Archive of Our Own

There were two distinct periods of Mimiko and Nanako’s lives: Before Geto-sama, and after Geto-sama.

It went without saying which was better. Their biological parents died when they were so young that all they could remember was the vague warmth of affection and the pulse of cursed energy—both things Geto-sama supplied in abundance. All that really stood out about the before was the cage, the pain, the fear. And then Geto-sama had set them free in more ways than one, shown them another way to live.

That night also split Geto-sama’s life into a clear before and after. Unlike Mimiko and Nanako, though, his before was a full life of its own.

He was young, too, when he met them, and only when they were closer to his age would they realize just how young, marvel anew at what he’d accomplished. But seventeen years still encompassed far more experiences and memories than five could.

Mimiko and Nanako, who hadn’t shared those years with him, only got fleeting glimpses into them. Geto-sama didn’t often speak of his past uninvited, and the information he gave when directly asked tended to be clipped, cursory, phrased so as to neither shut down nor invite further inquiry.

The desire to not upset Geto-sama always won out over any curiosity Mimiko and Nanako might have had. He never got truly angry with them, but his lapses into solemn silence and calm withdrawal, not even intended as punishment, were more troubling than the brutality and vitriol they’d long borne from others.

Still, on occasion, he let fragments of that old life slip, and Mimiko and Nanako noticed and held tight to each one.

After all, even if they could never be patched back together, the individual shards of a broken stained-glass window were still beautiful, weren’t they?

*

Blood dribbled down Mimiko’s leg. She followed its trail from her knee all the way down her calf. When it disappeared behind the jut of her ankle, she returned her gaze to the scrape where it had originated. Another bead was already forming.

It hurt a little bit. Not much. She had been hurt far worse. But it did sting, and it worsened when she tried to move, and the longer she sat here alone, the more it throbbed.

She and Nanako had been playfighting outside. Geto-sama said it was probably healthy for them to fight a little, and that part of being sisters and best friends was being able to take their aggression out on each other without hurting anyone’s feelings or bodies, so they were accustomed to lightly wrestling back and forth from time to time.

But then Mimiko had yanked a little too hard on Nanako’s hair, and Nanako had retaliated by shoving her. Which would have been okay if Mimiko hadn’t lost her balance and toppled over.

She’d heard her knee hit the rocky ground—a sharp, heavy thud—before she felt the impact. Above her, Nanako, arms still out, had gone pale.

Mimiko! she’d cried. Mimiko, I’m sorry, are you okay?! Without waiting for an answer, she’d added, I’ll go get Geto-sama, you stay here! and run away.

Mimiko, with no other choice, had indeed stayed. Nanako had taken her phone with her, so she didn’t know how long it had been. The sky was the same color, and the breeze hadn’t picked up, so probably not very long. But to Mimiko, it felt like ages.

She kept staring at her knee. Kept feeling the pain build and build. Kept clenching and unclenching her fists in the dirt on either side of her.

The instant she started crying was also the moment Geto-sama arrived.

His footsteps halted, then rushed toward her. “Mimiko, are you all right?” Blurry as her vision was, she didn’t need to blink the tears away to recognize his form kneeling before her. “Does it hurt?”

Mimiko started to shake her head and then turned it into a nod, and then tried to do both at once. “I—it hurts. But that’s not—I—” She couldn’t say more. She didn’t like talking a lot on a normal day, let alone now, with her thoughts muddled by pain and fear and this thick lump in her throat.

“Okay,” Geto-sama told her. “Okay. It’s okay. I’m here, Mimiko.” A firm hand came up to rub her back. He had something in the other hand, but she couldn’t clear her vision long enough to tell what. “Can you stay still while I clean it up a little?”

A washcloth, Mimiko realized when the damp fabric touched her skin. She could feel every discrete bristle, every cold drop of water, and she couldn’t help but whimper and squirm back.

“I know, I know, but I have to.” When Mimiko just shook her head, Geto-sama called, “Nanako, come here.”

More footsteps came thumping over. Nanako was crying, too—Mimiko couldn’t really see her face, but she could tell from her wet breathing.

“Sorry,” she heard through it. Another hand, smaller and clammier than Geto-sama’s, clamped around Mimiko’s. “Sorry, Mimiko, I didn’t mean to, I was just—”

“It’s okay,” Mimiko mumbled, squeezing back. “It’s okay, Nanako, I know, I’m—”

“Never mind that for now,” said Geto-sama, not unkindly. “Nanako, can you distract your sister for a minute? Just talk to her, or show her something on your phone.”

Nanako sniffled and fumbled it out of her pocket. Mimiko blinked her tears away long enough to focus on the playlist of cat videos she pulled up, even as, out of the corners of her eyes, she could see Geto-sama lower the washcloth again.

She was reminded of the night they’d met: The horror on his face when he’d first seen her and Nanako; the fresh fury when they stepped into the light and their cuts and bruises came into full view. He’d apologized softly, over and over, as he cleaned the blood away, dressed the wounds he said were infected or likely to become so. Mimiko’s left eye had still been swollen shut, so she’d tracked him with only the right, moving her head if she had to no matter how it made her neck ache. He’d noticed and stayed out of her blind spot from then on, not just that night but until it healed.

His attention had been on them, but also not: He’d kept checking his phone, going to almost tap something before dropping it, muttering to himself. A few times he’d looked at them in deep concentration, raised his hands, and had to scoff and turn away, frustrated, when whatever he was trying didn’t work.

“There,” Geto-sama said now, and Mimiko pulled herself back into the present. Her eyes jumped away from a repeating clip of a tiny kitten sneezing. “It wasn’t very deep, so it should heal on its own, if you keep it bandaged.” He gave them a considering look before smiling. “And if Nanako doesn’t push you again.”

“Geto-sama!” wailed Nanako. “That’s not funny!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Geto-sama wiped a hand over his face to clear his expression. “You learned your lesson, though, didn’t you?”

Mimiko drew her leg up to see the Hello Kitty band-aids Geto-sama had applied. It took three to cover the scrape. She ran her finger down them and winced back when it made her knee ache anew.

Some sorcerers could heal themselves and others, Geto-sama had explained recently, through a very specific application of cursed energy—he was not, however, one of them. I went to school with two people who could, he’d said, but I never understood what they were talking about. Under his breath, probably not meant for them to hear, he’d added, Maybe I should have tried harder to listen.

So there’s something even you can’t do, Geto-sama? Nanako had said, voicing the bewilderment Mimiko shared. But you’re the strongest there is, aren’t you?

Geto-sama’s face had gone the coldest they would ever see it. I’m not, he’d said, so harshly they froze. He’d blinked, then, and thrown up a smile. I am strong, of course. We all are, as sorcerers. But everyone has their own individual skills and weaknesses. When it’s only us left, no one will have to stand alone as the strongest.

Mimiko wondered if Geto-sama was thinking of that right now, too, as he eyed her bandages with that same muted frustration. She turned her attention inward, focused on her cursed energy. Could she…?

She gave up after only a few seconds. If Geto-sama himself couldn’t even explain how it worked, let alone do it, she doubted she could figure it out.

“Geto-sama,” said Nanako, calmer but still a little nasal, “I don’t think Mimiko can walk.” Mimiko was about to protest, but then: “So can we ride one of your curses inside?”

Geto-sama looked between them, sighed fondly, and summoned one.

*

Nanako collected things.

What and how intensely varied over time. At nine, she’d developed an obsession with elaborate kanzashi, then hand fans. Last year, it was fancy dangly earrings, even though she still hadn’t convinced Geto-sama to let her pierce her ears. Six months ago, it was first-generation Tamagotchi.

For the past three months, it had been phone charms.

Cute, creepy, expensive, cheap, hard plastic, soft and fluffy, animals, electronics, familiar characters, ones she’d never seen before—it didn’t matter. If Nanako liked it, she liked it.

Geto-sama didn’t understand her recurring fascinations with “monkey trinkets,” as he called them, but he indulged her nonetheless. Once, after he’d handed Nanako a luxurious set of glitter pens to replace the pen of his she’d borrowed and then lost, she had overheard Manami telling him, I don’t mean to criticize your personal life, Geto-sama, but… are you sure that you’re not overly spoiling the twins? At this rate, they’ll turn out to be shameless, spoiled adults.

Nanako had wanted to jump around the corner, phone in hand, and show Manami just how shameless she could be. Before she could do more than tense, Geto-sama had said, If there were really anything I couldn’t get them, I’d say so. But what’s to be gained from denying children things they can have, just to teach them something? The kind of world they should inherit is one in which there’ll be no shame in wanting things, and no barriers to acquiring them. That’s the lesson I’d like them to learn.

So Nanako got the things she wanted, and right now, that was charms and phones to put them on. She had to update her phone every so often for her technique—and because she just liked shiny new things—but every year the available spaces to decorate seemed to shrink. Nanako never threw any of her collections out even when she was no longer actively building them, so she still had quite a few older models, and when they too ran out of room, she just stockpiled more.

