Chapter Text
You know, it’s hard not to admire the sheer dedication humanity has when it comes to survival.
Sendai had once been, for lack of a better term, completely flattened. Decimated. When you really think about it, it makes sense. Multiple special-grade sorcerers fighting within a radius small enough to turn the city into their own backyard playground were never going to leave much behind.
It still sucked, though.
Satoru did what he had to do. He knows that. If Sukuna had been left alive, there probably wouldn’t have been much of Sendai left at all, and maybe not much of anything else either. He saved thousands of people, possibly millions. Maybe all of humanity, if he wanted to put it that way.
But it was hard for him not to think about the people who had already been trapped inside the colonies. They had the chance to leave, after all. Most of them did.
Still, there was something horrible about knowing that so many ordinary people had been caught in the middle of something they probably didn’t understand. People who had gone to work, or school, or to the grocery store, only to find themselves living inside a battlefield. Knowing there was no other choice did not necessarily make the choice easier to live with.
Satoru walks along the outskirts of downtown Sendai, taking the smaller side streets whenever he can. There is more shade between the buildings here, which matters in the summer heat, but there are also fewer people, and that matters more.
He has taken his new position of something of a worldwide celebrity fairly well. Better than most people probably would, anyway. Sometimes he searches his own name on Reddit or Twitter just to see what people are saying. There are entire forums dedicated to him now. Fan accounts. Drawings. Videos. People arguing over what kind of food he likes or what he supposedly said in an interview.
Some of the fan art is actually impressive, on par with a Picasso or Gogh. Some of it is explicit, which sometimes includes Sukuna. Satoru learned very quickly that there are certain combinations of names that should not be typed into a search bar without thinking first.
Whatever.
After a while, though, he started to understand why celebrities wore hoodies, hats, and sunglasses whenever they went outside. He already had a third of that covered, although sometimes he wondered if the blindfold had become so recognizable that wearing it defeated the entire purpose. He could stop wearing them, but, he probably won’t.
Anyway, the curse he had been sent to exorcise is already gone. He has his sweets tucked beneath his arm, and there is nothing else he has to do right now. Something he’s still taking time getting used to. For most of his life, there was always another mission. Another curse. Another person that needed him because he was the strongest and, for a very long time, that had been reason enough.
Now, it isn’t. His students are older, stronger. Capable of taking care of things without him watching over their shoulders. That had always been the point, really. To raise a generation that would not need Gojo Satoru to fix everything for them. He spent years saying that, and eventually, he had to let them prove it.
So Satoru walks. He takes the long way through one of the quieter parts of Sendai, an area that had been fortunate enough to avoid most of the destruction. The buildings here are older and closer together, with narrow walkways between them and small porches that barely have enough space for a chair.
It feels normal, and Satoru has grown to appreciate normal. And that’s probably why the garden catches his attention. At first, it’s just a little patch of green.
The surrounding street slopes upward and toward the right, following an old stone wall that curves with it. Satoru is tall, but the incline is steep enough that he eventually pulls one hand from his pocket and rests it against the wall as he walks. It looks like it had been cobbled together decades ago, maybe longer, with weathered stone and old brick held together by cement that has started to crack in places.
The buildings block most of the sun here. Moss grows in those cracks, soft and dark green where the light has trouble reaching, and his fingers brush against it as he follows the wall upward. Sometimes they catch against a particularly rough piece of stone. Other times, without really thinking about it, he picks at the moss with the edge of his nail.
The more steps he takes, the more green fills his vision. By the time he rounds the curve, the wall is over his head. Satoru takes another step before stopping, one foot falling behind the other as he leans back enough to look over it.
Someone clearly has a hobby.
Green fills almost everything he can see, although the bushes lining the perimeter make it difficult to get a good look at whatever is growing further inside. The plants closest to the wall seem to be the ones that can tolerate the sun. Vegetables, mostly, packed together wherever there had been enough room to put them.
An old translucent storage bin has been repurposed into a home for tomatoes. Holes have been drilled along the bottom for drainage, and the plastic has yellowed from sitting outside for what must have been years. The tomato plant is enormous compared to what it’s growing out of, spilling over the sides and held upright by wooden stakes tied together with fishing line.
Cherry tomatoes, Satoru thinks. Or something small like them.
They hang in little clusters throughout the plant, all at different points in becoming what they’re supposed to be. Some are still green, freshly grown and almost hidden beneath the leaves. Others have started turning yellow, and a handful farther toward the top have finally reached a bright red.
There are herbs mixed between everything else. Basil grows thick enough that he can smell it before he can figure out where it’s planted. Rosemary somewhere nearby. Lavender adds little spots of purple between all that green, and then, of course, there is sage. For evil spirits presumably. Satoru looks at it for a second.
Seems to be doing a pretty shitty job.
He stops for a while, soaking in his surroundings. Above the wall that encompasses the garden is an old pergola. From where Satoru is standing, he still can’t get an accurate reading of how large the garden actually is, only little pieces of it wherever the greenery allows, but the pergola rises high enough that most of it is visible over the top.
It definitely needs some work. The wood has faded into a crispy, almost bleached brown from years of sitting beneath the sun, though Satoru imagines it had once been something closer to a chestnut. Maybe auburn. It’s difficult to tell now. Honeysuckle has wrapped itself around several of the posts and stretched along the beams overhead, mixing with another vine he can’t name. Something with smaller leaves that seems determined to occupy whatever space the honeysuckle hasn’t already claimed.
There are probably more. Actually, there’s definitely more. Someone has allowed the entire thing to become less of a pergola and more of a structure plants happen to be holding together. He kind of likes it. It’s neat.
He stands there longer than he originally intended, taking in the sight of a garden that is very clearly flourishing. There is the quiet hum of insects somewhere beyond the wall, the occasional moment of leaves when the wind manages to reach them, and not much else.
Eventually, he takes his leave. His steps are slow and unhurried as he continues up the street, and he’s just about to round another corner when a voice calls from somewhere behind him.
“Hey! Hey, you!”
Satoru doesn’t turn around. He specifically chose this route because there were no people on it. Then, there’s the sound of rocks falling. One, two, and several. What follows sounds suspiciously like a miniature avalanche.
