six hours they are open, it is a wonderful night.

Then the first table comes in at four thirty. And Nobara, of course, gives it right to him. And Yuuji is grateful, of course, incredibly and eternally so because it’s a four-top, a well-dressed family with polite smiles and delicate laughs that has yen stuck between every fresh inhale, and they are very nice to him. They compliment his outfit, which is pretty old and probably a little bit gross. The little boy says he wants to dye his hair like Yuuji’s and Yuuji tells him it’s all genetic, and everyone laughs like it’s the greatest joke ever, especially the husband, who obviously has the card and this is the society they live in. Yuuji turns to him like the little penny-pincher he is and put on his most please trust me face, and he says I’m not kidding at all, sir, please don’t laugh; I got it from my uncle and actually he’s the chef who cooked your meal, too, and how do you like it? and the husband looks him dead in the eye and says I am going to give you the biggest tip I’ve ever given anyone, young man, and the wife swats at him and says it’s wonderful, dear, thank you so much, and this bread is excellent, and actually can we get another basket to take home?

“Bread UP!” Shoko hollers, and Yuuji takes the to-go box and rushes right out, and he is all smiles and a cheery thank you so much for coming tonight! when he picks up the check and sees the big fat fifty percent scribbled in.

Yuuji gets two more tables, five minutes apart. He’s not exactly sure why this is the case; maybe Geto-san secretly told Nobara to give him a challenge, or something, and also Megumi has conveniently gone poof (it will later be revealed that he’s vaping blue ice in the bathroom, but whatever) but anyway he does both of them just fine. Drinks within three, appetizers in seven. He’s made for this! He would much rather be folding puff in the back, but it’s fine! Perfectly peachy!

Megumi comes back not long after to help him run. Yuuji makes it clear how appreciative of this he is, because it really is a nice thing to do considering he’s not getting paid for it. Megumi shrugs him off and balances a plate on his shoulder and tells him if could pay him back in a drink or two, and Yuuji feels ecstatic. New job, great team, awesome guests, and maybe a not-date? Oh, yeah, Itadori Yuuji is so back. Who gives a fuck if he’s not a chef?! Not him!

“These are disgusting! I want to speak to your manager!” a woman shrieks, words loud and shrilly in his ear, and Yuuji bows profusely and scoops up her plate and runs back to the back as fast as she can, and drops it in front of Shoko, who looks at him and the food with equal amounts of concern, which is none at all.

“What’s wrong with it?” she asks, over the steadily growing din of the hot line. “Is it cold?”

“I don’t think she liked the onions,” Yuuji replies.

“Did she know there was going to be onions?”

“Yes, I told her.”

“So she didn’t want any onions?”

“No.”

Shoko groans. “Chef!” she hollers, and somehow the right one knows to listen. “Refire the pork chops and shallots on 12, please! No shallots!”

Sukuna makes a grunt that may have once resembled a thing of assent. Flames burst from the stove, and Shoko turns back to him when the knives start swinging.

“Comp it,” she tells him, cut and dry. “No questions. Get it done.”

A forty dollar plate. Poof. Yuuji sucks it up and keeps it pushing, asks Geto to console the weeping Oizys and takes his chopped ten percent.

Megumi’s booths are pretty much full by six. He’s got three out of four of them– changed twice; and his second set was double-sat– and is preparing for the party of ten at seven thirty, and Yuuji sort of envies him. Megumi moves with the kind of experienced grace he’d never really managed to pick up on, despite his years of experience. Yuuji thinks he’s more suited to beating down dough than getting tossed around by customers, but maybe that’s just his opinion.

More people come in around seven. Megumi’s party comes in way too early, which is bad, and there are only three of them there, which is worse, and they’re very important looking, obviously, so Nobara sits them down immediately, and then quickly gets taken over by Geto-san as the evening goes by. Apparently he had been in his office, but with the influx of guests, Nobara gets relegated to serving, Geto becomes the host, and Yuuji very quickly remembers how to bus tables.