The very first phone Geto-sama had bought her back in 2008, a pink Sharp flip phone, had amassed a particular slew of charms. At first Nanako just wanted to cultivate little themes, but as she pinned more and more cute pink charms to it, she started to get curious about how many she could fit on. It looked by now a bit like a curse of Geto-sama’s that had so many limbs that when they fanned out, it formed some weird solid sphere around the rest of the body, individual digits only visible with an occasional ripple of movement.

The number of charms also made the phone too heavy to practically carry, which kept it safe and secure in the box in which Nanako stowed it. She brought it out on occasion, though, just to see Geto-sama and Mimiko’s expressions.

“If my technique doesn’t work,” she said to Geto-sama one day, swinging the phone so all the charms clanked together, “then I can just throw this.”

“You can barely hold it.” Geto-sama seemed torn between amusement and continued bemusement. His eyes followed each circle the charms made. “Have you considered doing something else with those charms?”

Nanako tilted her head. “Like what? They’re phone charms, aren’t they?” Her hand was starting to hurt, so she put the makeshift bludgeoning weapon down. “What purpose do they serve just lying around somewhere, not attached to anything?”

Geto-sama quirked his head right back at her. “Do they serve much of a purpose even when attached to something?”

“Of course!” Nanako fumbled for an example and could only come up with: “They look really nice!”

“…Of course.” Geto-sama covered his mouth, smile still visible between his fingers. “That is very important, I’m sure.”

“Well, why do you have a charm on your phone, then, Geto-sama?”

Geto-sama blinked. “This phone?” He retrieved the new-ish (though not newest) smartphone he used—rarely—for cult business from his sleeve. It didn’t even have a case, and though it was off right now, Nanako knew Geto-sama hadn’t changed the default wallpaper either; it definitely didn’t have a charm attached.

Nanako gave him as unimpressed a look as she could. “Your other phone. The old one.”

His blank expression wavered, then cracked back into a smile. “Oh, all right. I should know better than to think I can hide anything like that from you.”

He returned the phone to his sleeve and withdrew another, the ancient slider phone he’d had when he first met Nanako and Mimiko. Despite how often he carried it on him, Nanako had never seen him use it for anything—not to send texts or make calls, not to play games, not even to check the time. Which meant its sole purpose had to be as a container for the charm dangling from it.

The string of star-shaped beads spun and clicked gently as Geto-sama turned the phone over in his hand. The white koi clipped onto the end caught the light.

Geto-sama stared down for a long moment. “It was a gift,” he said finally. “From a friend, a long time ago.” He toyed with the edge of the phone, then tucked it, too, away again. “So its only real purpose is sentimental value.”

If Nanako squinted, the fish’s glowing afterimage was still dancing through the air. “But that’s the real point of these, too,” she said, softer, nudging at her charms. “They’re gifts from you, after all.”

Face hollowed out again, Geto-sama turned toward her. He blinked twice before smiling again and setting his hand atop her head.

“All right, I understand.” Nanako grinned up from beneath her ruffled bangs. Geto-sama curved his eyebrows down for an approximation of sternness. “Just don’t actually hit anyone with that or any of your other phones unless I say you can, okay?”

Dutifully, Nanako bowed her head. “Yes, Geto-sama.”

The phase only lasted for another month or two, and Nanako moved on to other collections. But the charms and the phones to which they were attached stayed in their designated box, and Geto-sama’s own phone and the charm hanging from it stayed close at hand.

*

Unlike her sister, Mimiko prioritized quality over quantity. She had only a few treasured belongings, but she really treasured those belongings. She took very good care of them and was always conscious of their location and status; if something happened to any of them, she was prone to freezing or outright panicking.

Her doll was her most prized possession of all. It was important for her technique, but she had had it since before that revealed itself, and she’d protected it almost more than she did her own body, kept it within arm’s reach at all times. On the nights in the village when they dragged Nanako from her, unwilling to let them even find comfort in each other, she still had something to cling to. When her cuts or eyes or both wept, she could turn and rest her head on something soft.

Even years from then, perhaps because of those foundational associations, it acted as a constant source of security. The few times she relinquished it, it was with great reluctance, and only because she really, truly had to. Most often, that was because it had been damaged in some way.

It had been riddled with visible stitches as far back as she could remember, probably part of the original creepy cute design, and had only acquired more over time. A few originated from Mimiko and Nanako’s rare handful of serious fights, when Nanako, knowing the doll’s exact value, deliberately tore at the seams, making Mimiko scream and throw things and bolt at the mere sight of her sister until they made up. It was also just an old, well-loved doll, though, and most were the result of everyday wear and tear.

No matter the cause of the wounds, Geto-sama was always available for emergency surgery.

After she’d woken this morning to find one arm hanging halfway off, only still attached by a narrow thread, Mimiko had run to him in tears. He’d put down his half-full tea to get his sewing kit. No words were needed.

Geto-sama assessed the severity of the damage, then spread out his tools. Mimiko was never able to relax until she knew it was fixed, and she just liked being by Geto-sama anyway, so she perched herself nearby and watched.

He held up two spools. “Red thread, or black?”

Mimiko glanced from one to the other. “Black,” she decided. Some things were better off hidden; some things were best put proudly on display.

Geto-sama smiled approvingly. He felt the doll’s side again, muttered, “Some fresh stuffing too, I think,” and set a handful aside before getting to work.

Just coming here had dried Mimiko’s eyes, and she wiped the remnants from her face to clear her vision. She followed each of Geto-sama’s movements with rapt attention.

He had been skilled at this since before he even met them. In those first few days, he’d spent evenings stitching their torn clothes back together with such obvious practiced ease five-year-old Mimiko could tell. One night, still trying to figure out whether their savior was human or an angel—even a god—taking the form of one, she had watched through her uninjured eye as he confidently pulled a needle in and out of his own bloodied shirt. He’d glanced over at her after a while, flashed a small, reassuring smile.

Now, Geto-sama carved an even cleaner path through the fabric. Like his curses, sometimes careful precision was required, and sometimes it called for blunt, violent force.

“Geto-sama,” said Mimiko, and he hummed without looking up. “When did you learn how to sew?”

Another soft sound of consideration. “I was always sort of interested in it,” he said, simultaneously absent and all too present, “but where I’m from, most boys weren’t taught that kind of thing.”

Recalling her own hometown for a split second, Mimiko slid closer. Geto-sama’s eyes flickered toward her, but he didn’t acknowledge it aloud.

“When I was older and on my own, though,” he continued, “I had a friend who didn’t take very good care of his things. Or himself.” He chuckled under his breath. “We had another friend who could fix his body, so I decided to learn how to fix his belongings. Our teacher covered the basics, and I picked the rest up from reading and practicing.”

“Did your friend… appreciate it?”

Geto-sama laughed again, fuller-throated. “No,” he said, though not angrily. “He was very rude and ungrateful. Not at all like you, Mimiko.” He paused in his sewing to pat her head. “He didn’t get why anyone wouldn’t just buy a replacement for something they damaged, or why, if they had to keep it, they wouldn’t just hire someone to take care of it. He even tried to foist that kind of ‘menial work’ off on our underclassmen.”

Mimiko’s gaze darted back and forth, unsure whether to follow the motion of the needle or Geto-sama’s face. “But you kept doing it?”

His smile thinned ever so slightly. “Mm, I did.” He angled the needle higher. “Maybe to prove something to him, or maybe just because I liked it. After all, the strong should only have to depend on themselves, in the end.”

Mimiko had nothing more to say to that. She didn’t have to: Geto-sama drew the loop closed, snipped off the end of the thread, and patted the newly reattached arm. It bounced a little more than it had before, thanks to the additional stuffing, but otherwise stayed in place.

“There we are.” Geto-sama, smile as broad as if it had never dimmed, handed the doll back to Mimiko. “Good as new.”

She wasted no time in squeezing it against her chest. “Thank you, Geto-sama.”

“Of course.” Though his tea had to have gone cold, Geto-sama sipped placidly from it.

At the door, Mimiko halted and turned back. “Next time,” she said, muffled by her doll’s head, “could you teach me how to sew it up myself?”

Geto-sama swallowed and lowered his cup. “At your age,” he said carefully, “it’s still all right to rely on others a bit, you know.”

“I know,” Mimiko hurried to say. She buried her face deeper, leaving only her eyes visible. “I just want to learn. Like you did, Geto-sama.”

He studied her for a moment longer before smiling anew. “Then I would be glad to teach you, Mimiko.”

*

“Geto-sama! Say cheese!”

At the sound of Nanako’s voice, Geto-sama turned automatically, a smile washing over the neutral expression he’d been wearing a second earlier. The instant camera’s shutter clicked.

Nanako, cheeks puffing out, spun on her sister. “Hey, he didn’t say it yet, Mimiko.” Since she didn’t yet have much control over her technique and they weren’t totally certain what kinds of cameras it worked with, Mimiko got to be the sole camerawoman, but Nanako was still calling most of the (literal) shots. “You’re only supposed to take the picture after he does.”

