charlie

1999 | READER, AGE 6; NAOYA, AGE 8

The first time you meet Zenin Naoya, you are six years old, and you’ve just returned from the west with your older brother. You feel awkward and out of place, tugging at the silk sleeves of your kimono. It’s your first time back in Japan since your brother whisked you away two years ago to visit your late mother’s side of the family, and you spent the entire car ride over to the Zenin estate listening to the two of them argue with each other. Your father warns you to be on your best behavior, because this is your clan’s only chance to climb up the impossible ladder of jujutsu society, and you just nod, because you don’t want him to turn his ire onto you next.

Smile, he tells you. The Zenins are traditional. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, and don’t embarrass us.

Naoya arrives late, flanked by adults who are all stiff and stern, and you can’t imagine marrying into a family so cold. Your father has impossible expectations and insatiable ambition, but he isn’t like this, and your time in the west with your brother has left you with high hopes for a future you were never meant to have. Your father has to pinch your upper arm to stop you from fidgeting because all of your instincts scream at you to run from these people. This is not a family you will be happy with. You turn a baleful look up to him, but he ignores it.

Naoya is smaller than you expected for the Zenin clan’s prodigy, sharp-faced and sharp-eyed, but he’s already wearing that look people get when they are certain the world will bend around them. You instantly know you won’t like him. When he sees you, his gaze flicks over you like you’re hardly worth his attention, and you find yourself bristling. You remember what your father told you, and how hard he worked to get this meeting, so you push away the irritation and put on your best smile.

The adults leave the two of you in the tea room to get acquainted while they discuss the potential arrangement, and you stand in silence for a long time, observing one another, each waiting for the other to make the first move. After what feels like an eternity, he finally tilts his head slightly and says scornfully: 

“You’re plainer than I expected.”

You punch him in the face. 

You don’t register the pain that spreads through your hand when your knuckles meet his teeth; as soon as you’re in motion, you know that you’ve made a mistake, but it’s too late to stop. The dull thump of knuckles against bone sounds like an explosion to your ears, and all of the air in your lungs whooshes right out. Naoya’s skin blooms red, lip bleeding as he stumbles back a step. His hand flies to his face, eyes widening, and for a heartbeat, the world freezes.

He stares at you, and you stare at him, and the only sound in the room is the ticking of a grandfather clock and your blood roaring in your ears. 

Smile, be quiet, don’t embarrass us—the rules were simple, and you’ve broken them all. You punched the youngest son of the Zenin clan head in the face. You’ve ruined everything. You’ve been home for less than a week, and you’ve destroyed all your father has been working on for years. He’ll have to grovel if he doesn’t want to be ostracized by jujutsu society, and even that might not be enough for a transgression of this level. Your hands tremble now, and the sting in your knuckles becomes unbearable. 

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Then, to your horror, he laughs.

It’s quick and startled, like the sound escaped him before he could stop it. He presses his fingers to his mouth, eyes bright, more alive than they were a moment ago, but you can see the fury thinly veiled behind confusion, like he can’t decide whether he wants to be intrigued or angry.

“You hit me,” he says, voice riddled with disbelief. “You just punched me in the face.”

You don’t respond—can’t. You don’t know what expression is on your face, but Naoya doesn’t seem to like it. His expression twists, bemusement still warring with rage.  

“Girls aren’t supposed to do that,” he tells you, as though you don’t already know.

“I don’t care,” you hiss before you can think better of it. You clutch your hand to your chest, feeling far too much like a cornered animal. You don’t know what to do. You punched him. You punched him in the face. What can you do? How can you fix this? The Zenins are the most influential clan in jujutsu society. All of your father’s work—

“Liar,” he accuses, and his smile is sharper now that he’s realized you’re scared, enjoying your discomfort, “if you didn’t care, your hand wouldn’t be shaking. You’re so screwed.”

Saying sorry isn’t going to work, you realize, because he only seems to be more thrilled by your fear—not that you want to apologize anyway.