Inumaki is quick with dishes, at least. It could be far worse.

It doesn’t take too long for the familiar hypnosis to set in. Parties average seventy-five minutes, and by the time Yuuji sits seven down, five is ready for their checks. He gets seven their drinks, busses five in thirty seconds and has it set back up in two minutes, comes back to takes seven’s orders– there’s only three of them, so it’s relatively easy– checks on six, gets eight their bill, checks in with Shoko, gives a nod to Geto when he smiles at him as he leads the next party up to five and tries not to make direct and unconditional eye contact with Gojo, who is flirting with every man and woman at the bar.

Yeah. Ignoring that one for sure.

He’s kind of funny, though. Gojo-san. With his blindfold and pale hands and hair and the garishly bright blue of his shirt, he’s peculiar and scary and weirdly fascinating in a way that makes Yuuji want to sit down and stare at him when he’s not looking, to understand what makes him so like that. He flows, somehow, commanding his section the way Geto does in the restaurant and Shoko does in the kitchen, laughing and mixing and scooping ice into frosted glasses. He’s good at it, too: from what Yuuji can tell everyone is pleasantly satisfied with their orders, their highballs and spiked teas. Yuuji has to go over there more than once, because Shoko had told him that he could give Gojo any drink tickets, and he gets why. Not even just because that’s what he’s supposed to do, but because Gojo is very good at his job, and his drinks are very, very potent.

“‘s the best thing I’ve ever had in my life,” a man hiccups, giving him a very inebriated slap on the shoulder as Yuuji offers Gojo the ticket for three Gibsons and one peach daiquiri, a laugh on his lips and a Boston shaker in his hand. “This guy is amazing!”

Gojo-san laughs some more, hair flopping over his covered eyes. “They don’t call my stuff the strongest for nothing,” he crows, and then jerks a nod at Yuuji. “Circle back in two, ‘kay? Gotta deal with that fruit.”

Yuuji believes him, despite the fact that eight out of twelve of Gojo’s stools are full. He was right to, though, because there’s a neat little tray with his four drinks, and Gojo flashes a brilliant smile almost as blinding as the way the light glitters of the reflection of the alcohol in its glass.

Seven forty-five. The rest of Megumi’s party comes fifteen minutes late, and Gojo’s comment about the allergens rings true, because they order everything with endless modifications– no tomatoes, no shellfish, no kumquats on their salad, no gluten, no potatoes because they have gluten (they don’t), and fresh everything for everybody.

Megumi drops the ticket down in front of Shoko. Yuuji, who is just about to head out, taking up another set of trays for his newest eight, marvels at the fact that he managed to fit in so much information in such a small space.

“I hate them,” Megumi says plainly. “They all asked for warm waters and heavy ice. Just get cold water. Why don't you just get cold water?”

“Change gloves!” Shoko calls out. “Gluten and shellfish!”

“Yes, chef!” everyone replies, and Yuuji goes to serve his table.

The real trouble starts around eight. A party of seven comes in, and Geto calls him over and gives them to him. Yuuji, of course, does not mind this at all! He simply lets Geto-san know that he needs a moment to rearrange five and six– who have now left– and free up some space for them. The party, of course, seems thrilled with this, and Yuuji scurries off to fix whatever needs to be fixed. Along the way, however, someone at one of the two-tops asks him for another martini– espresso, dry, blegh– so he scribbles out a paper and gives it to Gojo, who is facilitating his divorce by chatting up some hot suit at the bar. Great, okay; Yuuji would have done it too, so he doesn’t blame Gojo or break him out of his seduction via astrophysics– married man, by the way– but goes back to fixing his table instead.