Satoru stops. Feet hit the pavement hard behind him. That gets him to turn. “What?”
The word probably comes out a little less friendly than intended. He sighs and turns fully, already preparing himself for whatever photograph, question, or conversation is about to follow. Except, there is no one standing there, exactly.
A young man is crouched several feet away from him with one palm flat against the pavement, apparently having just launched himself from somewhere above. His hair is the same warm pink of the gerbera daisies Satoru had seen tucked along the garden wall, although considerably messy after whatever he’d just done.
For a second, neither of them says anything.
“Sorry,” the stranger says finally, holding up one hand. “Gimme a second.”
Satoru raises an eyebrow. The guy stays crouched for another few seconds, takes a breath, and slowly pushes himself upright. There’s dirt smeared across one knee of his pants and what looks like a leaf tangled near his shoulder. He looks behind himself toward the garden, then back at Satoru.
“You good?” Satoru asks.
“Yeah.” He brushes both palms against his pants. “Thought that would go better.”
Satoru looks at the wall again; it’s tall. “Did you jump out of your garden?”
The stranger ignores that completely. Instead, he squints at Satoru from where he stands. He doesn’t come any closer, which Satoru appreciates more than he expects to. “Are you Gojo Satoru?”
There it is. Satoru smiles despite himself. “The one and only.”
The stranger’s entire face brightens. “Great! I don’t want to bother you, but can I have your autograph?”
It’s just an autograph. “Sure.”
“Really?”
“You asked.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.”
The stranger pats one pocket, then the other, expression changing. Satoru watches him check the first pocket again, as if something might have materialized inside it in the last three seconds. “Oh.”
“You don’t have anything for me to sign, do you?”
“No.”
Satoru laughs. “Great planning.”
“I didn’t exactly plan on you walking past my house today!”
Fair.
“Wait here.” The stranger points at him. “I have paper inside.”
Before Satoru can tell him that he is perfectly capable of standing still without instruction, the stranger turns around and heads straight for the wall. Not the street, but the wall. Satoru watches him put one foot against a stone that juts farther out than others, reach for another above his head, and start climbing.
Wow. Footholds. Not intentional ones, from the look of it. Age has shifted some of the stones farther forward than others, leaving enough uneven edges for someone who has apparently done this before to climb rather easily. It’s kind of dangerous. For a civilian, at least.
“You know,” Satoru calls after him, watching the pink hair rise above the wall, “most people use doors.”
The stranger reaches the top. “I do!”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“There’s a gate around the other side!”
“So you jumped?”
The stranger pauses, one leg already thrown over the wall. Then he looks down at him. “I got excited.”
And, well, Satoru can’t really argue with that. He waits a little longer and hears the slam of a door closing somewhere on the other side. Satoru looks at the stones, looks back up, then down at his shoes. This is definitely going to ruin the leather, but that’s the price you pay to have fun.
He places one foot on the bottommost stone, his opposite hand finding purchase on another above him, and climbs. It’s short work; he only needs to go up two stones before his height does the rest of the work for him. He then hefts himself over the wall the same way the stranger did. Once he lands on the other side, he stops. It’s nothing like he expected.
The garden is a decent size, but somehow it feels larger from inside. Fuller. Every available stretch of space seems to have something growing from it. Plastic bins and repurposed wooden crates line the perimeter, some overflowing with herbs, others with vegetables. The cherry tomatoes he saw from outside are only one small part of it.
There are flowers everywhere. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Some grow neatly from pots. Others spill over the sides of raised beds or crawl along wooden supports. A set of patio furniture sits beneath the pergola, metal oxidizing around the legs and arms into patches of pale orange.
Near the sliding door, the stranger is digging through drawers and cabinets, apparently in search of something to write with. Satoru turns slowly, taking everything in.
The sliding door opens again. The stranger stands there staring at him.
“Um.” His eyes move from Satoru, to the wall behind him, then back. “Okay.”
He walks across the patio and holds out a stack of sticky notes and a dull pencil. Satoru reaches for them, and the stickies fall. Not apart, but down. One after another, each page stuck to the next in alternating directions until neon pink, blue, green, and yellow squares unfold between their hands like an accordion. Satoru remembers doing that in school.
Sitting bored at his desk, peeling one note away at a time and sticking it back upside down, then right side up, then upside down again until the whole pad could stretch all the way across the table
Neither of them moves, and the notes keep going, and going until the last one brushes the ground. Satoru looks down. The stranger looks down. A long strip of fluorescent paper hangs from Satoru’s hand all the way to the patio stones between them. A pause, then Satoru looks up. The stranger is already looking at him. “You do this on purpose?”
“No.” Another pause. “Okay, well.” The stranger points at the notes. “I did do it. Sticking the stickies together, I mean. Just not deliberately to you.”
Satoru lifts his hand slightly; the accordion of the paper rises with it, then sags again. He looks down at the dull pencil in the other, then back at the man. “Which color do you want me to sign?”
“Um.” He scratches the back of his head. “Any will do?”
Satoru takes the top one from the stack. A bright yellow. “And your name?”
“Yuji. Itadori Yuji.”
Satoru places the dull tip of the pencil to the sticky note. The moment he starts the first character, the lead cracks. The broken piece tilts sideways, then falls onto the stones below with an almost imperceptible click. Another pause. Itadori stares at it. Satoru stares at it.
“Let me find another.” Then Itadori is gone. He runs back inside so quickly that the sliding door slams harder than necessary behind him.
Once again, Satoru is left alone in the garden. This time, he gives up on standing. The old patio chair creaks when he lowers himself into it. He rubs the areas where rust started blooming, transferring onto the pads of his fingers. The sliding door opens again.
“Do you want any tea while you wait? I can’t find anything to write with.”
From where Satoru sits, Itadori is somewhere to his left. He doesn’t bother turning his head. “You seriously don’t have anything to write with?”
A beat of silence. “No…”
Satoru looks over. Itadori has the expression of a puppy that was just denied a treat. Now, Satoru feels a little bad. He lowers his head. “Sure,” he says. “Whatever you have.”
