Chapter Text
He's fifteen years old sitting on a train bench with leftover strawberry ice cream on his fingers when Yaga asks him for the second time why he wants to go to Jujutsu Tech. Yuuji answers the same thing, and Yaga answers the same thing. Except this time, stuffed fists that hit harder than any pillow do not come flying his way; rather, an ID card is slid his way along with a reprimand to wash his hands.
He's fifteen years old for the second time washing strawberry ice cream off his fingers with an ID card laid on a porcelain public sink beside him carelessly, the number on it almost smug in his face as Yuuji spreads soap on his hands, scrapes the foam through his fingers, and washes it off before picking up the card and shoving it in his pocket roughly.
Above him, the train's announcements are almost soft in comparison to the thud, thud, thud, of his heart in his chest and the shaking of his fingers as he takes out the card once more and squints at it, just to make sure the number is correct.
He'd checked with Yaga before, just in case. Waved the card in front of his eyes and asked, as clearly and enunciated as he could, if the card was truly meant to have the number 2005 inscribed upon it and not 2018.
And Yaga had said the very word he'd known he would hear, but asked to hear regardless. That is to say, yes. A very confident yes, with the slightest bits of concern in Yaga's voice as he followed up with a veiled question of his mental state of mind.
The numbers, in their infruriatingly neat black print on white, stare back at him with all the smugness in the world, almost reminding him of someone from back home in the way they look at him. Yuuji's finger squeaks against the plastic of the card as his fingers pinch tighter around the surface before sliding it into his pocket.
…He could really go for another ice cream right about now.
He's fifteen years old in April standing outside a house in the middle of a forest straight out of Shirayuki-hime when he says goodbye to the life he'd known for the past three months, steels himself, and leaves with only a single lily flower to show he'd even been there.
The train ride to the nearest city — Sapporo — is unremarkable. The signs advertising themselves to him are somewhat reminiscable, but there's not too much to care about nowadays for Yuuji to actually remember to check them. Cell phones are only used for texting, if they can even be called cell phones, and he has no one to text but Yaga, who he'll be seeing in a couple hours anyways.
The black car awaiting him at the bend of the street is also unremarkable, and he offers a little wave as it slowly grows bigger in his field of sight. The jet is hot under his touch when Yuuji pulls the handle, revealing someone already inside seated comfortably beside Yaga.
"Ishikuro," Yaga greets him gruffly. The person beside him slowly shifts their head of dusty rose-tinted brown, and oh it's Ieiri-san, what the hell why does she look so young—
"Ishikuro," Yaga's saying again, and Yuuji has to refocus his attention because he needs to remember his name is Ishikuro not Itadori—
"Yaga-san," Yuuji mumbles back, the edges of his ears turning a soft dusting of pink as he attempts to slide into the seat and ends up doing something more like a swan-dive and topple into the leather, flush only strengthening in hue by the second. "Sorry," he adds hastily, desperately trying to avoid Ieiri's scrutinizing gaze for the childish fear that she might point at him and declare him a time-traveller.
"So," Ieiri says with the faintest undertone of curiousity in her voice as the car starts up, leather vibrating under his touch, "Ishikuro, is it?"
Yuuji clears his throat. "Yeah."
Ishikuro. It shares a kanji and pronunciation with Fushiguro, something his classmate friend would have scoffed at and Kugisaki would have teased him about mercilessly and Gojo would have wailed and asked why not something like Isogawa, which shares the kanji 'five' for the latter part of his teacher's last name, and Nanamin would have patted him on the back with some sort of sad look pulling on his cheekbones as he cleared his throat gruffly and Yuuji would have felt guilty at not making the number 'seven', for his other mentor.
But after all, he feels as if 'black' suits him far, far, better than 'five', 'seven', and even 'tiger'. Twin tigers, coiled beneath black rock. Poetic.
Ieiri continues to stare at him, as if expecting something, so Yuuji opens his mouth to ask the obligatory, "What?"
"Nothing," Ieiri says, "but you don't know my name, do you?"
Yuuji blinks as he processes that before the flush returns in full force, warming his ears and choking his words as he hastens to correct himself. "Er — what's your name, I—I mean, yeah. What's your name."
The corners of her lips quirk into something of amusement, not quite a smile but slowly getting to the precipice of it as she leans back into her chair and her gaze drifts from Yuuji to the rushing greenery outside. "Shoko. Call me Shoko."