His party is sat and Yuuji apologizes for the wait. Profusely, every member at the table says no, the fault is all theirs, don’t be sorry. Yuuji pivots to drinks and they let him, going for simple waters, all extra ice. He starts them with their appetizers (caramelized natto and flower-crusted edamame, how interesting) but then they decide they don’t need any more time, and they order. They’re a group of six, so of course they order a lot, but it’s a lot, and Yuuji is a big eater. Each of them gets two entrees, each with three sides, each meat cooked to varying levels of doneness, and they want to try every sauce.

No problem. Yuuji gets that all down, and then one of the girls asks for a lemonade sundae, which Yuuji did not know they had, actually, and everyone else still wants their waters but they all want real drinks, too, and they want extra aspartame, and also we’ll do a tray of sake shots, too, if you don’t mind.

“Lemondae sundae?” Gojo mutters, nearly incomprehensible over the noise as he scowls down at the ticket. “That was cut from the menu a while ago, kid. Does she mean a Lemon Drop with crushed ice?”

Yuuji goes back. He clarifies.

“Lemon drop’s fine,” he tells Gojo, who immediately gets started on preparing his Lewis, even though the woman had looked rather downcast and that will probably be reflected in the bill. Oh, well.

He’s got a full row, Nobara is working her newest twelve, Megumi is coming back with more plates for fifteen, Geto-san is talking to someone at one. The appetizers are done, so Yuuji brings them out, checks on the other two tables in his row, and gets them refreshments. Apparently Nanami-san’s pretzel rolls are a really big hit, because seven orders another basket, and then ten sees them as he brings them out and they want some, too, and eleven is ready to go, so he gets that ticket, runs over to Nobara and informs her about the check, runs back to the kitchen–

“Yuuji,” Shoko demands, strands of brown here falling in her face, her eyeshadow smudged with the heat. “These are for three. Megumi is taking out more stuff for that eight. Can you–”

And Yuuji is good and kind and amazing, so he swipes up the tray. “Yes, chef,” he grins, and Shoko doesn’t smile at him, but she does look a little relieved, and he slips out before she can start rattling off cuts at Sukuna again.

Yuuji stops by the bar, where Gojo is waving off two women who are hauling themselves out. He slides the Lemon Drop across the counter while throwing himself into the creaking conversation with the newcomers who take their places. Yuuji serves the drink, checks on seven and eight again– who are just about ready to leave, so he heads back to prepare the bill, but not before catching up with three, who are a little off-put with the taste of their food. When Yuuji asks what’s wrong, one of the elderly patrons informs him that his Wagyu is a little bit too overcooked.

Now. Yuuji has a decently good memory, so he vividly recalls the man telling him blue rare. He says this (much nicer, of course, so he doesn’t lose his job one day in) and at his side, the man’s daughter pats her fathers arm and tells him that it was basically bleeding. The father, of course, loses his mind.

“I want RAW!” he seethes, waving a crooked, aged finger in Yuuji’s face, “Get this nonsense out of my face, young man! NOW!”

Yuuji, because he is so good and kind, bows completely performatively and scoops up the plate and strides right back to the back, where Shoko’s head snaps around once she catches the hint of glittering porcelain in his hand and her dark eyes narrow into dangerous slits, probably at the look on his face

“Comp it,” she tells him, and then squints even more, nose wrinkling at the steak. “Wait. Three? I checked that, didn’t I? What’s wrong with it?”

The kitchen is an inferno at this point. Somehow, over all the noise, Sukuna still manages to hear that. “Nothing is wrong with my cooking!” he bellows, cleaning a new frying pan on the burner. “What did you forget, Uraume?!”

“There are no cold items on that, chef!”

“There are vegetables!”

“The steak is overdone,” Yuuji says.

Frowning, Shoko’s face crumples even further. “It was rare?”

“He wanted blue.”

Shoko reaches for her chit spike, ruffling through papers. Nobara comes in, slips between them and drops a ticket on the table. “Scallops and shrimp,” she reads. “Potatoes au gratin. Rice with the shrimp, al dente. And a whole chocolate cake.”