“My hand is shaking because I’m trying to stop myself from punching you again,” you snap furiously—a lie, but you raise your fist threateningly, and Naoya’s eyes widen again.

He scowls at you, more irritated. “When my father finds out—”

“You’re going to tell your father you got hit by a girl?”  you interrupt, raising your chin. It’s a desperate attempt to keep him quiet, but boys are prideful and stupid, so it might work. “If my brothers told my father they got hit by a girl, he would hit them twice as hard. I thought you were supposed to be the Zenin clan’s prodigy—the future clan head?”

Naoya is definitely angry now, you can tell from the way his lips twist and his hands fist at his sides. You wonder if he’s going to hit you back, so you lean back on your foot and raise both of your hands to defend yourself in the same way you learned to when your brothers drag you into their fights.

Before he can do anything, you hear footsteps from the corridor, signaling that the adults are returning to check on the two of you. Naoya gives you a vicious glare as he wipes the blood from his chin and straightens. You hide your bruised knuckles behind your back as you step forward to stand beside him just as the doors open.

Immediately, conversation dies at the sight of Naoya’s bruising cheek and bloody lip. Your brother has to physically turn away to hide the amused expression that instinctively spreads across his face, but your father looks aghast, throat bobbing as he swallows, lips parting over an apology. You swell with guilt, lashes lowering and lips trembling. One of the other Zenin men, not Naoya’s father, demands to know what happened. You should say something, you think, but—

“I fell,” Naoya says succinctly after a moment, voice cold and clipped. “The floorboards are uneven.”

Everyone looks at you. Your gaze drops to the ground, and the floorboards are definitely not uneven. You look at Naoya from the corner of your eye, and he’s already looking—glowering—at you, daring you to disagree with him. You’re sure that none of the adults are dumb enough to fall for that, not with the way you’re hiding your hand, but you double down on it anyway.

“He fell,” you confirm, nodding your head. “The floorboards are uneven.”

Zenin Naobito stares the two of you down, but Naoya only raises his chin, so you do too. He doesn’t want his father knowing that he let a girl get the better of him, and you don’t want anyone knowing that you punched a Zenin heir in the face, so you will show a united front in this regard. 

Mutually assured destruction, if you will.

“Then I suppose we will have to get the floor redone. Can’t have my son tripping and falling over his own feet like a fool, can I?” Naobito says coldly after a moment. Naoya’s gaze drops to the ground, face twisting, but he doesn’t say anything in response. Naobito gives you the shivers—you don’t like the look in his eyes as his gaze slides over to examine you. “I take it that the two of you are getting along, then.”

Oh. Oh no.

How can you deny it without admitting something happened? Well, you don’t think you’re actually in the position to deny anything regardless, considering the Zenins are the more influential clan. He says the two of you, but he’s looking at Naoya for an answer, because it’s Naoya’s decision, not yours. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to look at him, waiting to see if he’ll say something, but you’re not sure what he would say that wouldn’t implicate something happened between the two of you. You only glance over when the silence stretches on too long, and you find hatred blazing in his eyes as he stares you down. You think he must see the same in yours, because his lip twitches into a sneer he has to put effort into hiding. 

“Yes,” he says through his teeth. “She’s acceptable.”

Acceptable.

Your eye twitches.

You give Naobito a sweet smile and an incline of your head. “You raised a… charming son, Zenin-sama.”

Naobito lets out a noise that you think is either a scoff or a laugh. He must know that the two of you are lying through your teeth, but he says to your father anyway, “Alright then, let’s finalize this agreement and be done with it then.”

Dread pools in your stomach as your gaze drifts back over to Naoya, who stands stiff and straight-shouldered as the other members of his clan did when they first arrived. As soon as the adults are distracted with the logistics of the betrothal, he turns that lethal glare back onto you.

“I’m going to kill you,” he promises.

“Not if I kill you first,” you tell him. 

You realize that some people in the world are just not meant to get along, and you and Zenin Naoya are definitely one of those pairs.