“Sorry.” Mimiko shrugged, not at all apologetic. “It was a good angle, and he was already smiling, so…”

“That doesn’t matter! It’s about the—the—” Nanako sputtered herself to a halt and just snatched the film loose. “It’s about something, okay? It’s not gonna turn out as good as it would have if Geto-sama had gotten to say it.” She shook the picture with the same forceful flicks of a dog loosening rain from its fur.

“You don’t actually have to do that, you know.” Geto-sama’s smile widened slightly as he watched. “It’ll develop on its own. It’s a natural chemical reaction, nothing to do with motion.”

First Mimiko, and now even Geto-sama, too. With a disbelieving puff of breath, Nanako kept shaking. “I know. It’s fun, though, Geto-sama.”

Geto-sama let out one of his soft, distant laughs. “I don’t disagree.” His eyes flickered down, the glint in them ebbing. “But if you don’t hold off until after it’s ready, you might damage the print. See?”

“Eh? No way!” But when Nanako glanced back down, she saw that what should have been an almost perfect picture of Geto-sama was instead all blurry, like one of his windy curses had gotten to it. “Mimiko! You weren’t holding the camera steady enough, were you?!”

“Nanako,” Geto-sama chided.

Mimiko, adjusting the lens, didn’t even seem bothered, but Nanako backed off anyway. She gave the picture a scrutinizing look. It was still of Geto-sama, who could never look bad, and the blur was actually kind of a cool effect, so she tucked it into one of the protective sleeves he’d gotten them and slipped it into her pocket anyway.

“Take another one,” she told Mimiko, “and I won’t shake it. Just so we know for sure.” She widened her eyes at Geto-sama. “And this time, Geto-sama, you have to actually say cheese, okay?”

“Sure, sure.” Once Mimiko brought the camera back up, Geto-sama held up a peace sign and said, smile broadening indulgently, “Cheese.”

Mimiko took the shot. Nanako leaned close, but pointedly refrained from touching the camera or photograph at all. It turned out bright, clear, and not the slightest bit blurry.

“See?” Mimiko pulled it free. “Geto-sama was right.”

“I wasn’t saying Geto-sama wasn’t right! Geto-sama is always right.” Nanako wanted to yank the photograph out of Mimiko’s hand, but she didn’t want to damage it, so she settled for a gentler grab. “But he said it might mess things up, not that it’s always going to. So let’s go test it out on someone less photogenic.”

Mimiko’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be rude to Manami.”

“I didn’t say Manami!” protested Nanako. “You said Manami!”

“You were thinking about Manami.”

“Was not!” She had, in fact, been thinking about Toshihisa. Of course he was nondescript next to Geto-sama—everyone was—but even when he was standing beside Miguel or Larue, it was like he wasn’t in the same room or plane of existence at all.

“Girls,” interrupted Geto-sama, and they whirled back toward him. He was still smiling, though in the quiet way he sometimes did when he was thinking of something well beyond the present moment. “Before you do any of that, how about we take one of the three of us?”

Nanako blinked. Mimiko blinked too.

“Unless it’ll use up the last of your film, of course,” Geto-sama added.

“You just got this camera for us a couple of days ago, Geto-sama,” Nanako pointed out. “And with a bunch of refills. How would we have gone through all of that already?”

Geto-sama just looked at her. “I seem to recall you not only using up all of the film for the last instant camera I gave you,” he said lightly, tapping his chin, “but breaking the camera itself. All in under twenty-four hours.”

Nanako twined a lock of hair around her finger. “Yeah, okay, but that was like, so long ago.”

“It was four months ago,” said Mimiko, like it hadn’t been half her fault. More than, considering she had been in charge of taking all the pictures then too.

“At your age, four months is a long time,” allowed Geto-sama. He ducked his head a little. “And I broke the first instant camera I ever had, too, so I suppose I don’t have that much room to tease.”

“I bet that was just because you’re so strong, though, Geto-sama.” Geto-sama neither confirmed nor denied it, only continuing to smile that private smile. Nanako gestured him over with one hand and helped Mimiko adjust the camera with the other. “Here, come stand behind us.”

The three of them crowded into the frame. Mimiko held the camera out, minutely adjusting the angle.

“One, two—” Nanako counted down.

“Cheese!” all three said together.

At the last moment, Nanako swung her hand up to give Mimiko bunny ears. The grin she was already wearing took on a sharp edge.

When the photo came in, though, the smirk melted right off her face. “Mimiko!” she shrieked.

Mimiko had been holding a peace sign up behind her, too, gripping her doll limply by the back of the head to accomplish it. Instead of scolding either of them, Geto-sama just laughed.

*

The instant her feet landed back on the ground outside the temple, Mimiko exhaled, and a quiet knot unspooled from her shoulders. Spending the weekend on a training retreat (as Geto-sama had called it) or vacation (as Manami had actually put it down as in their shared calendar) had been nice, but she always felt the most secure back here. However reassuring Geto-sama and Nanako’s combined presence was, these wide, familiar walls had always offered the greatest safety.

It was still early in the day, but without anything scheduled, Geto-sama headed straight for his room. Having nothing else to do themselves, Mimiko and Nanako followed.

As they did, Nanako chattered away, mostly about the trip and where they could go next, waving her phone around to emphasize her points. Mimiko offered an occasional nod or agreeable mumble. Geto-sama wasn’t directly responding to any of it, but from his huffed laughs, he was listening to every word.

When he opened his door, though, the smile fell off his face, and he stopped dead.

It took Nanako a second to notice; Mimiko pulled her back by the sleeve before she could bump into Geto-sama. Looking past him, Mimiko could see what had frozen him: On the floor, near the window, lay a box. Small, cardboard, unremarkable—if not for the fact that Geto-sama always kept his room near spotless, and would never have left something like this out.

“Geto-sama—” she and Nanako started in unison.

“It’s all right.” Geto-sama’s blank expression was fixed forward. Slowly, he folded his arms, hands tucking into his sleeves. “I recognize the residuals.”

“Residuals?” said Nanako.

Mimiko concentrated like Geto-sama had told them to—the traces were the faintest she had ever seen, but they were present. She curled herself tighter around her doll. “So another sorcerer was here?”

“Not someone from Jujutsu High, right?” Nanako pressed the top of her phone against her chin. The case crackled in her grip. “If they know where we are—”

“The temple’s address is a matter of public record,” said Geto-sama, “so they’ve likely known for some time.” He glanced back and gave them a calm smile. “Don’t worry. If they were capable of doing anything, they’d have done it already.”

Mimiko’s eyes returned silently to the box. Geto-sama’s smile dimmed.

“It shouldn’t be anything dangerous.” He slipped his hands free and took a single step forward, then paused. “But just in case, girls—”

He gestured for them to stand back. Instantly, they did.

Geto-sama kept moving, socks noiseless on the tatami. He stopped before the box, casting it a considering look, and summoned a curse: A small creature of indistinguishable species that liked to run around monkeys’ legs and trip them, although it was plenty friendly to Mimiko and Nanako.

The curse sniffed around the edges of the box, bumped it with its head, and even prodded the lid open—but nothing happened. Geto-sama let it run over to Mimiko and Nanako for some quick pets, then dispelled it and crouched.

“It’s all right,” he called over his shoulder.

A small piece of paper had fluttered to the ground; Geto-sama picked it up. Mimiko, approaching, squinted across the remaining distance. All she could make out was a scrawl so messy she couldn’t tell if it was terrible writing or an even worse drawing.

And then she couldn’t make out anything at all, because Geto-sama had crumpled it.

He turned, smiling again, back toward her and Nanako. “Would you two mind,” he said, pleasant in the same kind of way he was around curse-collecting monkeys, “going and helping Manami sort through donations for a while? It’s been busy this season, so I’m sure she would appreciate your assistance.”

Manami never appreciated anyone’s help with her very strict, individualized system, but the dismissal was clear. Mimiko bowed her head and let Nanako lead her out by the hand.

Geto-sama watched them go from the doorway. Midway down the corridor, Mimiko glanced back, and he gave her a gentle wave.

As soon as they turned the corner, Geto-sama’s door closed firmly. Mimiko and Nanako continued along without looking back again.

As expected, Manami got annoyed with their “help” (which mostly consisted of Mimiko doing the work exactly as she was told to and Nanako questioning why she had to do it that way) and sent them away after about twenty minutes. They spent the rest of the afternoon in the usual way, getting in some training—a half-hearted hand-to-hand match followed by a more enthusiastic one using cursed energy—and then just messing around until the time Geto-sama tended to fetch them for dinner.

Today, though, he didn’t show up, and when they checked the dining hall and kitchen, he wasn’t there. Mimiko and Nanako exchanged glances and headed back to his room.

When they opened the door at his invitation, they found him sitting where the box had been, turning a different slip of paper—no, a photograph?—over in his hand. He set it down and smiled up at them.