Something clatters across the steel tables of the dessert station. Nanami– who is being helped by Inumaki at this point– calls over his shoulder that they do not do whole cakes.

“They said they would pay for it!” Nobara yells back, already making her way towards the exit. “I’ll let them know about the wait!”

Shoko finds the ticket. She rips up every single other one to get to it. “Shit,” she seethes, attempting to smooth it out as Uraume steps over with three different orange plates specked with yellow swirls, microgreens and sashimi. Shoko thrusts the ticket at him, grabs another tray, and begins her inspection. Yuuji, for his part, does his best to read the crumpled paper.

RARE, the ticket screams, the ink smudged from the dying printer, his handwriting copied over in permanent marker. Yuuji gulps.

Shoko wipes off a smear of red from one of the plates. “What does it say, Itadori?” she asks. “Blue, right?”

Sukuna bangs another pot. “Nothing is wrong with my cooking!”

Megumi comes in. His face is somewhat twisted up. “This is probably a bad time,” he starts, the corner of his mouth twitching violently with a tic, “but there’s a guest at three who’s mad. He said Yuuji’s taking too long, or some bullshit. I dunno.”

Shoko’s scowl darkens. “Did you tell Geto?”

“Yeah. He’s talking him down, but he’s still cursing Yuuji out. And the food.”

Uraume’s knife hitches in the air, just for a second. The fried vegetables on the stove sizzle, a kettle steaming higher and higher and higher until the seal breaks and pops and everyone bleeds out and dies from shrapnel to the face.

“Why would you say that, Megumi?” Shoko groans, just as Sukuna whirls around with malice glittering in his eyes and a knife in his hand, which Yuuji is pretty sure is NOT what you’re supposed to stab into scallops to flip them over, but what does he know? The only thing he’s ever scalloped was his edges.

“Give me that,” Sukuna seethes, and Shoko tosses the ticket on the table and throws her hands up, and Sukuna– because his uncle is really myopic, actually, brings the paper close to his face and squints and reads and reads and reads and Yuuji feels his really good day get further and further away with every word.

Sukuna snorts like a bull, and in one fluid motion, he crumples the receipt up into an infinitely tiny ball, whirls around, and tosses it into the flame.

“Food safety,’ Uraume whispers, their hat slightly tilted on their head, but it’s really feeble, and Sukuna slams his spatula down, whirls around, and marches out.

“Here we go,” Nanami sighs, not bothering to turn around to see the resulting scramble as Shoko literally claws her way through he and Megumi both to get to the door before he can– which she fails at, obviously, and Inumaki whips out his phone and follows, and Yuuji’s great day has actually turned into Yuuji’s terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day, and it literally takes every ounce of will to follow after his uncle and half the kitchen.

Poor Uraume. At least they’ll get paid a stable wage for this. Yuuji is going to get fired.

When he rushes through the door with Megumi at his heels, he’s not exactly sure what he expects to see. It is not good, however, and it actually gets even worse as he watches, because Sukuna– who, once again, is a very big man and impossibly hard to miss– locates Geto-san (who is still being yelled at) and storms over in a straight beeline, right to three. This is bad, but it gets even worse when Geto realizes that something’s behind him far too late, and fails incredibly at stopping the bullet train that is Sukuna from barging in and giving a dangerously quiet what-for to poor Kobeni-san, who– having no longer been granted the opportunity to verbally harass someone a quarter of his age and twice his alleged former size (and no real man who was that big to begin with would have a problem like this, but whatever)– sits in perfect silence as Sukuna, who is the most terrifying man Yuuji has ever known and cared about at the same time, pulls Master Chef rank, and tells him that he cooked his steak to his pleasure, so he would appreciate if he stopped berating his workers, thank you.