----------------

You see Naoya once a week after that. 

Familiarity is good for discipline, and a future wife should learn early what she’s being folded into, is what Zenin Naobito had told your father when they were finalizing the details of this arrangement. You would visit the Zenin estate every Sunday from dawn until dusk to become acquainted with Naoya and understand what your duties will be once you marry into the family. In other words, the Zenin clan likes to test its investments before committing fully, and you are to be its greatest one, considering you’re betrothed to their future clan head.

Your father spends a full week putting you through torturous etiquette training in frantic preparation for the first visit after the mess that was introductions.

The nail that sticks out gets hammered down, he reminds you in the car on the way back to the estate, pinching your cheeks between his fingers. It’s not a threat so much as it is a warning. The Zenins will not tolerate disobedience from anyone, much less a woman. You must be on your best behavior when you are at their estate; the freedom you’re allowed at your clan’s estate will not be afforded to you there. When you cry to your father, asking why he would send you to them, of all people, he looks away and sends you to your lessons.

Your attendants drill reality into you: polite, elegant, submissive. A woman must always watch that she does not overstep her husband. She must be beautiful and obedient. Public image is the most important quality of a woman, as it determines what rank of man would be willing to marry her. Once her image is soiled, she becomes worthless to her family. No man wants to marry a tainted or otherwise undesirable woman. In simple words, this arrangement must go perfectly, or everyone will suffer for it, but no one more than you. Your image will be ruined, and you’ll lose any potential desirability in the eyes of the big three clans.

You hate it. A part of you would prefer if you were undesirable, but you don’t dare say that out loud, because you’re your father’s only daughter, and he’s counting on using you to forge an alliance with a more powerful clan. So, you sit through your lessons with gritted teeth and a twisted expression that you’re promptly trained out of and into a more pleasant smile instead.

By the time the first Sunday comes along, they’ve done everything they could to whip you into shape. You arrive at the Zenin estate with a subdued smile on your lips and rage swimming through your veins. Naoya waits for you at the gates with a smug smile, and when you step forward to walk with him to the gardens, he tells you smugly to walk three steps behind him. His father is watching from the engawa of the main building, and there are far too many other members of the clan around to get away with refusing without bringing shame to your family.

So you stare at him, hatred plain in your eyes, and you walk three steps behind him to the garden. You bide your time because he won’t have the eyes of his clan to shield him once the two of you are hidden within the hedges of the garden. He’s mid-comment about how maybe he’ll keep you as a wife since you’re learning your place when you drive your foot into the back of his knee, pressing the sharp edge of your hairpin to his pulse point. You tell him that the next time he says something so stupid to you, you’ll put it through his throat.

He doesn’t bring it up again after that.

Naoya sucks, you realize, but he’s quite easy to deal with. He only seems to care about two things: his pride and his title. You threaten both of those things by making him seem incompetent, so you’re able to negotiate a deal with him: you can act as you want when the two of you are in private, so long as in public, you play the role expected of you.

In front of the Zenins, you are quiet and demure. You walk three steps behind him, hands folded neatly in your sleeves, expression pleasant and unthreatening. You laugh when you’re supposed to, but never too loudly, you smile when expected, but never too brightly, and you never speak, unless directly addressed. You accept his presence at your side as though it’s an honor rather than a sentence. 

You hate it. Every second is hell, and you spend your time at the Zenin estate cursing your father and desperately wanting to go home.

In private, you bare your teeth. Naoya learns quickly that you are not impressed by his name, his lineage, or his cursed technique. You roll your eyes when he boasts. You glare back when he scowls. You delight in needling him, asking him pointed questions about techniques he hasn’t mastered yet, and offering observations that cut far too close to insults. The two of you often end up brawling in the dirt whenever you’re alone, but you prefer that to playing the role expected of you.

He hates that. You’ve become used to tantrums about how you’re a “useless” excuse for a woman, and how it’s unfair that he’s stuck with you. More times than you can count, he threatens to tell your father and his about your “abhorrent” behavior.