“Was that what was in the box, Geto-sama?” blurted Nanako. Mimiko nudged her in the side. “Ow, Mimiko!” she hissed, but lowered her head. “Sorry, Geto-sama. You don’t have to tell us.”

“It’s all right. It was.” Geto-sama held the photograph up to show them.

Given permission, Mimiko crept a little closer. It was of a younger Geto-sama—maybe even younger than when he’d met her and Nanako, with shorter hair and rounder cheeks—alongside a white-haired boy and brown-haired girl around the same age. Neither Geto-sama nor the other boy were quite looking into the camera, busy poking each other’s cheeks with respectively annoyance and amusement. The girl, though, was flashing a grin around her cigarette and holding up peace signs behind both of their heads.

“Whoa, so retro,” said Nanako, for an apparent lack of anything else to comment on.

Mimiko shot her a look, but Geto-sama laughed. “It is a pretty old picture,” he agreed. He put it back down and stood, brushing his robes off. “I apologize, I let time get away from me for a while there. Are you hungry?”

Nanako’s attention shifted just like that—she bobbed her head in a nod. “I want kitsune udon,” she declared.

“Sure,” Geto-sama said easily. “I did just get some fresh tofu. What about you, Mimiko?”

Mimiko pulled her eyes from the picture and its immediate surroundings. “Kitsune udon sounds good,” she agreed, trailing Nanako and Geto-sama out.

The door closed, and the photograph and anything else had been stowed away by the next time it opened for Mimiko and Nanako.

*

Although Geto-sama never got actually angry with Mimiko and Nanako, he did sometimes get annoyed.

Breaking rules he had long since established was a surefire way to get his eyes twitching and his posture drawn up. Interrupting meetings with the money-collecting monkeys, directly engaging monkeys themselves without his advance approval, pushing back on their schedules for sleep or food or training—Nanako and Mimiko knew well not to do any of that without a good reason.

Nanako knew her question would be brushing up against his stern agitation, but she had to ask it. She took her time to build up to it to maximize the minimal odds of Geto-sama agreeing. She was polite and obedient all day, even more so than usual: No bickering with Mimiko, no disrespecting any other family members out loud (even though Toshihisa had totally been asking for it), no complaining about the ratio of vegetables to noodles in her dinner, no asking for a second serving of dessert afterward. Geto-sama asked if she was feeling all right more than once, but accepted her smiling of courses with little more than a warily fond glint in his eye.

Geto-sama was the most relaxed and indulgent late in the evening, after he’d bathed and was preparing to see her and Mimiko off to bed, so Nanako waited until then. She’d offered first to brush and braid Geto-sama’s hair, to soothe him even more.

Finally, she asked: “Geto-sama, can we go to the fireworks festival in the city this weekend?”

He went still. The tension that had all but vanished from the line of his back reappeared.

“If we stay far enough from the crowd,” Nanako went on, heartbeat quickening, “it should be okay, right? I know there are a lot of monkeys, which means a lot of curses, which means someone from the school might show up, but…” The braid was getting messed up, so she took a breath and steadied her fingers. “I really, really want to see it in person, Geto-sama. So can we?”

They didn’t have anything like Tokyo’s bustling summer festivals in the countryside; even if they had, Nanako and Mimiko would have hardly been welcome. Years of seeing the fireworks on TV and online, hearing them from just beyond the trees surrounding the temple, had carved a deep longing into Nanako’s heart.

Geto-sama faced her, jostling his half-formed braid. “It’s too dangerous,” he said, voice low but tone firm. That hope sputtered out like all fireworks themselves ultimately did. “I’m sorry, Nanako.”

The first time he’d told Nanako no more candy before dinner, she had pouted but returned her hands to her lap, and he’d stopped and blinked. I’m just not used to people listening when I say things like that, he’d said to her confusion, and brushed his bangs aside with a soft laugh. You can have one more piece of chocolate, okay? Just one.

So Nanako had learned that Geto-sama could be negotiated with. Often, it wasn’t even verbal—just a glance at her or Mimiko’s face and his shoulders would lower, and he would sigh and say just this once or all right, all right.

But even Geto-sama had his limits. By now Nanako could tell his serious no from his debatable no, and this was the former.

She hung her head anyway. “I understand, Geto-sama. I’m sorry for asking.”

When she reached back for his hair, Geto-sama caught her wrist.

“We may not be able to attend the festival like monkeys do,” he said, gentle in both volume and tone now, “but how about we hold our own?”

And so, that weekend, Nanako and Mimiko dressed in intricately patterned yukata and climbed aboard Geto-sama’s manta ray curse. He helped them up with practiced ease, then settled himself behind them, and off they went.

Instead of finding a spot to land and alight, they stayed in the air, even as trees gave way to buildings and dirt paths faded into streets. Geto-sama slowed them to a halt in a sequestered area with a clear view on all sides.

The cloudless night sky sprawled out around them. The stars seemed within arm’s reach; the ground—and all the monkeys standing upon it, shrunken to insignificant dots—seemed infinitely far.

“So high!” Nanako almost had to shout to be audible over the wind. “Geto-sama, how high up are we?”

“Probably a bit over a hundred meters,” answered Geto-sama. When Nanako leaned farther to the side, his hand clamped onto her shoulder. “Careful, careful!”

Mimiko chanced a look down for herself and immediately squeaked and had to bury her head behind her doll. Nanako caught a glimpse of the sickly tint in her cheeks and burst out laughing.

“You’re such a baby, Mimiko,” she teased, even louder so Mimiko could hear through the earplugs Geto-sama had given her. He’d handed some to Nanako, too, but she hadn’t put them in. “It’s just—”

Then the manta ray shifted in a way that reminded her how much yakisoba she’d eaten. Geto-sama had revoked his usual nutritional guidelines for today in favor of preparing them a bunch of apparently traditional street food, and as Nanako felt her face go even greener than her sister’s, she regretted how much advantage she’d taken of that just a little.

“Drink some water.” Geto-sama nudged a cup into Nanako’s free hand. Quieter, with barely restrained amusement, he added, “And if you have to throw up, do it off of the side. If you’re lucky, you might hit someone.”

That only made Nanako laugh harder, which only made her stomach contract harder. She managed to keep it down and look up just in time for the first firework to burst across the sky.

Anything else she might have said died in her throat. Her eyes opened as wide as they could; she didn’t blink until it started hurting, too desperate to take everything in.

Her hand shot to Mimiko’s shoulder, at first tapping as if to say pay attention, pay attention! and then just holding on tight. Mimiko brought her head up and clung back, and together they watched the show.

It was just as beautiful as Nanako had known it would be. The vivid colors and bright lights, the way they bloomed across the dark sky and then faded away. Some of the fireworks were big, proudly ostentatious; others were smaller, more boring on their own, but something about the combination worked. Geto-sama had of course found the perfect spot, too—the right distance, the right height, the right everything to make it all stand out that much more.

After a few minutes, Nanako’s ears began to ring, so she sneaked her earplugs in. It muffled the loud, heavy blasts, but she could still make out her own voice and Mimiko’s from their overlapping crows of awe.

Geto-sama stayed silent all throughout, just looking up with his lips subtly parted and the lights reflecting off of his dark eyes. When Nanako leaned heavier against him, he glanced down, flashed her a smile, and flicked his gaze back to the sky.

As all things had to, the show came to an end eventually, and they returned to the temple before anyone could notice them. Nanako was still bouncing with energy when she climbed off the manta ray.

“That was awesome!” she said before Geto-sama could even ask what they’d thought. Mimiko was a bit shakier on her feet, but she nodded along. “I bet we’re the only ones in the whole entire world, monkey or sorcerer, who’s ever gotten to see that.”

Geto-sama hummed thoughtfully as he waved the curse away. “Not the only ones ever,” he corrected. “But part of a select few, to be sure.”

Nanako’s excitement overpowered anything else that might have occurred to her. “Can we do that again next year?” she said, pulling at Geto-sama’s yukata sleeve. Mimiko slumped into his other arm. “And the year after that? And even after that? Can we, Geto-sama, can we?”

“Of course.” With a soft chuckle, he patted her head. “We can do anything. We’re…”

He trailed off, hand slowing atop Nanako’s scalp. Nanako could almost see the fireworks’ reflections lingering in his eyes, but when he blinked, they were gone.

“We’re family,” he finished, smiling. “But that’s for next year, and the years after. For now, I think it’s a bit past you two’s bedtime.”

That was another no Geto-sama wasn’t likely to budge on, so Nanako went without much protest. Mimiko was pretty much asleep the second she lay down; it took Nanako, wiggling restlessly in her futon, a bit longer, and when her eyes did close for the night, fireworks kept bursting against them.

*

Mimiko woke up shaking, sweating, gasping for breath.

Around her was a pitch-black void. It took a moment, as she struggled to shed the lingering film of her dreams, to remember what room this was, where and who and what she was.

Her skin burned with phantom bruises, itched with blood long since scrubbed away. Distant shouts still echoed in her ears. When she tried to move, ghostly hands—or some unearthly force, worse even than a real curse—seemed to hold her in place.