Yuuji has been in the food industry for the greater part of his life. His father was a chef. His father’s father was a baker. Sukuna is a chef. Uraume is a chef. His mother had been a chocolatier. Choso has his own dive somewhere in Hokkaido. This job is less of his business and more of his existence, which is why he wanted it so bad. He would do anything to stay, including tolerate insane amounts of disrespect, which he has. He didn’t just rise to the top for no good reason, and along the way he’s seen a lot. Too much, sometimes.

Still. He has never, not ever, in the eight thousand and two hundred and four-point-six-five days he’s been alive, seen someone spit in someone else’s eye. He has never seen anyone do it to Sukuna, of all people.

First time for everything, though. Starting today, he can add that to the list of batshit crazy and insane things he has encountered in this line of work, a neat little modification at the end of his slip just like this:

OLD MAN HACKED UP GLOB OF MUCUS IN JI'S EYE, TLC!! YIKES!!

There are gasps, obviously. Someone mutters, not very subtly: oh my god. Someone else whistles and snickers and says, very loudly: that’s kinda hot.

Yuuji physically has to stop himself from gagging. Absolutely disgusting.

Sukuna, very carefully, wipes the saliva from his face. Yuuji can’t see his expression, but it must be something terrible, because Kobeni-san’s daughter, who is clearly mortified beyond recognition, begins to apologize with so much intensity you would think she was the one who got violated, but no.

Shoko, refusing to look away from the scene, flails a hand back at the two of them. “Go,” she hisses, voice fraught with worry. “Go–”

Gojo-san steps out from behind the bar, meandering over with a whistle and a toothpick between his lips and a dangerous jitter to his flowing steps. Quite a few people have gotten involved by now, a few devout men getting up to yell at the old man, scandalized women hiding behind their hands. Nobara, who had been at eleven, idles behind the bar, and attempts to distract the people sitting at the bar with free shots, and immediately chatter starts up at that corner of the restaurant. Shoko, realizing that Inumaki is still recording, snatches his phone from his hand and stuffs it into one of the pockets from her white coat.

“Get out of the way, you two,” she snaps at them, and Yuuji and Megumi scramble to opposite sides of the doorframe to let her pass, where she immediately begins calling back things that need to be refired, having gone cold. From behind Megumi, Yuuji watches in horror as Sukuna stands tall, turns right back around, and walks it all back towards them, face perfectly blank. Geto-san, as perfectly unbothered as ever, offers to walk the Kobeni family out. With the way Gojo leans over him, the bright creepy smile stuck to his perfect face, however, it’s not really an ask.

Yuuji, having the common sense not to get in the way of Sukuna, yanks Megumi out of his path by the wrist as he breezes past him into the kitchen. Sukuna, as they watch, turns the corner, walks right up to dishes, and sticks his hands in the burning (not raw) sani water, the sink curling with steam. He holds them there for thirty seconds, then rips a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and scrubs them over his face. When this is done, he goes back to banging pots and pans. Uraume, very pointedly, does not ask him anything.

“Fire!” Shoko announces. “I need those cremes from seven, please! Five minutes on wagyu, three on crusted pork–”

The booth stands up. Megumi deflates, watching his pay slip away, and Yuuji squeezes his wrist before he realizes he’s still holding his hand like an idiot, which he corrects with speed and efficiency. Megumi stares at him like he’s possessed. “What are you doing?” he asks, sounding completely disgusted, and Yuji literally wants to curl in a hole and, like, die.

Yuuji points to the bar. “Leaving,” he forces out, and runs away, going right to Nobara, who is up to her knees in alcohol and seems to be having a very stressful time. She does not care, however, so he goes and makes sure his section is okay and then hers, asks them if they need anything and he is so sorry they had to witness that, is there absolutely anything I can do for you tonight sirs; ma’am, I am so sorry–

It is nine forty-five when Yuuji realizes he forgot the espresso fucking martini.