(“Mutually assured destruction,” you tell him one day. “You ruin me, I ruin you. I’ll go to your father and tell him how incompetent you are. You let a girl bully you into keeping your mouth shut for over a year. How shameful is that?”

“I’m not incompetent,” he snaps at you instinctively, gold eyes flaring, “and my father won’t believe you.”

He sounds less sure when he says that. You smile sweetly and ask, “Should we find out?”

He remains silent. You win, as always.)

Sunday after Sunday, you learn how to exist beside one another. Most of your familiarization visits end with you fighting in the gardens and fumbling for excuses when Zenin Naobito casts a cold gaze over the two of you and asks what happened. You still consider it a win, because Naoya (mostly) stops acting like you’re beneath him, and starts treating you like a intolerable problem that refuses to go away instead. 

By the time winter comes around, the two of you have settled into a comfortable truce. It’s not friendship or peace. You still can’t stand him, and he continues to insult you every chance he gets. The garden bears all of the evidence of your constant fights with scuffed earth, crumpled flower beds, and bent grass where one of you was knocked down and the other followed, fist raised. But it is stable, and stability feels like another victory. The two of you are enemies, yes, but you are also co-conspirators. Your relationship, if you can even call it that, is defined by the understanding that neither of you benefits from the other’s ruin, so over time, your united front created through the threat of mutual destruction begins to extend beyond just the deal you initially made with him.

You never mention the way his hands shake slightly when his father criticizes him too harshly, or how his shoulders tense when the man’s voice carries through the estate, even when the two of you are alone, and you have ample opportunity to use it against him. When he pushes himself too far with training, and his body refuses to cooperate with him when he tries to get back to his bedroom, you are the one who steers him out of sight and ensures no one sees the way his knees buckle or his breathing turns shallow. He fights you tooth and nail, but when you threaten to leave him for a brother or his father to find, he goes quiet quickly.

You see cracks in him the way he sees knives in you, and in return for him allowing you to keep your knives sharp without having to worry about bringing shame on your family, you ensure that the only person to ever see those cracks is you.

It’s not great, you understand that, but it will work until the two of you can figure out a way out of this mess without it backfiring on either of you. 

----------------

2001 | READER, AGE 8; NAOYA, AGE 10

The more time you’re forced to spend with Naoya, the weirder he becomes. 

You had been sure back when you first met him that the only thing he cares about is his pride and being the 27th clan head of the Zenins. Almost all of your encounters with him have supported that conclusion. He’s arrogant and cruel, convinced the entire world exists to bend to his every whim. He hyperfocuses on training in a way that borders on obsession, throwing himself at expectations with a ferocity that leaves little room for anything else. He measures his worth in milestones, and anything that doesn’t fit neatly into his framework for excellence irritates him—you included.

And yet, the longer you’re around him, the more the edges of that certainty start to blur. 

The first time you notice it isn’t because of anything Naoya does—it’s the way the adults talk about him. They speak in low voices, heavy with both pride and irritation. They never speak when he’s around, but sometimes when you are, because you are a girl and therefore invisible to them. They praise him in the same breath they resent him, their words caught somewhere between admiration and unease, as though they can’t decide whether they’ve raised the perfect heir or a future problem. They call him gifted and difficult, brilliant and uncontrollable, a prodigy and a headache.

You start paying more attention after that. You notice how the rest of the children in the clan outright avoid him, scattering the moment he enters the room. You see how he tries to goad them into sparring, smiling when they refuse and grinning wider when they give in, pushing until he can prove again and again that he is better, stronger, untouchable. The only worthy heir. For a long time, you’d thought it was simple cruelty, and you still think a part of it is, but now you’re not too sure that’s all there is to it.

There’s something frantic about how he acts that you only start to notice after you overhear the adults talking about him that day. Something desperate in the way he needs to win, and how he refuses to be ignored, like he’s performing for an audience that never quite looks satisfied with his show. He is surrounded by people and yet is fundamentally alone, standing at the center of a clan that both elevates him and sharpens knives behind his back. 