Itadori brightens immediately. “Okay!”
He disappears inside again without bothering to close the door. Almost immediately, something clatters, again and again, until there is a distant, triumphant, “Ta-da!” Satoru just closes his eyes when he hears the faucet turn on.
“Feel free to look around!” Itadori calls from somewhere inside. “And take whatever you want! I usually give most of the produce to my neighbors. It’s too much for me.” Satoru doesn’t bother to answer; this entire situation has become a bit too absurd to deserve one. He lets his head hang back against the chair and keeps his eyes closed. He’s had enough of his fill looking, so instead, he smells.
The garden is heavier when he stops relying on his eyes. He smells something sweet first, honeysuckle somewhere nearby, warm and almost syrupy beneath the afternoon heat. Then the sharp scent of basil. Satoru recognizes that one easily enough; the bright, peppery aroma rises whenever the breeze shifts through the planters. There’s mint too, cooler and cleaner, threaded underneath everything else. Damp soil is a given here.
For a place buried behind stone walls and old brick, it feels strangely alive. Sound comes next. Leaves rubbing together. An insect buzzing maybe too close to his ear before moving away. The faint scrape of something being dragged across a counter inside. It’s a nice quiet place.
After a while, the sliding door opens again. Satoru opens his eyes. Itadori steps outside carrying a kettle in one hand and two mismatched mugs hooked carefully in the other, a pen tucked behind his ear. Satoru looks at it, then at him. Itadori follows his gaze, and his face falls. “Oh.”
Satoru says nothing.
“I found it after I already started the tea.”
“Cool.” Satoru nods.
Itadori sets everything down on the small patio table and pulls the pen from behind his ear. “Here.” After Satoru accepts it, Itadori pours the tea. Steam curls from the mugs, carrying a fresh, green scent with it.
“What is it?”
“Mint and lemon balm,” Itadori says. “They’re from the garden.”
Satoru looks down at the pale tea. “So you make your own tea?”
“Well.” Itadori sits across from him. “I grow the stuff that goes in it.”
“Ah.”
The yellow sticky note is still waiting for Satoru on the table. Picking up the pen, he presses the tip to the paper, and this time, it works. Finally.
He scribbles Itadori Yuji across the square and, after a moment's deliberation, adds a crude little flower beside the name. He holds the note out, stuck to the very tip of his finger.
“Here.”
Itadori sets his mug down. It has a speckled glaze, cream colored with little brown flecks scattered through it. He looks at the note before peeling it from Satoru’s finger. “Thank you so much, Gojo.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s a pleasure and whatnot.” Satoru reaches for his own mug. WORLD’S BEST GRANDPA is printed across the front in faded black letters. The more he stares at it, the more insulting it is. Whatever.
He takes a sip. “So,” he says, dragging the word out. “This is a neat little place you’ve got here.”
Itadori looks around the garden as if he needs to remind himself what Satoru is talking about. “Yeah. This used to be my grandfather’s and my house.”
Satoru glances down at the mug in his hand. Ah, well. Now he feels a little bad.
“He passed away a few years ago,” Itadori continues. “He liked gardening. Definitely not as much as me, but we would grow things we could actually use.” His smile is small, soft. It fits here, somehow, surrounded by sun-warmed stone and trailing vines. “He got sick when I was still in school. It got harder for him to take care of everything, so I started doing more of it.”
Satoru takes another sip. Itadori keeps talking. “I helped before, obviously. But after a while it was like he passed it over to me, you know?”
“Makes sense.”
“Now I grow all of this for him.”
Satoru looks across the garden again. The overflowing planters. The tomatoes climbing their supports. Herbs spilling over the edges of wooden crates. Flowers tucked into every bit of space that can hold soil.
“I kind of grew into loving it,” Itadori says. His gaze drifts toward the flowers. “He hated those.”
Satoru looks over. “The flowers?”
“Yeah.” Itadori laughs. “He complained all the time. Said they were pointless. Too much work for something you can’t eat.”
“Sounds like a practical man.”
“Very.” Itadori lifts his mug with both hands. “He also said they were girly.”
Satoru snorts. “Sounds like a him problem.”
“Exactly.” Itadori grins. “But that’s what I like about them. You can say so much with flowers without actually saying anything.” Satoru lets him continue. “The color matters. The kind of flower matters. Sometimes even how many there are, or what you pair them with. And they’re good emotionally, too.”
“Emotionally?”
“Yeah.” Itadori gestures vaguely around them. “It’s something bright to look at. Something alive. And if I’m having a bad day, I can come out here and do something with my hands instead of sitting around thinking about it.” He rubs his thumb against the side of his mug. “Water something. Repot something. Pull weeds. There’s always something that needs to be done.” His eyes move over the garden. “They make me happy.”
Satoru follows his gaze, then he notices a painted terracotta pot near the edge of the patio. Cats and dogs have been painted around the outside in slightly uneven little figures, some of them wearing flower crowns. Growing from the center are the same bright pink flowers he noticed earlier. He points toward it. “What about that one?”
Itadori turns. “The pink ones?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” He leans slightly to get a better look. “Gerbera daisies.”
“What do they mean?”
Itadori looks back at him. “Well, I guess the easiest comparison would be color first.” Satoru waits. “Red is usually the color people associate with romance. Love, passion, that kind of thing. Pink is basically a softer version of red, so the meaning usually gets softer too.”
Satoru lifts his brows.
“I’m sure you can figure out the rest,” Itadori says.
“I could.”
Itadori waits, and Satoru takes another sip of tea. “But I’d like you to explain it.”
Itadori’s cheeks color slightly, scratching one with his fingertip. “Okay.” He looks back toward the flowers. “Pink is still love, I guess. Just not necessarily romantic love. It can be affection. Friendship. Admiration. Happiness.” He pauses. “But then you also have to think about what kind of flower it is.”
“Right.”
“Gerbera daisies are usually really positive flowers. Happiness, cheerfulness, that kind of thing. Yellow ones are usually associated with friendship.”
“And pink?”
“Admiration, mostly. Appreciation. A connection with someone.”