Of course, he runs right back to the bar. Nobara– Gojo-san is gone, lost to the outside world and speaking with Geto and the miscreant family– makes it for him, nice and dry, and he delivers it to the table that has been waiting for him for an hour and forty minutes, and he has so many sorrys prepared, he is so good at this and even though the most talented servers ever can mess up once or twice, trust him, he knows what he was doing and it must have gotten lost in all the commotion–

The woman takes a sip of her drink, screws up her face, and throws it on his shoes, glass and all.

That, in short, is how Itadori Yuuji’s first night at Kesa-Kesa ends.

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Closing isn’t horrible, at least. Geto-san– who apologizes for everything between every word– tells him he can go home if he wants, but Yuuji is nothing if not a resilient little weed, so he stays stubbornly put.

Megumi goes back to help Inumaki with the dishes, which is a welcome relief. He mops and sweeps and tries to ignore that yuck of his coffee and vodka squish in his socks while Nobara resets tables, Gojo whistling a tune at the bar. He’s going to have to buy so many new clothes, he realizes. He’s going to have to go back and get his shit from his apartment. Or he’s going to have to ask Choso to live there. And he’s gonna need to find a new place to live at some point. He doesn’t want to come into work smelling like smoke! And he’s going to need another pair of shoes. And they’re going to be expensive! And everyone already hates him! AND he’s never going to bake agai–

“Doing anything later tonight?”

Yuuji stops scrubbing at the surface of the four top he’s been beating the shine back into for half an hour. He blinks.

“Oh,” he tries, voice raspy. “Hey, Fushiguro. What’s up?”

Megumi is leaning against a point of his table, which Yuuji thinks must surely hurt. The top button of his shirt is undone, halfway untucked, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. He’s got a cloth in his hand and his hair flops into his lidded, emerald green eyes, and he’s so pretty in the orange light that Yuuji thinks he’s better suited to doing literally anything else than a) working at this restaurant and b)eing here with him.

Alas. Neither of those things are the case.

Megumi cocks his head. “You look depressed,” he notes, voice deadpan, and way to go, man, hit the nail right on the head. “Tonight wasn’t too decent. It could have been worse.’

Yuuji literally. Has vodka. In his shoes. This IS the worse. “Uh-huh.”

Megumi does some sighing. It is rather dramatic. “You probably don’t need me telling you this,” he huffs, “but it is your first day. It’ll get better the more you do it, so. Try not to lose your head.”

“Is this meant to be encouraging?’ Yuuji asks, and gets scowled at.

“I’m just saying,” Megumi offers, looking over his shoulder at the kitchen door, where it’s now the quietest it had been all night. “Don’t worry about it. Or anyone here. It’ll all be fine.”

Yuuji wasn’t worried. Not really. He’s just been thinking about himself, which is probably pretty selfish. “I wasn’t worried!” he grins. “But it’s nice that you care about me, Fushiguro-san! Thanks!”

It could be the ambience, but is Megumi blushing? How adorable. He’s so cute. “You’re too forward,” he grumbles, but his glower isn’t really in it. “You shouldn’t be speaking to your superiors like that on your first day– I’m two years your senior, Yuuji–”

Airball. Airball? “You’re the one who asked me out already!” Yuuji teases, and Megumi hisses at him to shut up, arguably even more forwardly, and tells him to be quiet so Gojo doesn’t hear that or else he won’t buy him a single thing tonight.

Gojo-san, better known as the devil, is cleaning out his mixers at the bar. Megumi goes back to find Nobara, and Yuuji is straightening a chair when he gets called over. Feeling as if he has no choice, he does.

“So,” Gojo says smoothly, holding a glass up to inspect it for drips. “Did you like today?”

“Sure,” Yuuji lies, bumping against a seat. “It wasn’t so bad.”

Gojo snorts. Then he bursts into full-body laughter, shoulders shaking. Yuuji stares at the man until he decides he’s had enough of finding amusement as his expense, a process which takes five minutes of hardly-contained giggles that eventually peter off into a soft sigh.