Yuuji's lips part before closing, then opening again. "What about your last name?" he asks, stubbornly refusing to meet her gaze for the same childish fear. In front of him, he can almost hear Yaga's amusement at his expense through the man's huffed exhale. He really doesn't think he can connect 'Shoko' to the 'Ieiri-san' he sees in front of him.
It takes a long while, enough for his nails to scratch trails of white dead skin across his palms before Ieiri answers. "Ieiri, but I never really cared for that," she says, offering the olive branch in her own way. "Just take it, Ishikuro. We'll know each other for the forseeable future, assuming you won't be killed by a curse in the next two weeks."
Yuuji laughs stiltedly before realizing her words are said with dead seriousness, his laughs trailing off as he dares to slowly look Shoko's way. Her brown eyes are set, but as he holds that gaze, they begin to sparkle with mirth.
"You're joking," he accuses her rather dramatically.
"I mean, is it really joking if it might come true?" Ieiri refutes easily with a wave of her hand. Her lips quirk into a smile, a real one now. "You forget where we're going, Ishikuro."
"But still—"
Yaga interrupts them with a click of a button and his arm tapping the back of his seat. "Here's the next arrival, Ishikuro, Ieiri. Make some space back there."
Yuuji's eyes swing over to the door beside him, where he promptly freezes before gaining the common sense to slowly shift over so Geto Suguru can make his way in. He traces the teenager's forehead — no stitches, no sutra — but still, his fist makes the sign to punch, his thoughts run wild—
Geto Suguru meets his eyes and dips his head shallowly before sliding in far more gracefully than his entrance prior. "It's nice to meet you," he says politely, staring round at the trio in the car. "Yaga-san, may I?"
"There's a seat next to Ishikuro," Yaga says, as gruffly as he did with Yuuji. He jerks his head to the mentioned spot. "Close the door behind you," he adds, because wind's blowing in through the open door and while Yuuji finds it a nice break for the stifling heat of black leather and people, April wind is still enough to send a more-than-cool breeze through when the drafts hit.
The car ride resumes to pick up one more student, at least Yuuji hopes, because there's not nearly enough space in the car and Ieiri has already claimed shotgun and he'd really prefer not to sit next to Geto Suguru of all people for fear he might punch his now-classmate in the face and he'd really like to avoid that. Really.
No-one seems to be taking the initiative to strike up a conversation and burn away some of the increasingly awkward tension in the air, so Yuuji sets his eyes firmly outside and asks Geto Suguru for his name.
"Geto Suguru," Geto says, sounding a bit relieved to have been asked the information while Yaga's busy driving in the sweltering heat now that drafts have cooled down and they're in a more populated place with more traffic. "And you?" he asks politely.
"Uh — Ieiri-san, you go first," Yuuji hands it off in a semi-panic when his mouth simply refuses to cooperate and say his name out of some residual fear that's perfectly unreasonable.
Ieiri picks it up, with her normal attitude but it's all fine because Yuuji would really rather not introduce himself to Geto Suguru of all people when he should be nothing more than classmates with this particular sorcerer.
"Ieiri Shoko, but call me Shoko," she says almost lazily, the same introduction she surely gives everyone. He can almost imagine her twirling a lit cigarette between her fingers as she says it, long hair brushing her shoulders rather than the soft brown that ends at her neck. "Now you go, Ishikuro. Don't hand it off to me."
"Uh — Ishikuro," he manages. "Yuuji."
He pauses, unsure what to say after that and almost unwilling to let his mind take over and ramble as he normally does. "It's, uh, nice to meet you, Geto-san. Let's — have..a good year together?" he ends stiltedly.
Anxiously awaiting whatever response Geto has only brings a crashing tide of cool relief over him when his classmate responds politely, "Let's have a good year together, Ishikuro-san."
It's still jarring to hear 'Ishikuro' rather than 'Itadori', but he just thinks about 'Fushiguro' and how if he brings disappointment upon his self-appointed bond with Fushiguro's surname, his friend's dogs will never want to be pet by him again and Yuuji might just die of sadness if that were to happen.
There's still a wide berth from Geto to him when Yuuji musters to courage to swing his eyes round and note the swathe of black between them. Will the new student sit there? Would it be better to ask Geto to move closer to him, or unfriendly to ask the new student to sit between them?
In the time it takes for him to consider every possible option and frankly overthink it to the point where it's just not worth pondering over anymore, the click that heralds the arrival of someone new has clicked through the car and Geto has moved closer to Yuuji and oh god why does he have white hair.