Bright pink petals spread outward from dark centers, open completely beneath the sun. “So basically,” Satoru says, “you can make flowers say whatever you want.”
Itadori makes a face. “That’s not what I said.”
“That’s what I gathered from your explanation.”
“No, each of them has meanings.”
“You just spent five minutes qualifying the meaning. Doesn’t that say something?”
“That context matters?”
“Hm, I guess.” Satoru smiles into his mug. Across from him, Itadori continues defending flower language with increasing seriousness.
By the time the sun begins to disappear behind the surrounding buildings, their tea has long since gone cold. The first few stars are barely visible above the garden walls when Satoru notices tiny, little points of light beginning to glow beneath the vines wrapped around the pergola. Thin strands have been woven through the leaves and weathered wood, hidden well enough during the day that he hadn’t noticed them before.
“Ah. So you have lights too.”
“Mmhm.” Yuji follows his gaze upward. “They’re old, but they still work. Gramps put them up after I complained that it was gloomy out here at night.”
“Thought he didn’t care about aesthetics.”
“He didn’t. He cared about me complaining.”
“Oh, makes sense.”
Itadori decides to ignore that. “They’re solar powered, too.”
Satoru looks around. The lights are warm rather than bright, just enough to illuminate the table and the flowers nearest the pergola. Shadows settle into the spaces between planters, and the leaves overhead move gently wherever the evening breeze slips through. “They really help with the atmosphere.”
Itadori looks pleased by that. Somewhere along the way, he had offered to make Satoru dinner, but he declined. Apparently, though, that didn’t mean he was allowed to leave unfed. Itadori had disappeared into the kitchen again and returned with what he insisted was “just a snack,” though he had put enough effort into arranging it that Satoru had immediately accused him of making a charcuterie board.
There is only one kind of cheese and a sleeve of crackers, but everything else came either from the garden or whatever Itadori happened to have inside. Cherry tomatoes have been sliced in half and sprinkled with salt. Quartered strawberries sit beside pieces of pitted peach, their juices beginning to bleed together along the edge of the plate. Thin cucumber slices glisten beneath a splash of balsamic vinegar. Satoru really had eaten enough of it that declining dinner now feels somewhat dishonest.
Itadori reaches both arms over his head. His fingers interlock, palms turning upward as he stretches until his shoulders rise toward his ears. Then, he yawns. “I don’t want to kick you out, Gojo, but I need to get to bed soon.”
Satoru looks toward the darkening sky. Right, he didn’t realize how late it got. Time really does fly by when you’re having fun. He sets his mug down. “Thank you for your hospitality, Itadori.”
Itadori’s face scrunches immediately. “Please call me Yuji. All my friends call me that. “
“Right.” Satoru considers him for a moment. “Yuji.” He tests the name once, letting the syllables settle into place.
Yuji smiles. “There. Better.”
“Demanding.”
Yuji places his finger over his lips. “Shh!” He shakes his head and starts cleaning.
Satoru makes no move to help. He watches Yuji pitter-patter around the patio, carrying the mugs inside before returning for the plate. He stops along the way to pinch a dead leaf from one plant, checks the soil of another with two fingers, then disappears through the sliding door again. When he comes back out, his hands are cupped carefully together. Satoru looks down at them, and Yuji opens his palms.
A damp paper towel rests inside, folded around several long, thin seeds. Tiny white sprouts curl from their ends, delicate enough that they might break if Yuji breathes on them wrong. “What are those?” Satoru asks.
“Dahlia seeds.” Yuji stares down at them with an almost ridiculous amount of affection. Satoru leans closer.
“They’re so small.”
“They’re seeds.”
“Kind of puny.” Yuji gives him a side eye. Satoru points at them. “Those are really going to become flowers?”
“Yes.”
“Big ones?”
“Yes.”
Satoru looks at the tiny sprouts again. “Huh.” Yuji starts folding the paper towel back over them. “Why are they in that?”
“The paper towel?”
“Yeah.”
Yuji pauses, apparently trying to decide how detailed his explanation needs to be. “You dampen a paper towel, put the seeds inside, and seal it in a plastic bag so it holds moisture.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much. It gives them an easier environment to germinate.
Satoru blinks. “Germinate.”
“Sprout.”
“I know what germinate means. I was just saying it.”
“Just checking.”
Satoru nudges his foot lightly against the leg of Yuji’s chair. Yuji grins. “I need to plant these tomorrow,” he says, looking down at the seeds again. “Once that little root comes out, you don’t want to leave them like this for too long.”
Satoru looks at the tiny white sprouts, and surprisingly, they’re actually interesting. All that from something barely longer than his fingernail. “That’s actually pretty cool.”
Yuji looks up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The answer seems to satisfy him. Satoru pushes himself out of the chair. “But I won’t keep you up. I should probably go.”
“Oh. Right.” Yuji carefully places the seeds on the table. “It was nice talking to you.”
Satoru slides his hands into his pockets. “You too.”
“And thank you again for the autograph.”
“No problem. It was nothing.”
“Come back sometime, if you want.”
Satoru pauses. Yuji gestures around them. “To the garden, I mean.”
“I figured.”
“It’s open to everyone. Well, not literally open. There’s a wall.”
“There is.”
“You know what I mean.” That makes Satoru laugh. Yuji disappears inside one last time, and returns carrying a heavy plastic grocery bag. Satoru immediately takes a step backward.
“No.”
Yuji holds it toward him. “Yes.”
“No.”
“There are tomatoes, cucumbers, some strawberries-”
“I can see that.”
“Then take it.”
“I’m not taking your groceries.”
“I grew them. They’re not groceries.”
“That’s worse!”
“How?”
“You spent months growing these.”
“And now there’re too many.” Yuji pushes the bag toward him again.
Satoru refuses to take it. “I can buy my own.”
“I know.”
“I have money.”
“I know.”
“A lot of it.”
“Congratulations?”
Satoru narrows his eyes. Yuji continues holding the bag out. “If you don’t take them, they’ll probably go to waste.”
“You said you give them to your neighbors.”
“My neighbors have too many.”
“Because of you.”
“Yes.”
“So this is a recurring problem.”