It becomes obvious once you start looking for it. 

Naoya has no friends—only brothers who are rivals, servants who are afraid of him, and adults who can’t seem to decide his worth. There’s nothing in his life beyond his title as heir, and nothing that belongs to him outside of expectation and scrutiny. Whenever he thinks no one is looking, you notice him staring at people with an odd expression—servants whispering and giggling with one another in the shadows of the estate, and the other kids running wild when the adults aren’t watching. He always stays where he is, kicking at stones, scowling at nothing in particular, waiting for someone to notice him without being told to.

That’s usually you, whether you like it or not.

(“You don’t have any friends, don’t you?” you ask, leaning over his shoulder. Naoya startles, so lost in thought that he hadn’t even heard you approaching him from behind. You don’t really mean it as an insult, but Naoya clearly takes it as one anyway, head whirling around to glare at you.

“The hell?” he snaps. “What kind of stupid question is that? Why are you acting so familiar with me? We’re in the middle of the estate. Step back three steps.”

“No one’s paying attention,” you tell him, because it’s true. All of the adults are in meetings because of some conflict that took place between the Zenin and Gojo representatives at a meeting with the higher-ups. You drop down to sit next to him, knocking your shoulder against his. He gives you an aggravated look before his gaze sweeps around to double-check that no one is watching. When he decides the coast is clear, he looks out a puff of air and looks away from you petulantly. “I was just wondering. I never see you talking to anyone, unless you’re insulting them.”

Naoya scoffs. “I don’t need friends,” he says, raising his chin. “Friends are for weak people. I’m not weak.”

“Well, that’s subjective—you not being weak, I mean,” you say, because you can’t help yourself. His head immediately whips around to glare at you, and you give him a sweet smile. “Kidding. Anyway, that’s what people say when they don’t have any.”

“You’re really annoying,” he hisses. “Have some respect.”

“You say that a lot,” you reply. “It’s starting to lose its impact—not that it ever had any.”

He huffs and folds his arms, turning away from you as though he’s decided the conversation is over. After a few moments, he mutters quietly, “They’re all idiots anyway. I don’t need idiots around me.”

You decide against making a comment about how he’s the biggest idiot you’ve ever met.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” you say, leaning back on your hands to look up at the dusk sky. You add, inexplicably, “I’m not an idiot.”

Naoya bares his teeth. “You’re the biggest idiot of them all.”

You regret not making the comment immediately.)

He sticks close to you in a way that doesn’t really make sense, considering how he insists that he can’t stand you. He insults you constantly—calls you annoying, and weak, and useless, and totally unfit to be a wife—but refuses to leave your side while you’re at the Zenin estate. He says it’s to keep up appearances, but even when no one is watching, when you tell him to leave you alone and go sit on the opposite side of the garden, far away from you, he’ll hover around you. He kicks at your ankles to get your attention when you’re busy staring up at the sky or whatever flowers are in bloom, and he’ll pull your hair when you purposely ignore him. He doesn’t seem content unless you’re focused on him, and he would rather have you angry at him than not looking at him at all.

He’s just weird, you determine when you realize you’re putting way too much thought into a boy that, if all goes well, you’re not even going to end up marrying. Zenin Naoya is not your problem, and you have more important things to worry about than his strange behavior. You understand much later that you were probably just as weird, because as much as he always sought you out, you always came back. You enjoyed telling him he was stupid and full of himself and that no one asked for his opinion, and you especially enjoyed how he lit up after you said it, like it was exactly the response he was hoping for, and the two of you would end up in the dirt with bruises and blood. 

You become used to it. Used to him. His presence becomes familiar. Annoying, and intrusive, and loud, but also constant and predictable. He’s always there orbiting you like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself when you’re not paying attention to him, and you’re always there too, instinctively looking for him when you get to the Zenin estate, annoyed when he’s not there waiting for you and equally annoyed when he is.