The instant they relented, Mimiko kicked her way out from underneath the duvet, the comforting weight now suffocating, and to her feet. She couldn’t quite make it, had to drop back down and half-crawl to the other futon. Her throat was raw and her mouth dry, but she managed to rasp out a cry of “Nanako, Nanako.”

When they’d first set up here, Geto-sama had said that they didn’t need to share a room any longer. Not passive-aggressively, like he thought they should and was phrasing it politely to make it their ultimate decision, but just expressing that they could have their own preferences, be their own individuals. He had done that since the beginning—gently letting them know that they only had to wear the same hairstyles and dress alike if they themselves wanted to, independent of any conditioned responses, and then shearing Mimiko’s hair and laying out matching clothes when they requested it anyway.

Nanako had said she did want to try having a room to herself. Mimiko hadn’t, but she’d accepted it, even shaking her head when Geto-sama asked if she wanted to stay in his room instead. They’d waved goodnight from across the hall and were then on their own.

They hadn’t even made it through one night. Two hours later, Mimiko heard rustling from the opposite wall and then her door banged open, and Nanako was stumbling in, mumbling a stream of apologies that lacked the exact word sorry: Mimiko, Mimiko, I had a dream, I dreamed you were—

And Mimiko, who hadn’t been able to fall asleep at all for fear that something would happen to Nanako and she wouldn’t even know until too late, just sat up and held her.

By the next day, their belongings were in a single, larger room. They had little areas within that they each considered theirs, but only the honor system separated them, not a solid wall. Even when they fought to the point of Geto-sama having to physically pull them apart, they always returned to the same room at night.

It was best on nights like these, when Mimiko could reach Nanako in a matter of seconds (or vice versa). The really bad ones were fewer and fewer these days, but Nanako was still so used to it she had reached up before she was even all the way conscious. Mimiko, sniffling, fell into her.

Often, just this could lull her back to sleep, restore the entire night from its brink of no return. But as the minutes dragged on, Mimiko’s breathing and mind both refused to settle. She didn’t have to so much as lift her head—Nanako realized almost as soon as she did, and was hauling them both up and out of the room in a blink.

With Nanako’s support, Mimiko was able to teeter along on her liquefied legs. Her clammy hand weakly squeezed the one Nanako had clasped around it. With the other arm, she pinned her doll to her chest.

When they stopped, Mimiko had to lean heavier against Nanako’s back. Nanako grunted but didn’t complain, too busy knocking at the door they stood outside.

“Come in,” a soft voice called from inside. Nanako shoved the door open.

Waking Geto-sama was never much of a concern. He didn’t sleep much—whether he couldn’t or chose not to, Mimiko didn’t know and didn’t need to know. Sometimes he spent the night working at the temple, holding late-night services and private meetings that often resulted in dead monkeys or new curses or both, and sometimes he left for places Mimiko and Nanako weren’t allowed to follow, returning well past midnight with bloodied robes but always visiting their doorway before his own room. Mimiko slept lightly even on good nights, so the creaking floorboards tended to wake her, but she never failed to stay still so Geto-sama could rest at ease.

Sometimes, like tonight, he just stayed up. Mimiko peeked past Nanako to see that he was dressed down to a plain yukata and was sitting cross-legged by the window with a book in his lap.

The smile he’d turned toward them with fell when he truly saw them. He stood, book thrown aside as if it had never been there at all. “Nightmare?”

Mimiko pressed her face back into Nanako’s shoulder by way of response. She felt more than saw Nanako nod for her.

“All right,” Geto-sama said softly. His futon was laid out but untouched, and he nudged it open now. “Lights off, or on?”

“On,” Nanako conveyed without having to glance back, and he nodded and lay down.

Nanako tugged Mimiko after him, and they settled themselves on either side. Their hands stayed interlocked across his torso.

The first few times this had happened, years ago, Geto-sama had shifted oddly—not like he wasn’t used to co-sleeping, but like he was used to doing it with someone larger or clingier. His arms fell too wide; the rest of his body hunched in too much. Only once had Mimiko woken before him, and when she’d gone to shake him awake, she’d ended up backing off as he rolled away and muttered for someone who wasn’t there to get off me, man, s’too early for your shit.

By now, though, Geto-sama lay in a way that was comfortable for all of them. His steady breathing gradually eased the ringing in Mimiko’s ears, and hers slowed to match his.

Soon, she fell back into sleep, this time dreamless and peaceful.

*

It wasn’t uncommon for cats to come to the temple. Strays were abundant in the city—another mark of the havoc monkeys wreaked on every other being—and it was natural for some to find their way here, perhaps as drawn to the beacon of Geto-sama’s charisma as anyone.

Geto-sama seemed to like or at least not mind animals, and anything that could attract and maintain guests was beneficial, so he let them stay. After Nanako had tried to put milk out for them, he’d gently instructed her on what real cats could and couldn’t digest, and together they’d created little stations of water and food. Refilling the bowls a couple of times a day became one of Nanako and Mimiko’s most anticipated daily tasks.

As similar as most of the cats looked, it was difficult to tell if they had repeat visitors. Considering they were strays, anyway, Geto-sama advised them not to get too attached to any specific faces.

For the past week, though, Nanako had been watching the same cat appear at the same time and then leave at the same time, like it had an internal schedule it was determined to keep. With its bright white fur, it stood out among the crowd of tabbies and calicoes. It looked less unkempt than the cats who had lived on the streets for years, too, its coat smooth and fluffy and its only clear scar a nicked ear.

It also never came to Nanako, no matter how loudly she called or made kissy sounds. She tried to entice it with a teaser one day, but it just seemed annoyed that she was bugging it while it was trying to eat. It let her get close, even pet it, but when it came time to go, it always went without a second glance back.

Mimiko thought it just didn’t like Nanako in particular, but she too failed to catch the cat’s attention when she tried. Nanako laughed in vindication as it wandered off.

Mimiko slouched over her doll, totally sulking even though she always shook her head at Nanako’s pouting. “I bet it would come to Geto-sama.”

The next day, he had a gap in meetings that happened to coincide with when the cat always appeared, so Nanako and Mimiko convinced him to join them. He observed from a distance for a few minutes. When the cat started to turn away, he took a few steps forward and gently tapped his foot on the ground.

The cat stopped and looked back. Geto-sama crouched and beckoned, and though its ears flicked back, soon it approached. Nanako’s eyes widened as it even leaned up to lick at his hand.

She rushed over. “Geto-sama! That was amazing! How did you do that?”

Geto-sama angled his hand away to reveal what was tucked between his fingers: A small treat. The cat gave a deep, displeased meow, and Geto-sama laughed and flicked the treat down to it.

“It probably can’t hear you calling,” he explained. “A high percentage of white cats with blue eyes are deaf.”

“Really?” asked Nanako, eyebrows rising now too. She inspected the cat’s ears, but aside from that little divot, they seemed normal enough.

“Why?” added Mimiko.

Geto-sama thought for a moment. “I don’t remember that much,” he admitted. “It’s some form of genetic condition, though. There used to be a cat just like this one at the convenience store not far from my high school.” He scratched the cat’s cheeks with a chuckle. “Well, not just like it. All of the other customers fed that one, so it was quite a bit fatter.”

Nanako squatted beside Geto-sama and carefully stroked along the cat’s side. “So it wasn’t just ignoring us?”

“It might have been. Sorcerer, monkey, or cat, no one can really know with any certainty what’s going on in anyone else’s mind.” Geto-sama’s gaze drifted for a few seconds. He cleared his throat. “But from how it responded to the vibrations—” his foot tapped again “—and scent, it seems more likely than not.”

Mimiko took the cat’s other side. “We just have to get its attention in other ways, then?”

“That’s right.” The cat’s tail was flicking under all the attention, and Manami’s heels were clicking toward them besides. Geto-sama stood and brushed himself off. “If it comes back again,” he said over his shoulder, “see if you can coax it inside, will you? If it is deaf, it’s particularly dangerous for it to be outside on its own.”

Geto-sama really did like animals, Nanako thought with a grin.

The cat returned day after day, and, newly equipped to handle it, Nanako and Mimiko brought it closer and closer to the temple doors. It refused, however, to cross the threshold with even a single toe. When they tried to pick it up, it hissed and swung out its claws in warning. They backed off, and it spent the rest of its obligatory hour watching them warily.

It became more accustomed to their presence over the subsequent weeks, and even ambled up to them of its own accord on occasion. But no matter what, it would not follow them inside.

“I suppose if we can’t even understand each other,” Geto-sama said solemnly, “it’s completely impossible to convince each other of our way of life.” He gazed off into the distance for a moment before giving a faint smile. “Still, in this case, there’s no harm in continuing to try.”

They did, still to no avail, and one day the cat just stopped showing up. Nanako and Mimiko kept a close eye out for almost a week, but sooner or later, with Geto-sama’s gentle goading, they had to give up any hope of that snow-white head cresting the steps again.