Yuji wiggles the bag. “Just take it.”
Satoru stares at him, and Yuji stares back. Several seconds pass. Satoru sighs and takes the bag.
“There.” Yuji beams. “Was that so difficult?”
“Yes.”
Yuji smiles even harder. Satoru heads toward the stone wall, the plastic bag swinging lightly from one hand. He lifts one leg over the wall. From there, the drop to the other side looks considerably easier than the climb had.
“Gojo!” Satoru looks back. Yuji followed him to the wall. Hands resting atop stone. “I meant it,” he says. “The garden is welcome to anyone.”
Satoru looks at him. Behind Yuji, the little lights glow beneath the pergola. Flowers and vines shift lazily in the evening breeze, and somewhere on the patio, several dahlia seeds wait inside a damp paper towel to be planted in the morning. Satoru lifts the bag of produce. “Even freeloaders?”
Yuji smiles. “Especially freeloaders.”
Satoru laughs. “Goodnight, Yuji.”
“Goodnight, Gojo.”
Then Satoru drops from the wall. His shoes hit the pavement below, leather scuffed from climbing stone exactly as he predicted. He takes a few steps before looking back. Yuji is still there, leaning over the top of the wall. He has one hand raised, and Satoru raises his own. Then, Yuji disappears back into the garden.
The next evening, Satoru gets home after another full day of work.
He still likes teaching. Likes watching the new generation learn how to harness their cursed energy, but also watching the slower transition from adolescence into adulthood. They change so much during those years, sometimes without even realizing it themselves.
He leans against the kitchen counter, reusable water bottle in hand, and eyes the produce sitting across from him. He should probably use some of it. Satoru pushes away from the counter and walks over. He grabs one of the smaller tomatoes and a leaf of basil, washes them beneath the faucet, then pops them both into his mouth. He chews.
Oh.
The tomato bursts first, sweet and acidic, followed by the basil, peppery, green, almost sharp. Separately, they’re good. Together, though, something changes. The sweetness of the tomato softens the bite of the basil, while the basil somehow makes the tomato taste even brighter.
Satoru chews a little slower. Is this what that rat was talking about? He vaguely remembers some animated explanation about flavors combining into something entirely different, complete with colored little explosions behind the little guy’s head. It’s kind of ridiculous.
He reaches for another tomato. Homegrown really does taste different. The ones from the grocery store are fine, but these have more of everything. Sweeter. Sharper. Like someone turned the flavor up a few notches. He eats another basil leaf with it. When he swallows, Satoru looks down at what’s left on the counter.
Huh. Yuji might actually be onto something.
It’s a handful of weeks before Satoru returns to the garden. It isn’t a deliberate thing, at least, that’s what he tells himself.
Over the last few weeks, he’d managed to work a little bit of Yuji’s produce into nearly every meal he made at home. The tomatoes disappeared first. Then the basil, which lasted longer only because Satoru learned quickly that apparently there was such a thing as too much basil. The cucumber went into a salad somewhere in between, and by the time he reached into his refrigerator one evening and realized there was nothing left that had come from Yuji’s garden, he was surprisingly disappointed.
So when his feet take him down the same narrow street a few days later, he doesn’t think too hard about it. The stone and brush wall appears to his left, still dark with moss in some places, and ahead is the unmistakable curve that Satoru remembers leading toward the garden. He drags his fingertips along the occasional rough stone as he walks. The first hints of green begin appearing over the top before the garden itself does, leaves spilling over the wall wherever they manage to find enough sunlight.
Satoru slows. He wonders if Yuji is outside again. Well, there’s only one way to find out.
He finds the same uneven section of stone he climbed before, fitting the toe of his shoe into the first jutting brick. They’re the same soft leather shoes too, already scuffed from the last time, and apparently he’s decided their condition is no longer worth worrying about. He climbs just high enough to hook his arms over the top before swinging one leg across.
Yuji is already staring at him. He sits beneath the pergola at the little patio table, one hand curled around a mug and a ceramic plate with a few cookies sitting in front of him. His eyebrows lift. “You came back!” It isn’t loud. More surprised than anything, but there’s something openly pleased in the way he says it that catches Satoru off guard.
Satoru swings his other leg over and drops into the garden. “I did.” There’s a small smile on his face before he realizes it.
Yuji pushes himself out of the chair, the metal legs scraping beneath him. “Do you need anything?”
Satoru almost laughs. Unfortunately, admitting that he came here because he ran out of vegetables feels significantly more embarrassing than climbing over someone’s wall uninvited for a second time. So, he settles on a half-truth. “I was in the area.” Satoru brushes some dust from his pants. “Thought I’d stop by and see what’s up.”
“Cool, cool.” Yuji nods like this is a perfectly reasonable explanation for someone scaling the side of his garden instead of using whatever normal entrance presumably exists. “Well, um, sit down. I just made a fresh pot of tea. Want some?” He’s already heading toward the sliding door.
“Sure.” Satoru lowers himself into the same rusty, wiry patio chair as before. His legs stretch out in front of him, ankles crossed beneath the table, and after a moment, he lets his head fall back. His eyes close.
The garden sounds almost exactly the same. Leaves move gently somewhere above him whenever the wind catches the vines winding around the pergola. Insects buzz lazily between plants. Something wooden knocks softly in the distance every few seconds, though Satoru has no idea what it is. The smell is familiar too, soil warmed by the sun, herbs, and something floral.
It’s nice. Especially after weeks that seemed determined to bleed into one another. Missions. Meetings. Paperwork. Training. More meetings about why there were too many meetings. Students calling him at hours when they absolutely should have known better.
The sliding door opens again. Satoru opens his eyes as Yuji steps outside carrying another mug. Steam curls from the top, bringing with it the faint smell of lavender when Yuji places it in front of him. This mug has fish on it. Lots of them. Long, slender ones covered in little speckles. Something rounder and considerably less elegant that Satoru assumes is a carp. Several others swim between them that he couldn’t identify if someone offered him money.
He turns the mug slowly between his hands. “You have a lot of interesting cups.”