Looking back, you think this was when you first began to consider him something like a friend. You suspect it was the same for Naoya, which might be why everything about him felt so strange to you then. Even so, the two of you remained stubbornly insistent on hating one another by principle, as though saying it often enough might make it true.

----------------

“Where’s Naoya?” you ask, looking around as soon as you step through the front gates of the estate. The Zenin estate still feels like a prison most Sundays, but you’ve become more comfortable there as you and Naoya settled into your truce. The poor servant sent to fetch you from the gates looks out of her depth, lowering her head instead of responding. “Why isn’t he out here to greet me?”

“Naoya-sama is in his room, my lady. He wasn’t feeling well today.”

“I see, I’ll go to him then. Thank you,” you say, and before she can disagree, because you’ve known Naoya long enough to know that this was his way of telling you not to bother him today, you head off in the direction of his room. 

You have no interest in attending lessons with the other girls today. You’re sick of being lectured on duties and obligations and how a future Zenin wife is meant to behave. You’ve heard it all before—memorized it, recited it back, but the adults never seem satisfied with you. Just as Naoya is the heir, and he faces an ever-moving target of expectations, you are to be his wife and, therefore, the pinnacle of obedience and grace. You don’t have the patience to deal with it today, and Naoya is annoying for trying to force you to. You’d rather sit with him and get sick than deal with the rest of his shitty clan alone.

You make it to his room quickly, sliding open the door and stepping in without knocking. Your eyes widen in offense when you realize he’s clearly not sick, lying on his floor reading manga. You accuse, “Liar!”

Naoya jolts like he’s been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to be doing. He scrambles upright immediately, yanking the manga closer to his chest, face flushing red in a way you’ve never seen before.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he snaps. “This is my bedroom. Get out!” 

“You said you were sick,” you fire back, hands on your hips, indignant. “You’re not sick. You’re reading. You’re ignoring me. You were going to make me go deal with those stupid lessons so you could read?”

“That don’t mean anything,” he argues, voice rising, gaze flitting to the side. “I could be sick. Ya don’t know that.”

“You’re on the floor with books,” you accuse. “You’re yelling.”

“They’re not books, they’re manga,” Naoya hisses, like you’ve personally offended him by getting it wrong. Then, he scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, looking away stubbornly. “Get out. You’re supposed to be learning your duties today, figuring out how to be a proper wife for me.”

“I don’t want to. I already know them. Be quiet. Be pretty. Don’t embarrass anyone,” you scowl.

“You forgot obedient,” he huffs petulantly.

“Only in public,” you say with a sharp smile, which earns you the faintest huff of a laugh before he catches himself and gives you a murderous glare again.

You step inside his room, shutting the door behind you before he can protest. You look around with open curiosity. You’ve been here before, but only at night when you’re getting him back to his quarters after he overworked himself at the training grounds, so you never really had the chance to snoop around. Clean tatami, folded bedding, and a messy stack of manga scattered across the floor. His room is pretty boring, you realize, disappointed. You lean down to pick one up, and Naoya launches himself at you like some sort of beast.

“What the—” you cry out as your back hits the ground, air whooshing from your lungs. “What is wrong with you?”

“Give that back!” he shouts, scrambling over you.

You hold it tighter to spite him. “No!” 

“Give it to me!” 

“Make me!”

He pulls your hair, and you kick his knee. He lets out a loud yelp, more surprised than hurt, and you take the opportunity to squirm away from him and dart over to the corner of the room. Naoya spins around, furious and flustered, cheeks red, hair sticking up at odd angles. For a second, he looks like he might actually cry, and you almost laugh, but then he scowls harder, leaning into his anger.

“I’m going to kill you,” he hisses.

“Try it,” you challenge, sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping to the first page of the manga. You blink in recognition. “Oh! This is that new anime that just came out.”

Naoya pauses, and then he asks, a bit hesitantly, “Do you watch it?”

“No,” you reply, not catching the disappointed expression on his face as you shift to lie on your stomach, kicking your feet in the air as you flip to the next page. “I like shonen. I thought you would, too, actually. Isn’t this shojo?”