There was no way to know what had happened to it. The uncertainty made it that much worse.

Late at night, Mimiko told Nanako in shaky whispers that it had probably been adopted, taken in by someone who paid as much attention to it as they had, who knew how to care for it. Maybe even another sorcerer. Nanako thought she was a naive idiot, but she didn’t say so.

After all, she was one, too, for hoping the same thing.

*

Certain dates were important to Geto-sama.

Not national holidays—those only seemed to matter in terms of how many monkeys they attracted. For Buddhist observances like Hanamatsuri and Higan-e, as well as the first temple visits of each year, he really went all out, but as soon as he shed his kesa it was once more a normal day. On New Year’s Eve, he tended not to ring the bells himself, instead eating soba and listening to all one hundred and eight peals with Mimiko and Nanako. He didn’t even acknowledge Valentine’s or White Day until the year Mimiko and Nanako decided to learn how to handmake chocolate, after which they had an annual exchange of kazoku-choco.

But a few dates throughout the year, otherwise unremarkable, had some clear personal significance. He had never directly commented on most of them, but across time the patterns revealed themselves.

Once in spring and once in late summer, for instance, he would light incense and sit rigidly before the sticks until they burned out. It was plain that it was in remembrance—plain to Mimiko, at least, who glared at Nanako when she asked Geto-sama about it—but for whom, he didn’t say, and Mimiko also rejected Nanako’s attempts at private speculation.

And then there was the day in December where he also usually withdrew into work, making it if it wasn’t already plotted out. In the gaps between, Mimiko had seen him holding his old phone, sliding it open and shut again and again, always ultimately casting it aside. By morning he was always back to normal, and that one Mimiko and Nanako were both hesitant to ask after.

Mimiko and Nanako’s birthday was important in a far warmer way. Neither could remember the exact date, just the general season, and so they chose a different day to celebrate on each year, taking Geto-sama’s schedule carefully into account. He made increasingly lavish full-course meals, including desserts, and brought in whatever presents they wanted, and let them hang out with their favorites among his curses. The gift they cherished most, though, was just getting to spend time with him.

In turn, Mimiko and Nanako made a big deal of Geto-sama’s birthday. He hadn’t let them know about the first birthday he’d have spent with them until it was long passed. After they’d overcome their shock, they’d agreed to make up for it on every subsequent birthday.

He had met their horror with nonchalance, even amusement. “At my age, I really don’t think much of it,” he had said, “so you shouldn’t either.”

That was the only thing Geto-sama had said or could ever say that Mimiko and Nanako had completely, immediately disregarded.

They didn’t have enough money or the capacity to travel far enough to reciprocate Geto-sama’s material gifts, though, and he didn’t want or need anything like that anyway. After that first chocolate-making incident, they had been banned from being in the kitchen without close supervision, so they couldn’t surprise him with food either.

If there was one thing jujutsu sorcerers could do well in the face of limited resources, it was get creative. One year, they holed up in their room for almost a month folding origami in the shape of as many of his curses as they could. Another, they’d made little activity coupon cards. The next, in collaboration with Manami, Miguel, Larue, and Toshihisa, they renovated half of the temple by hand so the money a bunch of monkeys had donated for that very purpose could be used elsewhere.

Once Nanako tried to sneak out to locate a powerful curse for him; Mimiko got so nervous after just fifteen minutes with no contact that she went and told Geto-sama, resulting in the worst lecture Geto-sama would ever give them. They had a quiet, stilted night in at home, nothing special about it at all, that year. On most of his birthdays, though, despite any personal ambivalence, Geto-sama took in their offerings or just the thought thereof with pleasant appreciation.

Because of his strict adherence to such routines, it came as a surprise when, on an ordinary day not long before he was to deliver his declaration of war to Jujutsu High, he summoned just the two of them to a feast in the dining hall.

“I’m not complaining, Geto-sama,” said Nanako, who had started eating almost before the itadakimasu was all the way out of her mouth, “but what is this for?”

“Nothing in particular.” Geto-sama, focusing more on watching them eat than eating from his own plate, huffed at their respectfully disbelieving glances. “But… if all goes according to plan, we should be quite busy in the coming months, so I wanted to make sure that we celebrated your upcoming birthday before we got too distracted.”

Nanako swallowed her mouthful and looked wide-eyed at Mimiko. Mimiko was already looking back.

“If it’s our birthday,” said Nanako after a beat, “then do we get presents?”

“Nanako,” Mimiko scolded, but Geto-sama just laughed.

“What kind of birthday would it be without them?” he asked.

Nanako received a new phone, a model that wouldn’t even officially be released for another few months; Mimiko, a small sewing kit and accompanying book that promised to cover every technique she would ever need. Geto-sama then handed each of them identical boxes.

They cracked them open in unison. Nanako’s eyes widened further.

“Earrings?” she almost whispered.

“Some starter studs,” Geto-sama explained, “and a couple of hoops and dangles.” Mimiko leaned over to compare the sets she’d received to Nanako’s; they were similar in design and shape, but Nanako’s were fittingly flashier. “If you’re willing to wait a little longer, I’ll pierce your ears myself in a few weeks. I want to make sure they have the time to heal properly, after all.”

Nanako was the one who really, really wanted pierced ears, but Mimiko wasn’t opposed to the idea, and nodded along with her sister. They made eye contact again, set the boxes down, and both stood and threw their arms around Geto-sama.

“Thank you, Geto-sama!” they said together.

“Of course,” said Geto-sama, laughing again.

They sat back down and finished their dinner; all throughout, Nanako kept glancing at Mimiko with a clear question in her eyes, and Mimiko kept shaking her head and mouthing after. If Geto-sama noticed, he said nothing, but he did sit back expectantly when their plates were all but licked clean.

“Your next birthday present is actually almost done, too, Geto-sama,” Nanako admitted then.

“It’s not all the way done,” added Mimiko, “but it can be added to later anyway, so…”

“Do you wanna wait until your actual birthday?” Nanako asked. “Or is it okay if we give it to you now?”

Geto-sama had steepled his hands beneath his chin, and he tapped one finger in idle consideration. “It’s up to you two. Like I’ve said, celebrating my birthday isn’t that important to me.”

“Okay!” Nanako bolted up. “I’ll go get it then!”

When she returned after a few minutes, it was with a hastily wrapped object clutched to her chest. Mimiko gave Nanako a sharp look at the quality of the wrapping, which had not been in place the last time Mimiko saw what was inside. Nanako shushed her and just handed the package over to Geto-sama.

He popped open the tape as delicately as if it had been more properly wrapped. Mimiko leaned forward, attention rapt, as he revealed the book inside.

“It’s a photo album,” Nanako explained. “We put it together all by ourselves. Well, Manami gave us some of the pictures, but we actually put them in.”

Geto-sama’s eyes trailed between them, then back down. He gently cracked the album open and began flipping through.

“There are still a lot of empty pages,” added Nanako, “so you can put your own pictures in, if you want.” She fidgeted; Mimiko knew they were both thinking of the box Geto-sama had received some years ago now. “Or we can all add more later, as we take them.”

Geto-sama kept turning pages. He paused for particularly long on the photographs from their latest summer festival, when, in addition to watching the fireworks display downtown, he’d given Mimiko and Nanako sparklers to play with at home. He still said nothing.

“Geto-sama?” Nanako’s smile faltered. “Do you… like it?”

Silently, Geto-sama closed the book, set it down on the table, and stood. He took two short but pointed steps forward, bent down, and pulled Mimiko and Nanako both into a hug.

“Thank you, Nanako, Mimiko,” he said. “It’s wonderful.”

Across Geto-sama’s shoulders, Mimiko could see Nanako’s resurgent grin almost split her face in two. Mimiko smiled herself, if more restrained, and pressed her head against Geto-sama’s shoulder.

When he pulled back, he kept his arms around them. “I really can’t even begin to tell you two,” he said, smiling with his eyes low, “how grateful I am to you. Not just for this—” he nodded to the “—but for the last ten years.”

“Us too,” Nanako blurted. “We really appreciate you, too, Geto-sama.”

Mimiko bobbed her head in agreement. “We’re so grateful to you. We—” she started, only to stop. Things like that had never been spoken aloud between the three of them.

They clearly didn’t need to be, either, because Geto-sama just smiled and brought them back into an embrace.

*

They made it to the crepe shop on time, if only barely. Larue had something else to do, Nanako guessed—she wasn’t paying attention, too busy running to get in line, but when she glanced back only Geto-sama and Mimiko were waiting, standing a careful distance from the monkeys. And then she was next up, and she really wasn’t thinking about anything else.

She ordered a strawberry shortcake crepe for herself, banana chocolate for Mimiko, and boba tea for them both. They’d looked up the menu online and decided what they wanted in advance, but actually seeing the display of so many different flavors in person, Nanako wanted to try them all—she would have to ask Geto-sama to bring them back here sometime.