Yuji looks down at his own mug, which is considerably less fishy and decorated with small yellow flowers. “Gramps collected mugs.”
“Ah.”
“He used to buy one whenever we went somewhere.” Yuji rubs his thumb over the handle. “Then people started giving them to him because they knew he liked them, so eventually we had way too many.”
“That makes sense.” Satoru smiles into his tea.
For a while, conversation comes easily. Yuji asks about work first. Not anything particularly invasive, just whether Satoru has been busy, and Satoru gives the same answer he usually gives anyone who asks. “Always.”
Yuji makes a sympathetic sound. “That bad?”
“Depends on the day.” Satoru takes another sip. The lavender is subtle beneath the tea, just enough that he notices it without feeling like he swallowed perfume. “Teaching is the easy part.”
“I thought teaching was supposed to be exhausting.”
“I can handle it.”
“Of course you can.” There’s a pause before Yuji asks, “Why did you become one?”
The question is simple enough, but Satoru still takes a moment before answering. He watches steam drift from the surface of his tea, thinning until it disappears into the warm air. “Originally?” he says. “I wanted to change things.”
Yuji doesn’t interrupt, and Satoru appreciates that about him. “Jujutsu society was…” He turns the mug slightly between his palms. “Still is, in some ways, old-fashioned. A lot of power concentrated in the hands of people who care more about preserving the way things have always been than whether that way actually works.”
“Sounds familiar.”
Satoru glances up. Yuji shrugs. “People like keeping things the same, even when the same thing really sucks.”
Satoru laughs. “Pretty much.”
Yuji reaches for the teapot between them and tops off Satoru’s mug without asking. “There was someone,” he says after a while. “Someone close to me.”
Yuji’s hand stills briefly around the handle of the pot, but he doesn’t look up too quickly or ask who. “He made me realize that being strong wasn’t enough.” Satoru’s thumb traces the painted outline of one of the fish on his mug. “You can force people to listen to you. You can scare them into changing something temporarily. You can get rid of the people causing the problem.” He pauses. “But if the system that made them stays the same, eventually someone else takes their place.”
Yuji nods slowly. “So you became a teacher.”
“At first, yeah. I figured if the people at the top weren’t going to change, I’d work from the bottom instead.”
Yuji pushes the plate of cookies toward him. Satoru looks down. They’re small shortbread cookies, pale gold around the edges, with tiny pressed flowers baked into their tops. Purple petals on one. Yellow on another. A little blue flower sits perfectly in the center of the one closest to him. Of course they have flowers on them. He takes one, and it breaks softly between his teeth. Buttery and sweet, with just enough salt to keep it from becoming too much, but that’s never bothered him. “Did you make these?”
“Yeah.”
Satoru takes another bite. “They’re good.”
Yuji’s smile is small, but pleased. “Thanks.”
Satoru looks back out at the garden. “I think it changed somewhere along the way, though.”
“What did?”
“Why I teach.”
Yuji rests his forearms against the table. Satoru thinks about Fushiguro. Kugisaki. All the students who have passed through his classroom over the years, some loud, some quiet, some terrified, and some so convinced they already understood the jujutsu world that Satoru occasionally wanted to shake them.
He thinks about watching them figure things out for themselves. Watching them fail. Watching them get back up. “I still want things to change,” Satoru says. “But I think now I just want them to have the chance to become better than us.”
“Us?”
“My generation.”
Yuji’s expression softens. Satoru continues before he can think too hard about why he’s saying any of this. “There’s this idea in jujutsu society that strength belongs to individuals. Someone gets born with the right technique, the right amount of cursed energy, the right family name, and suddenly everyone acts like that person is supposed to carry everything.” His mouth twists slightly. “I’d rather raise a generation that doesn’t need one person standing above everyone else.”
The garden goes quiet around them for a bit, then, Yuji smiles. “That’s a very noble cause, Gojo.”
“Ugh.”
“What?”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some inspirational old man.”
Yuji laughs. “I didn’t say old.”
“It was implied.”
“All you do is tease me.” He’s still laughing.
Satoru reaches for another cookie. Yuji watches him for a moment before looking toward the garden. “I don’t think it takes something huge to make a difference, though.”
Satoru glances at him. Yuji shrugs one shoulder. “You just have to start somewhere. That’s usually the hardest part.”
Something about the words makes Satoru still, but Yuji doesn’t seem to notice. Or, if he does, he gives Satoru the courtesy of pretending he doesn’t. Instead, he stands. “Actually, speaking of starting somewhere…”
He walks toward a low table near the edge of the patio, and Satoru notices a cardboard egg carton sitting on top of it. It’s the same sort people throw away without thinking twice, except each little compartment has been filled with dark soil. Yuji carries it carefully back to the table. “Remember those seeds?”
Satoru looks inside. Tiny green stems rise from nearly every compartment.
Damn, what flowers were they again?
“I do…” He squints at them like the answer might somehow be written on the stems. “I just don’t remember which ones they actually were.”
Yuji looks at him. “Dahlia seeds.”
The seedlings are still small, but they look significantly more plant-like than the cracked seeds Yuji had shown him before. Each one has several leaves now, their stems upright and surprisingly sturdy considering how unimpressive they’d looked a few weeks ago. “They got big.”
“Yeah, but this is actually a little cramped for them.”
Yuji crouches beside the table and gently pulls at one of the cardboard sections until it separates from the rest of the carton. Satoru watches. The bottom has softened from repeated watering, and through a tear in the damp cardboard, thin white roots have begun winding through the soil.
Satoru leans closer. “There’s a lot more underneath than I expected.”
“Yeah.” Yuji turns the little compartment carefully in his hands. “That’s where most of the work’s been happening. They spend a while establishing their roots before you really see much happening above the soil,” he continues. “Once they have a good foundation, they start growing pretty fast.”
“Huh.”
Yuji glances up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Satoru reaches for his tea; the fishes are still staring at him, but he takes a sip anyway.
Yuji sits there for a while, pulling apart each individual cup of the carton. Sometimes the cardboard refuses to separate cleanly, so he sprays it with a little water until it softens beneath his fingers. Satoru watches, alternating between sips of tea and bites of his cookie. Eventually, the plate is empty, and Yuji doesn’t make any comment that suggests he’s upset about it.