“You kids,” he murmurs, setting a glass upside down. “So optimistic. That’s why you’re such a joy to work with. I love this job.”

That is a very impressive string of thoughts that have minimal connection, but okay. “I tried,” Yuuji admits. “I was scared for a second there. I think it just took me to get my bearings back, but I think I have ‘em now, so.”

“You’ve certainly got something, kid.” Gojo slams his ice bin shut. “Pick it up from Sukuna?”

Oh. Right. This. “Gojo-san, I really–”

“Y’know, it’s sort of funny.” Gojo cuts him off before he can continue, but he does it in a way that gives Yuuji the impression he shouldn’t have bothered opening his mouth in the first place. “The guy mentioned he had other family in the industry. I didn’t think it would be you, though. It surprised me.”

Huh. Yuuji has lost his worry about not being concerned about that line of thinking. “Really?”

“Really. You’re so, like–”

“So much shorter than him? Less tattooed? Nicer?”

“Mysterious.” For a second, something seems to sparkle underneath Gojo-san’s blindfold, and Yuuji, for a second, thinks about saying the same. “You’re an intriguing little kid, Yuuji, so I’m excited to see what that means for me.” He reaches for a last, uncorked bottle, the cap lost to nowhere. “Go look for my darling husband, will you? I think he mentioned something about an Itadori-shaped nametag.”

Yuuji finds Geto in the office. On the way there he says goodbye to Shoko and Inumaki, the two of them having obligations of their own. Inumaki signs something that looks like nice to meet you, and Shoko says as much, and even though she looks beat, she still manages a thin smile for him on her way out. Yuuji would hate to be in her spot, so he gives her a thumbs-up and hopes it doesn’t come off as gloating.

Sukuna and Uraume had already given them their regards and goodnights. It was no regard at all, actually– Yuuji had been in the bathroom staring at his existence in the mirror and trying to get it, but Uraume had texted something about the key under the doormat, so either they were locking him out or reminding him of the way in, both of which were livable with. Sukuna, too, had said to not eat too much of his leftovers, implying that there were leftovers that he would be allowed to eat, and Megumi was right, after all. It could always be worse.

Geto-san is slumped in his seat. His hair, which Yuuji has only ever seen half-up, is now full down, a dark slick along his back. He looks tired, which makes sense, and he’s clearly lost filling out some paperwork in relation to the earlier incident, so he doesn’t even notice when Yuuji knocks twice until he does it a third time, much harder.

“Yuuji,” he sighs, waving him in. “I apologize. I was distracted–”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yuuji waves it away. “It’s been a busy night. I get it.”

Geto looks at him as if he’s from another planet. “You really are too kind,” he murmurs, and then waves at the extra rolling chair. “Have a seat, please. We should probably talk about some things.”

First: the issue of his pay. Yuuji signs the direct deposit forms, having to pull open his phone to get his bank account stuff out, but unfortunately it’s dead, so Geto is kind enough to scrawl him out several checks for him to cash. Yuuji, of course, is very grateful.

Second, his schedule. “We’re open five days a week,” Geto explains. “Tuesdays through Saturdays–”

“I’ll do closing every day,” Yuuji tells him, and Geto does some more staring and gives him Thursdays off.

The third thing is his future. “I mean what I said about Nanami’s contract,” Geto exhales, rubbing his eyes. “It expires in October, but truth be told, I have the feeling that he’s going to leave sooner than I expected, which is admittedly a little frustrating.”

Yuuji understands. “I’ll cross-train if you need me to,” he starts. “I don’t mind coming in on one of my days off and helping out–”

“I’m sure Kento would be thrilled,” Geto snorts, but he does write that down. “I’ll talk to him about it and let you know by the beginning of this next quarter.”

It’s February. April? Yuuji makes a mental note of this. “Thanks!”