She threw him another considering look. He’d said he didn’t want anything for himself, but…

“Oh, and one chicken teriyaki crepe,” Nanako added. They had the money, after all.

When she offered it to Geto-sama, he blinked and started to open his mouth.

“I know, Geto-sama,” Nanako rushed to say—he hadn’t spoken yet, so she technically wasn’t interrupting. “But you haven’t eaten anything but curses all day, have you?” He had only had enough time to make breakfast for her and Mimiko, not join them, so it seemed more probable than not. “I got you one of the savory ones, too. Since you don’t like sweet things very much, right?”

“I don’t particularly dislike them, but…” Geto-sama eyed the crepe for a moment longer, then just took it with a smile, eyes almost pinching shut. “Thank you, Nanako.”

Nanako grinned. She turned to go, and a passing monkey bumped into her. Or maybe she bumped him, or they bumped each other, but who cared. The man, apparently, from the dirty look he turned on Nanako—he even lingered to mutter something unkind about her makeup and the high hem of her skirt.

A shadow crossed Geto-sama’s face, and he snapped his fingers. In a flash, a giant, dark red leech had twined itself around the man’s body. Its mouth, filled with a sharp spiral of teeth, latched onto his neck.

The guy was such a monkey he clearly couldn’t even see it—but from his squirming and gasping, he could feel it. Just as the curse took its first drink of blood, Nanako took her first bite of her crepe.

Her eyes widened. “So good!” she told Geto-sama and Mimiko. With her mouth still full, it came out more like sho guh.

“Swallow before you speak, Nanako,” Geto-sama advised gently.

She did. “Sorry, Geto-sama. But this place was definitely worth it. Don’t you think, Mimiko?”

Mimiko, nibbling at her own crepe, nodded. They both turned expectantly to Geto-sama.

He sighed and tried his. His face stayed a perfect mask of neutrality as he chewed, and he stayed silent for a moment even after he swallowed. “It is good,” he allowed at last, then tipped his head to the side. “For monkey food.”

He started to lead them farther down the street, then seemed to remember his curse. With a bored handwave, it disappeared, and the husk it had drained of all his blood flopped to the ground. Which of course made the other monkeys start freaking out.

Nanako and Mimiko exchanged eyerolls. Geto-sama sighed. He raised his arm, probably to summon the pelican again, but Nanako caught his sleeve.

“Wait, Geto-sama,” she said, big-eyed and a little whiny, “can’t we walk around for a while longer? We came all this way, I wanna see more of Harajuku.” Almost as importantly: “And I don’t wanna get all motion sick before I even finish my crepe.”

Geto-sama relented—though, with a mutter about monkeys and disinfectant spray, he still guided her and Mimiko away from the crowds.

In between bites and sips and the occasional click of her phone camera, Nanako couldn’t help but compare their current surroundings to Jujutsu High. After all the mystery Geto-sama’s vague comments had built up around it over the years, it was more than underwhelming. She got why Geto-sama, with his talent and ambition, had abandoned it and all it stood for. The bigger question was why all those other super strong sorcerers hadn’t.

“So that was the Gojo Satoru, back at the school?” Nanako asked. Geto-sama’s eyebrows twitched together at the apparent nonsequitur, but he made an affirmative noise. “He was a little skinnier than I expected.”

“Nanako,” Mimiko scolded. “Don’t be rude.”

“What? You thought so too, didn’t you, Mimiko?” Nanako shot Mimiko a look over her shoulder. Mimiko dropped her eyes to the ground. “I mean, I guess he looked pretty strong, but not like Geto-sama or even Miguel or Larue. I bet any of them, especially Geto-sama, could easily beat him if no one used their cursed techniques.”

“There are different kinds of strength,” said Geto-sama mildly. “And if he were dressed differently, you might think differently.”

Something else occurred to Nanako. “Oh! And for your ‘best friend,’ Geto-sama, he sure wasn’t very nice to you. He barely even acknowledged you at all.”

“Like I told you, we haven’t spoken in some time.” Geto-sama’s tone remained calm, pleasant. He adjusted his crepe in his hand without eating any more of it. “Believe it or not, there was a time when I wasn’t very nice to him.”

When he’d spoken to them of Gojo Satoru before, his calm assertation had confused Nanako. Best friend, like me and Mimiko? she’d asked, though drawing that connection only perplexed her more. She hadn’t been able to—and still couldn’t—imagine her and Mimiko fighting so fiercely that they fell out of contact altogether, became mortal enemies.

Geto-sama had let out a faint laugh. It wasn’t quite the same, he’d said, toying with the edge of the book he was reading without turning the page. Just as there are all different kinds of people, there are many different kinds of friendships. Satoru and I…

He’d paused. His foot had tapped idly while Nanako kept running the brush through his hair. Mimiko’s eyes had been closed where she sat to the side, but Nanako hadn’t doubted that she was listening just as closely.

Well, he’d said finally, it was just different. Not only from you two, but probably from most other friendships, too.

Nanako took in Geto-sama’s expression now. The lines of his face were relaxed, and he was even smiling, but his eyes were fixed on something far off in the distance.

A few things flashed through her mind: The close friends and classmates Geto-sama sometimes spoke of, always in past tense; the photograph that, having seen Gojo Satoru in person, she now knew featured a sixteen-year-old version of him, and the residuals that had accompanied its delivery; a koi charm hanging from a cell phone Geto-sama never used. She glanced at Mimiko and found the same images reflected in her gaze.

“Well, whatever,” Nanako decided, flicking her hair out of her face. “Miguel’s the only one who really has to worry about him.” She glanced down. “You should eat your crepe before it gets cold, Geto-sama!”

Geto-sama blinked away the fog. “Right, right,” he said, laughing, and took another bite.

*

It was after nightfall when Gojo Satoru brought Geto-sama’s body to them.

After completing their part in the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons, Mimiko and Nanako, as per Geto-sama’s orders, rushed back to the temple. A sharp eye had followed them, but neither Gojo Satoru nor anyone else pursued.

The plan had been for Geto-sama to return here with them once he killed Okkotsu Yuta and acquired his Queen of Curses, and for everyone else to reconvene in the following days. Instead, Mimiko and Nanako had spent hours waiting in silence.

When a shadow finally appeared atop the stairs outside, they both jolted up—only to freeze when they saw white hair and dark clothes.

Mimiko began to tremble. Nanako pulled them both out of eyeshot, and they watched without breathing as Gojo Satoru approached.

He was cradling something against his chest. At first, the distance and the cloth draped over most of the shape made it too indistinct to identify. It came into clarity a piece at a time: A dark sheet of loose hair hanging low, a torn sleeve billowing around a limp arm, sandals clinging just as weakly to dangling feet. Still, the jigsaw refused to assemble itself until the very second Gojo Satoru came to a halt, right in front of Mimiko and Nanako’s half-hearted hiding place.

He stood there for a moment, supporting the body with one hand under the knees and the other on his back, and then slowly lowered Geto-sama to the floor.

Nanako clutched at Mimiko. Mimiko, already reaching for Nanako, clutched her back. Neither could cry out—there was still no air in their lungs, no conscious understanding yet of what they were seeing meant.

Even in death, Geto-sama was serene, beautiful: Eyes closed, jaw slack, mouth curved ever so slightly into a smile. At a glance, in the dark, he could have almost been mistaken for sleeping.

But he wasn’t. His chest was still, and his right arm was reduced to a bloody stump, and his undone bangs couldn’t quite obscure the hole in his forehead, the mess the back of his head had collapsed into.

A low, calm voice cut through the silence: “Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”

Mimiko and Nanako’s heads snapped up. Not too far—Gojo Satoru had stayed crouching beside Geto-sama. The position would have seemed willfully equalizing, even subordinate, from anyone else, but it was impossible for Gojo Satoru to make himself look at all small or weak.

His eyes were uncovered, and as soon as they met Mimiko and Nanako’s, they had to look away. Geto-sama came across, especially to the average monkey, like he knew and saw all; the way Gojo Satoru looked at them, it was like he really, honestly did.

“What,” Nanako rasped, and had to clear her throat. Mimiko crowded closer to her. “What happened?”

“You have Okkotsu Yuta to thank for most of it.” Gojo Satoru indicated the general state of Geto-sama’s body with a wave of his hand. “But I was the one who actually killed him.” Without a single waver, he pointed toward Geto-sama’s head.

“I see.” Nanako steadied her breathing. Her hand crept toward her pocket. “Then…”

Her phone flashed into her hands.

Geto-sama had always told them never to engage anyone from Jujutsu High without his knowledge or approval, and to stay as far away as possible from Gojo Satoru in particular. Mimiko and Nanako always, always did what Geto-sama said, so they had never questioned him or had any cause to disobey. But now—well, now, Geto-sama was here, but he couldn’t approve or disapprove.

Mimiko grabbed the back of Nanako’s sweater. Unmoved, Nanako fumbled with sweaty, shaky fingers for her camera app. Gojo Satoru just watched.