Once each of the little cups has been separated, Yuji stands and disappears inside. A minute later, there’s the hollow clinking of metal, almost like an ugly little wind chime, before he comes back through the sliding door. A canvas bag hangs from one arm; in his other hand is another plate of cookies.
Without saying anything, Yuji places the fresh plate directly over the empty one and sets the bag on the ground. Satoru looks at the cookies, then at Yuji, but he’s already walked away again. Satoru reaches for one. Only after taking a bite does he lean slightly to peek inside the bag. Nothing particularly interesting waits for him, just the dull silver shine of empty aluminum cans piled together.
When Yuji returns this time, a bag of potting mix is balanced against his shoulder. He drops it beside the table, grabs a trowel from a narrow storage cabinet tucked against the wall, then settles back into his chair like he never left. Leaning down, he tears open the top of the plastic bag and starts filling the cans with soil one trowel at a time.
“Those are for the seedlings?”
Yuji nods. “Yup. Just temporary, though.”
Satoru takes another cookie. “Why? The cans seem like a good enough idea.”
“They are, for now.” Yuji taps the trowel against the rim of one before setting the filled can beside his foot. “They’ll rust eventually. And once summer really starts, the metal can get pretty hot. You don’t want the roots cooking in there.”
“That kind of sounds… counterproductive.”
“It is.”
Satoru reaches down and picks up one of the empty cans. Each one has several small holes punched through the bottom, the edges bent inward where something had been driven through the metal. He holds it up to his eye and peers through one of the holes at Yuji.
“They’ll stay in these until the roots establish and they harden off.”
Satoru lowers the can. “Harden off?”
Yuji smiles, still shoveling soil. “They’ve been babied inside their whole lives.”
“They’re, what, like three weeks old?”
“Exactly. They’re babies.”
Satoru rolls the can between his palms. Yuji continues. “They’re used to stable temperatures. No strong wind, no direct sun all day, no sudden changes. If I put them outside permanently, some of them might not handle it very well.”
“So you force these poor babies to suffer gradually?”
Yuji snorts. “I get them used to being outside eventually.” He places another on the floor. “For a couple hours a day, I’ll put them somewhere sheltered outside. Then they come back in, and after a few days, they stay out longer. Get a little more sun, a little more wind.” He shrugs. “Eventually, they adjust.”
Satoru looks down at the little holes punched through the aluminum. “And then?”
“They can stay outside and mature.” Yuji reaches for another can.
Satoru sets the one in his hands beside him. “Huh.”
He sits there for another minute before pushing himself out of the chair. Several watering cans are tucked along the side of the patio, none of them matching. Satoru grabs the closest one, a dark blue plastic thing faded lighter along the handle from years of sun. Behind him, the scraping of Yuji’s trowel stops. Satoru glances over, and Yuji is watching him.
“What?” Yuji tips his head toward the sliding door. Beside it, half hidden behind one of the larger pots, is a small outdoor spigot.
Ah.
Satoru carries the watering can over and fills it, the plastic growing heavier in his hand as the water rises. Might as well make himself useful. “What needs watering?”
Yuji looks around the garden like he has to mentally take inventory. “The hanging flowers first. The ones by the wall.”
Satoru follows his gaze. A few baskets hang from the pergola by thick, knotted rope, clusters of small flowers spilling over their edges in shades of purple and white. “And the wooden planter at the far end,” Yuji continues. “The one closest to the wall gets the most sun, so check that one especially.”
“Check it how?”
Yuji raises one hand, index finger pointed upward. “Stick your finger in the dirt.”
Satoru stares at him. “That’s it?”
“Yup.”
“Just put my finger in it.”
“About this deep.” Yuji marks the first knuckle of his finger with his thumb. “If the soil feels really dry and barely clings to you, water it. If it’s still damp underneath, leave it alone.”
Satoru looks at his finger. “How much water?”
“Trust your gut!”
Before Satoru can reply, Yuji has already turned his attention back to the dahlias. The cans are filled now, lined up beside his feet. One by one, Yuji moves the seedlings into their new homes. He gently works away some of the softened cardboard, loosening the soil around the roots with his fingers before lowering each plant into a can. More soil goes around it afterward, tucked carefully into the gaps until the thin stem stands upright again.
Satoru watches for another second before starting toward the far end of the garden. The planter Yuji mentioned sits where the wall receives almost uninterrupted sun. It looks less like something bought specifically for gardening and more like something Yuji found and decided could become one. The wooden crate has been painted a deep brown, though the old black letters stamped along one side still show faintly through the paint. FRAGILE.
He crouches beside it. Green vines spill across the soil and over the wooden edge. Some of the leaves are broad and heart-shaped, while others split into deeper points that remind him vaguely of maple leaves. He sticks his index finger into the dirt. It’s warm, dry too. When he pulls it out, hardly anything clings to his skin.
“So how dry is dry?” He calls.
“Does dirt stick to your finger?”
Satoru examines it. “Not really.”
“Water it.”
“How much?”
“I already told you!”
“Your instructions weren’t clear!”
Yuji laughs from somewhere behind him. “Pour slowly. When the soil actually looks like it’s taking it in, give it a little more.”
That’s useful. Satoru tilts the watering can. Water spills from the spout and darkens the soil almost immediately. He instinctively aims for the leaves first, then uses his free hand to move some of the vines aside, directing the stream toward the base instead. The dry earth drinks it quickly. Satoru pauses, and within seconds, the dark patch begins disappearing into the surrounding soil. He pours a little more, not too much, hopefully.
He stares at it for a moment, waiting for some obvious indication that he’s either successfully watered a plant or killed it. Nothing happens. Is that promising? “What are these?” he calls.
“Sweet potatoes.”
Satoru looks at the mass of green leaves again. “These?”
“Most of the magic happened underground.”
“I know where potatoes grow from, Yuji.”
“Mmhm.” Yuji nods his head.
Satoru looks over his shoulder. Yuji doesn’t even bother looking up from the dahlia he’s settling into another can. He narrows his eyes, then turns back to the sweet potatoes and gives them another small pour of water.