"Move," is the new student's only word, and Geto shuffles over, closer to Yuuji though he doesn't have time to panic or anything because the new student has tinted glasses perched on his nose and swooping locks of silvery-white that are all too familiar and fuck why didn't he think that Ieiri-san and Geto and Gojo-sensei all went to school together—?
"You could be a little more polite," Geto says, peeved. Yuuji watches as he gestures to the open car door, draft thankfully absent but still allowing a breeze to sweep through the car. "And close the door, why don't you?"
Gojo flashes a toothy, challenging smirk. "And why should I?"
"Gojo," Yaga says, in the tone that suggests a detention or worse, and Gojo rolls his eyes before slamming the car door shut, collapsing onto the remaining space in the car, fanning his face and pushing his sunglasses further up his nose in one clean motion.
The car starts up again, and this time Yuuji can feel the vibrations in his cheek from Geto pressed up against him and by proxy pinning him against the cat door, much to Ieiri's amusement and Geto's charign.
"Ge-oh-an," Yuuji manages to say with his cheek half-smushes against the glass, breath clouding the glass and quickly disappating in the heat before it comes back with his new breath. "Uh'r uih-shin' ee."
"Sorry, Ishikuro-san," Geto apologizes pleasantly before his tone turns just a little sharper as he turns to the other side, "but someone's pushed against me, and this car is supposed to fit three in the back seat, thank you."
Someone huffs, though his hearing is muffled by Geto's shoulder so it might have been from either Ieiri or Gojo.
Gojo's voice, presumably, huffs again. "Well, someone's in the front seat, isn't she? So I have no space, so just suck it up. Besides, I have no idea why you're even in this car. Curses," he spits vehemently, so full of hatred Yuuji's taken aback at the tone the conversation has taken. He can feel Geto stiffen immediately beside him, coiling for a retort and Yuuji's half-inclined to join him if he had the guts to—
"Gojo," Yaga says in a warning tone, so clear even as his ear's muffled by Geto.
Geto stiffens even further, his breath becoming erratic as Yuuji tries to find a position that lets him hear the conversation.
"You know I'm right," Gojo says, taunting and self-righteous and not at all the teacher he remembers, the one that was only this way to curses and enemies and most definitely not his friends and Yuuji. "Can't you see? Sense? They're both filthy curses, and I'm in the same car as them. Actually, I can exorcise them for you right now, Yaga, free of charge."
Geto's muscles tighten, and Yuuji's face is freed from being pressed up against the window as his classmate hisses, "Fuck off, Gojo," in a hateful tone that matches Gojo's word for word.
"Language," Yaga says in a tone that implies he could not give less of a damn but still feels as if he should manage his soon-to-be students.
"Why don't you fuck off, curse," Gojo says back defensively, spitting like a cat to match Geto's rebuttal. "Not sure why things like you and him are even in this car to begin with." He jerks a self-aggrandizing thumb Yuuji's way, and Geto bristles even further as Yuuji just stares at him dumbly.
"See?" Gojo scoffs when Yuuji makes no move to defend himself, not even a statement. He rolls his eyes, clear even through his glasses' tint. "The curse isn't even defending itself."
Geto's elbow shoves Yuuji, not rough but rather something like the nudges Kugisaki used to give him, and he opens his mouth all too late to stutter something out. "I mean," he says, faltering before his eyes meet Geto's indignant ones and picks up, "Geto-san's not a curse!" he says, bristling in defense of the one he once called enemy, too confused to try to piece together the teenager in front of him and Gojo-sensei, the strongest. "He's super nice! I think you could be a little nicer, actually!"
There's a moment of silence before Ieiri snorts, "Ishikuro, he meant you, not Geto," she tells him with a teasingly patient tone.
"Oh," is all Yuuji can say to that, inching away from Geto and Gojo to hit the wall of the car and jump a little at that, though the words seem to float in the air slathered in honey and sticking to anything but the conversation.
"You're slow, even for a curse," Gojo says waspishly. His gangly legs spread further apart, pushing Geto closer to Yuuji and by proxy pushing Yuuji closer to the car door as Ieiri gazes on. "Country-feel as well. You're not from Tokyo."
Before Yuuji can offer any sort of retort, Geto jumps to defend him. "What does it matter to you, where Ishikuro's from?" he snaps, poking the fire so much it might as well be a blaze by now, hotter than the black seats of the car.
Gojo pauses for a scant second as the car slowly comes to a stop. "It doesn't," he says easily, though the strain of annoyance is unmistakable in his voice. "Who cares? He's probably from the sewers or some shit like that. You too, backwater curse-boy."
