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Toji was watching the people and they all carried on with their conversations, walking around with their own purpose, never breaking stride to acknowledge him, nobody watching him back.
It suited him just fine, for he was not supposed to be there. He was on the Gojo Clan’s grounds just to see if he could. All these great sorcerers, and not one turned to see him, back leaning against a wooden pillar from the engawa that faced the inner tea ceremony garden.
He could kill them so easily, he thought. A quick slash at the neck, a stab into the brain through the back of the ear, and the life and their technique would drain out of them together with their blood. It would be so easy. At least for the first one. He doubted he’d be able to stay in shadows after that. Well, he mused, unless he were to do it when nobody else was around. Then, he could pick them one by one…
He shook his head and peeled himself off from the wooden pillar, jumping lightly on the uneven stone path. There was an arched bridge over the koi pond, and farther in the garden, another shallow lily pond lined with a tumble of black, weathered rocks and stone lanterns, all covered in thick, vibrant moss.
It was a far cry from the constant gravel that skinned his palms, his knees, his back, when he fell. It was unlike the dojo’s hardwood floor. Unlike his bedroom’s bare wood. There were few soft things in his life. His winter haori. His socks. The falling sakura petals from their garden. Everything else had been stripped of softness in the thirteen years he had been born in the Zenin Clan.
His fingers dug into the moss, almost up to his knuckles. Sat himself down on the decorative rocks, feeling the gentle cushioning underneath, a fluffy verdant blanket. He poked the mass of green here and there, rolled his fist around the springy greens, letting himself be lulled into peaceful relaxation. Nobody saw him anyway. Nobody would know who had vandalised the precious moss. They’d point at each other and accusations would flow but nobody would be none the wiser.
He snickered to himself. A dragonfly alighted briefly on a lotus leaf then flew off again, its iridescent body flashing in the sun.
It was in that moment of inattention that something barreled into his stomach.
Toji looked down, wind knocked out of him by the impact, and was met with cerulean blue, as iridescent as the dragonfly’s, trapping the sun and sky into two small circles and shining it back into the world. A window briefly opened into the sky down on earth.
Gojo Satoru, the beloved child of the universe. His perfect opposite.
The kid- toddler, really, clutched at Toji’s collar, grip iron strong. Toji blinked. The kid head-butted him, and because of his shortness, he was the perfect height to hit him in the solar plexus, making him wheeze again.
“You’re nothing,” Gojo Satoru said, his childish voice high and loud.
He had to give it to the kid, he started his insults early. Very precocious of him. Toji briefly debated slapping him a few times.
The kid burrowed his head into his chest this time, rubbing against him like a cat. “It’s nice,” he mumbled. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m speechless,” Toji deadpanned as he tried to extricate himself from the kid. He had no illusions he would be punished severely were the precious heir of the Gojo Clan and Snowflake Extraordinaire to suffer any indignity because of him. Such as a well deserved slap or ten.
Gojo Satoru did not take it kindly, it turned out, as he latched on him like a baby monkey, with his arms, feet, even his teeth.
And in the meantime, Toji discovered something that gave him pause. Gojo Satoru was less than three years old. He was squishy. His cheeks, his arms, even his legs, were soft and chubby. Toji poked his cheeks, finding double pleasure, from the softness of touch and also from the brat’s crossed look.
Oh yes, he could bear to have the Gojo heir with him a bit more.
He pulled Gojo Satoru fully in his lap. The kid immediately latched on his middle, cheek pressed against his side. His eyes fluttered close, and soon he fell asleep.
On his part, Toji marveled at the soft bundle of flesh warming his chest, all gentle lines and chubby curves, wondering if he had ever been the same.
Would he have loved himself?