The phone case creaked with the force of Nanako’s grip as she aligned the shot. She took a ragged breath in and released it. The camera’s focus flickered—one moment it was boxing in Gojo Satoru’s face, and the next it had blurred it to focus on the lines of Geto-sama’s body creeping into the very edges of the frame.

Mimiko’s fist curled in tighter. Finally, slowly, Nanako’s hands lowered.

“If it had to be someone,” she said, jerking her head away, “then it’s best that it was you. Geto-sama… Geto-sama would think it was appropriate, too.”

(After all, Gojo Satoru was…)

Gojo Satoru had already been considerably relaxed, but now he leaned back and let his arms hang off his thighs. “I agree,” he said. “I mean, I have already been set as his executioner for something like ten years. And even I was running low on excuses to give the higher-ups for why I wasn’t just rolling up here and blasting this whole place off the face of the planet.”

He huffed, scratching through his hair. He looked at or rather through Geto-sama’s body, then lifted his head with a conspiratorial smile.

“This—” he swept his hand toward Geto-sama again “—is really not at all what we’re supposed to do with sorcerers’ bodies, by the way. Definitely not Special Grade curse users, at that. So I’d appreciate if it stayed a secret, just between the three of us.”

“Who would we tell?” Nanako scoffed. “Like hell we’d willingly contact anyone connected to Jujutsu High.”

“That’s kind of a shame, honestly.” Gojo Satoru cocked his head. “Your techniques are pretty basic, but your mastery of them is impressive for your age—Suguru’s teaching, I’m sure. And you’d make for good socialization for the other two incoming first-years. Well, one of them for sure. Probably the other, too, but I haven’t actually met her yet, so she might be the rare well-adjusted sorcerer we get about as often as one with both Limitless and the Six Eyes.”

He snorted at himself. In Mimiko and Nanako’s unimpressed, increasingly cold silence, his face evened back out.

“Tough crowd,” he muttered. His eyes returned to Geto-sama. “Guess I can’t really blame you, though. For that, or for not wanting anything to do with Jujutsu High. Things are pretty fucked up over there.” He steepled his hands and used them as a chinrest. “Give it a few years and check back in on us, though. Hopefully by then I’ll have managed to make some changes.”

“Changes?” Mimiko spoke for the first time since he’d appeared.

Gojo Satoru glanced at her. Nanako stepped in front of her, even though it probably wouldn’t really block his view. Still, it made him smile again for a split second.

“There are a lot of things wrong with this world.” His voice remained steady, but carried with it a darker undercurrent, one that the cold glow of his eyes echoed. “Suguru was definitely right about that. The solution he came up with was just pretty crazy.” Under Mimiko and Nanako’s glares, he paused. “No offense. No, okay, actually, some offense. Can’t exactly have you thinking I condone any of this genocidal nonsense.

“It’ll take time,” he went on. “It might even take more bodies. But no matter what, I’m going to flip this shitty jujutsu world upside down. So things like this—” he nodded toward Geto-sama’s body “—don’t happen again.” His hands sagged back down; one curled into a fist. “You could do it, Satoru. That’s what he told me, and he was right about that, too. I’m just gonna find my own way to go about it.”

“Good for you,” Nanako bit out. There were different kinds of strength, as many as there were people and friendships, and Gojo Satoru’s was all too palpable. “But we believe in the same world as Geto-sama, and we’ll carry on his legacy.”

“Well, that’s your call.” Gojo Satoru shrugged. “As for me… this is the life I’ve chosen. All I can do now is give it all I’ve got.” His face twisted into a wry, private smile akin to those Geto-sama would sometimes wear. “Sounds familiar, huh, Suguru?”

He extended his hand. As soon as it neared Geto-sama’s remaining arm, Nanako snapped, “Don’t touch him! Haven’t you done enough already?!”

She’d tried to jolt forward, too, but Mimiko grabbed her sleeve. Gojo Satoru, hand still hovering in mid-air, huffed out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“It’s okay, Nanako,” Mimiko said softly. “After all, he’s…”

Nanako’s teeth unclenched. She slid her foot back and lowered her head alongside her hackles.

“Oh?” Gojo Satoru brought his free hand to his chin. “What am I?”

Nanako and Mimiko looked at each other, then back at him. Together, they said, “Geto-sama’s one and only best friend.”

For a beat, he only continued looking at them. Then a thin, not entirely mirthful smile settled across his face. “…Yeah, that’s right. I am.” His head dipped back toward Geto-sama. “It’s the same for me. Suguru is my one and only best friend, too.”

Unopposed by Nanako now, he carried out the motion he’d begun by closing his hand around Geto-sama’s and raising it. His lithe fingers wrapped around Geto-sama’s broad, ashen palm.

After what seemed to Mimiko and Nanako like both a matter of seconds and an eternity, Gojo Satoru placed Geto-sama’s hand funereally at his waist. He started to reach for the other side, then seemed to remember he could no longer complete the pose. His own hand dropped back to his knee.

Like he wasn’t even aware of Mimiko and Nanako’s lingering stares—despite tossing them another glance—he reached back out. He rearranged Geto-sama’s bangs, traced the planes of his face, idly stroked the skull he had split open.

Then, with the slow, exacting care not unlike that with which Geto-sama wielded needles and curses, he bent low and pressed his lips to the top of Geto-sama’s bloodied head.

Once again, he seemed to stay there for both days and only the span of a single blink. When he pulled back, his mouth was moving, but if he was speaking it was too low for Mimiko and Nanako to hear.

At last, Gojo Satoru stood. Drawing himself up to his full height didn’t not make him more intimidating, but just as he’d been able to tell Nanako posed no real threat to him, she and Mimiko knew he meant them no further harm. He had already hurt them in the worst way he could, after all—and wounded himself as well.

As they stared each other down over Geto-sama’s body, a sudden sound burst through the silence. Nanako and Mimiko leaped for both each other and a swell of cursed energy.

Gojo Satoru waved his hand. “It’s just my phone. Could’ve sworn it was silenced, sorry.” He patted down his pockets, found a sleek model similar to Nanako’s, and thumbed it on only to scowl. “Ugh, Ijichi. I overheard you earlier, you know, and I agree—that guy is annoying as hell. Not gonna hang him for it, but I’ll definitely give him a good smack next chance I get.”

His words were overpowered by something else. Both Nanako and Mimiko had trained their eyes on the charm clipped onto the side of his phone: A string of star-shaped beads with a black koi at the end.

He turned his phone off, and both it and the charm vanished back into his pocket. “Well,” he said, shaking his head, “they’ll really lose their heads if they find out what I’m doing, so I’d better be on my way. I said all I wanted to, anyway.” He started to turn, and—

“Wait.” Nanako clapped a hand over her mouth, but Gojo Satoru was already looking curiously at her. “Geto-sama had a charm just like yours. Do you… want it?”

He was silent and still for a long moment. “Nah,” he said then, waving his hand. “I’ve got enough to remember him by already. That kind of thing should stay with his family.” He smirked a little. “Besides, how much do you actually want to hand anything of Suguru’s over to me?”

Nanako shrunk back. Mimiko tucked her chin into her doll. Gojo Satoru snorted again.

“Oh,” he added, tapping his chin, “speaking of, you can keep the shit I salvaged from his dorm too. Assuming he didn’t just toss it.”

He seemed to get his answer just from their expressions. He reached into his other pocket and withdrew the bandages he’d been wearing over his eyes earlier. Instead of putting them on or just leaving, though, he continued to watch Mimiko and Nanako.

“You two really loved him, huh?” His tone was at its lightest yet.

“Love,” Nanako corrected. They hadn’t ever said it aloud, hadn’t thought they needed to, but now… “We love Geto-sama. Just because he’s—” her voice cracked, and she swallowed over the omission “—doesn’t mean we’ll stop.”

Gojo Satoru just nodded. “You guys were the first thing he asked about, so, you know…” He began retying his blindfold. “I’m sure he felt the same.”

“Obviously.” It was all Nanako could get out before the tears burst forth. Her hand found Mimiko’s and squeezed it so hard it stung them both.

Mimiko swallowed the lump in her own throat to tell Gojo Satoru, “You too. Geto-sama… he loved you, too.”

One of his eyes was just barely visible, and it flitted toward her. That small, weary smile reappeared—and then disappeared along with the rest of him as he clapped his hands and was gone. Only Geto-sama’s body proved he had ever been here.

Nanako’s knees gave out from under her. Mimiko, never far behind her sister, sank to the floor beside her and Geto-sama.

In the coming days, the fractures in their remaining family, lacking Geto-sama’s unifying glue, would reveal themselves. In a matter of months, something else would have stitched itself into Geto-sama’s shattered skull and be walking around in his skin, smiling his smile, living a hollow facsimile of his life. In almost a year, Mimiko and Nanako would kneel in a nearly lifeless subway and beg for help from someone who would never grant it.

But that was then. This was now.

And for now, in a cold, dark, silent temple, two children bent over their father’s body and wept.