Once he’s decided they’ve had enough, he heads back toward Yuji, stopping beneath the hanging pots along the way. He doesn’t have to reach up to touch them. Satoru presses his finger into the soil of each one, just like Yuji showed him. Two are dry enough that hardly anything clings to his skin. The third is still cool and damp beneath the surface. “I think one of these doesn’t need water.”
“As I said, trust your gut.”
Yuji is done repotting now. He’s just watching Satoru, elbow resting against the table, one cheek propped in his hand while the other cups his tea. Satoru doesn’t need to stretch much to lift the watering can over the flowers, thanks to the lankiness of his arms. He does have to tip his chin up slightly to see into the pots, though, carefully directing the water toward the soil instead of the leaves.
When he finishes, he carries the watering can back to where he found it, tucked along the side of the patio with the others. “Wait.” Yuji sits up a little. “Can you refill it and bring it here? I need to water these.”
Satoru turns around. “You’re really putting me to work.”
“You volunteered.”
“Did I?”
Yuji smiles into his mug. Satoru fills the watering can again and carries it back, rounding the table until he reaches the line of newly repotted dahlias. He sets it beside Yuji’s feet. “I’m going to water these,” Yuji says, reaching for the handle, “then I have to move them over there.”
He points toward a set of narrow shelves beside the sliding door. They sit beneath an overhang, close enough to the glass that the seedlings will still get plenty of light without being left completely exposed to the afternoon sun. “They’re staying outside?”
“Not all day yet.” Yuji leans down and starts watering the first can, slowly enough that the soil darkens without overflowing. “I’ll bring them in later. Tomorrow I’ll put them back out for a few hours, then do the same thing again.”
“The flower torture?”
Yuji laughs. “Whatever you want to call it.”
Satoru watches as water begins dripping from the little holes at the bottom of the can. Yuji stops, and apparently, that’s enough. He then moves on to the next one. Satoru carries each can over to the shelf while Yuji waters. By the time the last one is settled into place, Yuji rises from his chair and makes his way over. “Good job. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing.”
Yuji rests one hand on the handle of the sliding door. “If you don’t mind, could you grab the cups and plates?”
“More work, I see. What am I to you?”
Yuji has already stepped over the threshold when he turns his head back. There’s a soft smile on his face, but something else sits behind his eyes, something Satoru doesn’t quite catch before Yuji answers. “A friend.”
Satoru pauses. One mug is already in his hand, the other halfway toward the stack of plates. “I guess so.”
He gathers the rest and walks toward the sliding door, but stops at the threshold. He’s never really bothered to look inside before. The garden has always been more interesting to him than whatever waited beyond the glass, but with ceramics balanced in his hands and Yuji already somewhere inside, Satoru steps into the house.
Yuji is moving around the kitchen, gathering produce from different parts of the counter and dropping it into another plastic bag. Satoru takes in the room as he walks further inside. “Do you want me to put these in the sink?”
“Yes, please.”
He sets the dishes down, but lingers by the counter, watching Yuji putter around the kitchen. More tomatoes, more cucumbers. Yuji grabs a small melon, adds it to the bag, then pauses like he’s reconsidering. A second later, he takes it back out and places it in its own bag instead. He grabs a few napkins, then crosses to the baking sheet sitting beside the oven and carefully wraps up the remaining shortbread cookies before adding them to the bag with the more delicate produce.
When he’s satisfied, he holds both bags out to Satoru. “Here you are.”
“Thank you.” Satoru doesn’t bother arguing with him this time.
Standing this close, Yuji has to tip his chin up slightly to meet his eyes. The difference in their height isn’t huge, but it’s enough to be noticeable when there’s barely any space between them. Yuji looks for another second, then he smiles. “I think this time, you can take the front door.”
Satoru’s on another long-distance mission.
He’s walking outside afterward, a nice breeze cutting through the lingering warmth of the day. It’s the end of spring, the beginning of summer, and lately, everywhere he goes, Yuji’s garden seems to follow him. Not literally, but close enough.
Flowers are lining the sidewalks. Herbs growing in little planters outside restaurants. Vines winding around fences and balconies. Things Satoru probably would’ve walked past a month ago without giving them a second thought now catch his attention before anything else does. Even the people around him.
Civilians are still getting used to the reality of jujutsu society being out in the open. Some stare when they recognize him. Others cup their hands around their mouths to whisper to whoever they’re with, and a few don’t bother pretending to be subtle at all, openly pointing in his direction as he walks.
Satoru hardly notices. He’s too busy looking at the flowers planted along the path leading toward the bakery he’d been searching for. Then, he stops. The people behind him part almost immediately, flowing around him without complaint.
Pink flowers are growing along the edge of a low planter, almost the same shade as the gerbera daisies in Yuji’s garden, but these are different. The petals are thinner, softer looking, fanning out from a yellow center. Satoru crouches. The flower sways slightly in the breeze when he reaches out and brushes the edge of one petal with his fingertip.
It’s soft, and there’s a faint sweetness to it too when he leans closer, still floral, but lighter than he expected. Yuji would probably know what this one is.
Satoru pulls out his phone. He adjusts the camera until the flower sits right in the center of the frame, everything behind it softening into a blur. He takes one picture, then another, then one from a slightly different angle. Satisfied, he flips the camera around. Satoru holds two fingers beside his face in a peace sign and flashes the camera an obnoxiously bright smile, making sure the pink flower still fits in the corner of the picture. Perfect.
He looks through the photos. ‘I should send this to Yuji.’ He thinks. He opens his messages and scrolls. Nothing. Satoru slows; maybe he saved him under- nope, not there. He opens his contacts instead and searches there. Once, twice, then he just stares at the screen.
Oh. He doesn’t have Yuji’s number.
The realization takes some of the shine out of the moment. Not enough to ruin it, but enough that Satoru’s smile fades around the edges when he looks back at the pictures. It’s fine; he’ll get Yuji’s number the next time he sees him. Which, hopefully, is soon. Satoru saves the photos and slips his phone back into his pocket, then he stands and continues toward the bakery.