"Backwater what—? And why're you being such an asshole?" Geto asks, hurt lining his voice but overshadowed just a bit by vehement disgust and disbelief at Gojo's words. Yuuji's a bit inclined to agree, because why is his sensei being such an asshole—? And to his supposed friend?
"Because," says Gojo slowly and deliberately, "you two are curses, and it's our job to exorcise them, and I have absolutely zero idea why you're in the same class as that girl," a jerk of his thumb sent Ieiri's way, "and I."
Ieiri's eyebrows raise as she says, "Don't bring me into this," in a tone that suggests she'd really just rather be sitting back and watching the show.
There's a beat of silence before Yaga's voice cuts through, tired, and says, "You four. Get out. Take thirty minutes to wander around here and cool off, because I'd really rather not have to drag all of you back to school while you're bickering like four-year olds. Ieiri. Gojo. You two go somewhere. Ishikuro, Geto. You two go somewhere. And behave."
Gojo opens his mouth, supposedly to retaliate, but Yaga sucks in sharply and even the strongest seems to take that as a signal to leave, or perhaps he also wanted to be out of the car and was simply too careless to mention it. The car door opens with a scoff as Gojo less-walks, more-crawls out of the compartment and into the light, where the shape of a by-road shopping mall can be seen, clear as day and edged with orange and blue from the heat.
Ieiri follows from her side, and the two walk off in the direction of the shopping mall — the heat suddenly seeping into the car makes Yuuji see the two of their heads as vanilla and chocolate, swirling into one beautiful swooping treat until the glass door closes and Geto finally slides out.
Yuuji blinks, sneezing the dust that arises with his classmate's move and makes to the door, catching a murmured apology from Yaga along the way that he brushes off with a head-shake and reassurance that the two of them would be fine, and yes, they won't provoke anyone. An incessant buzz immediately takes place in his ears as he joins Geto on the stone-lined path to the shopping mall, tugging at the hoodie round his neck in the sweltering heat rippling through the air.
"Ishikuro-san," Geto says just as Yuuji trips over a loose stone in his hurry to get away from him as soon as Geto speaks, regaining his balance and jogging lightly to catch up with a concerned Geto, "Are you alright?"
The question is surely changed from his trip, but Yuuji just says, "Yeah," which is a lie but anything else would require a lengthy explanation and he's not quite sure he wants to give that to Geto Suguru of all people.
He's proven correct when Geto pauses for a moment then asks, "Why didn't you defend —actually, why did Gojo call you a curse?"
"I, uh," Yuuji licks his lips, "my cursed technique," he says in a rush. Geto's brow furrows minutely as the words rush forward. "It leaves a bunch of curse residue lying around. I guess that's what Gojo saw when he looked at me."
He pauses before asking the mass terrorist of his time, "What about you?"
Instead of answering, Geto says, "Ishikuro, what taste is in your mouth after using your cursed technique?"
Yuuji's tongue grows heavy and cumbersome in his mouth, too big for his teeth yet too small for his mouth as the wash of salt grows stronger, and he suppresses his gag reflex rot away by scraping black and shrivelled flesh.
"Salt and soap," he says. "And sometimes, a really dirty towel that wiped a floor of shit. And vomit."
Geto's silent in the five seconds it takes for Yuuji's hand to grasp the hot metal of the shopping mall door and swing it open before he laughs.
He glances at Geto, taken aback and wondering if he'd said something wrong and managed to fuck up the timeline already before Geto grins and says through his bits of laughter, "Like a cake baked with rotten eggs, expired milk, and icing made from crushed-up bugs?"
Yuuji gapes, because no one's ever compared curse-tastes with him and not stared at him with disgust and best-case, concern. "Exactly," he nods, "and like moldy bread except the mold has become one with the bread and tastes like an entirely different substance. Like an alien."
"Like an alien," Geto agrees, still chuckling a bit behind his fist as they retreat to a corner in the bustling plaza of the indoor shopping mall, filled with people surely here to escape the heat. "Like dusty dynamite if it could even be called that," he compares, and Yuuji can't quite help but agree with that.
The previous altercation with Gojo forgotten, Yuuji hastens to bring another comparison over as they begin to walk downstairs absently, as most people are marching to the top of the shopping mall and the Gojo he knows would always head to where the people are, though Geto doesn't need to know that. "Like those mummies in Egypt, but food-ish."
Geto laughs again, and this time, Yuuji joins in.