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Summary
A hundred and twelve years, and Yuji has memorized every look of those eyes. He'd know them underwater. He'd know them in the dark. He'd know them after a thousand more years of forgetting everything else.
That can't be—
"Sir?" A slight tilt of his head. Faint concern flickering under the blankness of his expression. "...Are you ready to order?"
".....Fushiguro?"
Or, Itadori Yuji had learned a long time ago that the world moves on, people die, and time heals nothing. He made peace with that. He thought he had, anyway, until a hundred forgettable springs later, a head of dark hair and a familiar pair of sea-green eyes convinces him otherwise.