Geto gives him a smile. “Of course,” he nods, and then he does some scrolling on his monitor, digs around in a drawer, prints out a label, and sticks it on top of a platinum-looking name tag. “This is yours. Try to keep it in one piece.”

YUUJI, the sticker reads, and underneath that reads Kesa-Kesa.

“There’s a bit of a running joke among the staff,” Geto chuckles, when Yuuji asks why the name, standing straight and rolling his neck to crack it. “Cult-leader’s robes, for both me and Gojo. I think it began with Ieiri, honestly. You’re not supposed to think about it too hard.”

Suddenly, Nobara’s comment makes a whole lot more sense. Yuuji gets up, too, the world only wobbling slightly. “I think a kitchen is close enough,” he laughs, and thankfully his joke hands, because Geto-san’s eyes crinkle up and he squeezes his shoulder and tells him that he hopes he has a good night, and Yuuji takes that as he cue to leave, tossing one last see you tomorrow into the air as he pulls the door closed behind him, leaving Geto-san to his piles of papers and his floury aprons and the little tab in the corner of his screen that read divorcepaps.pdf.

“We’re not going out,” Megumi glowers, shrugging on his jacket as Yuuji really wishes he had new socks. “Nobara-chan doesn’t want to anymore.”

Yuuji is sort of happy with this. He is also sort of devastated. “WHAT?!” he squawks, whirling around to point at Nobara accusingly, who slams her locker shut. “WHY?!”

“Because I’ve had a long day, Yuuji!” she cries, and yes, everyone, Nobara-chan has had the longest day out of all of them for sure. “Also, I want to paint my nails and watch my movie and drink my margaritas in my own living room, thanks.”

Yuuji finds himself pouting, but his disappointment feels horribly real. “Aw, Kugisaki…”

Nobara scoffs. “I didn’t say you weren’t invited,” she sniffs, turning her nose up. “As long as one of you orders pizza, I don’t care.”

Megumi’s stony expression defrosts. Just a tad. “There’s not a single pizza place that’ll be open for delivery by the time we make it back, Nobara.”

“Then I guess we’re stopping on our way home!” Nobara, stoutly, marches to the front door, brushing past Gojo who is coming in, ducking under the hand that attempts to swat at her head. “Hey–”

“Goodnight, guys!” Gojo sing-songs, going straight for the office door and swinging it open, and Megumi makes a very strange face and pulls him out of the way by the sleeve. “See you all tomorrow!”

The door slams, and behind it, someone begins to laugh. Yuuji purses his lips. “Are they really married?” he asks.

“Please give me a break,” Megumi sighs, tugging him forward after Nobara, out into the restaurant, still attached to him by the cuffs (!!) “I’m sick of this. Let me lie down.”

“You’re not quitting, though!” Nobara quips. “Stop being such a Debbie Downer.”

“I’m not a downer, Nobara. This is realism.”

Nobara calls him a bad word. Yuuji snorts. Megumi glances back at him, squinting. “You smell like coffee and alcohol,” he remarks, and Yuuji feels his expression go flat. “I hate coffee and alcohol. Shower at my place. Nobara lives right across the hall from me, anyway.”

What the hell. Okay. “Uh,” Yuuji chokes. “I think it’s mostly my clothes–”

“You’ll fit in mine just fine,” Megumi tells him, lips doing their best not to twitch into a smile, and it’s probably true, considering. “And I have an in-unit, too, although it takes pretty much all night to cycle though wash and dry. So.”

Wait. Is Yuuji stupid? Genuinely? “Oh?” he hums, and then it hits him. “Oh. Wait, so–”

“Just stay the night, Yuuji,” Nobara snorts, pushing open the front door for the three of them, the glittering windchime jingling its happy tune as Megumi takes his hand the right way up, and whatever Itadori Yuuji could have thrown back in retaliation of his perfect little moment of culinary happiness is muffled, forever, by a thousand dollars’ worth of two inches of tempered, frosty glass.