You look up, and Naoya stiffens like you’ve struck him, face bright red and eyes wide.

“It’s not—” he starts, and then looks away, crossing his arms again. “It’s not all shojo.”

You hum, unbothered, resting your chin in your hands as your eyes skim over the pages. “It kind of is.”

“Shut up,” he hisses.

“You like romance,” you sing. “Do you pretend to be the protagonist or one of the love interests?” 

“Neither!” he shouts, face so red that you think he might explode. “The fights are good. And the art. And the plot isn’t stupid.”

“If you say so,” you agree, lips curling up into an amused smile. “I’ll decide that for myself.”

“No,” Naoya says angrily, making another grab for the manga, but you roll onto your back to avoid him, flipping to the next page. “Get out. You’re not even supposed to be in here. Why can’t you just be normal?” You pause, page half-turned and look up at him. Like he always does when you don’t act the way he wants or expects, he starts to have his meltdown about how you’re not acting the way you’re supposed to. “You’re always being weird. Sneaking around, reading my stuff, sitting like—like that—arguing with me, and fighting with me, and—”

“You’re annoying,” you tell him, turning your attention back down to the manga, ignoring the frustrated noise he lets out. “Sit down and read with me, or go tattle to your father like a baby. Stop whining.”

He gapes and starts to say, “You—”

“Be quiet, Naoya,” you say, brows furrowing as you flip to the next page. “Can’t you see I’m reading?”

You half expect him to storm out, but after a moment, he lets out a furious puff of air, stomps his foot, and moves back over to the manga he’d dropped in his wild attempt to take the manga from you earlier. He picks it up, flips it open with unnecessary force, and drops down beside you hard enough that the floor rattles. His shoulder presses against yours. You don’t move away. 

“I hate you,” he spits.

You smile sweetly, “I hate you more.”

----------------

2002 | READER, AGE 9; NAOYA, AGE 11

You meet Naoya’s oldest brother for the first time when you’re waiting for him to finish training with his uncle. You learn later that he was away in Tokyo for three years—Zenin Naotaka, the eldest, introduces himself to you with a smile that makes your skin crawl. He reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ear, and you want to slap his hand away, but your etiquette training serves you well, because all you do is lower your eyes to the ground and wait for him to move on.

Except, he doesn’t. He runs his thumb along your chin and tilts your face up. He asks you if you’re engaged to one of his brothers, and you barely hear yourself say yes over the sound of your own heart in your ears. You think he must know exactly who you’re engaged to, because there’s an amused gleam in his eyes as his gaze cuts over to where Naoya is distracted on the training grounds. You don’t know why you’re so on edge, but you feel distinctly uncomfortable, and everything in you screams not to do something to piss him off. 

It’s silly, you think, because you’ve heard Naoya talk about his brothers and their cursed techniques—or lack thereof—so realistically, there shouldn’t be anything to worry about if things come down to it. Well, it would be bad for you generally because you don’t want to make a scene, but still…

“What the hell?” You’ve never been so grateful to hear Naoya’s obnoxiously loud voice. You take a step back and glance over your shoulder as Naoya storms over to the two of you. He grabs Naotaka’s wrist and rips it away from your face. “Keep your hands off my things.”

You don’t necessarily like being referred to as a thing or as his, but just this once, you keep your mouth shut. You decide you’ll kick him for it later. Naoya forces his way between the two of you—he moves too fast for your eyes to follow. You realize, after a moment, that it must be projection sorcery and find yourself a bit fascinated. This is the first time he’s used it in front of you.

“Hm? Relax, little brother,” Naotaka says with a languid smile and upturned eyes. He doesn’t look surprised by Naoya’s reaction—if anything, he seems pleased, like this was what he wanted. You squint slightly, watching as Naoya’s eyes flare with irritation at how Naotaka addresses him. “I was just getting to know her. You’re always so serious. She seems sweet, is she really your betrothed?”

Naoya doesn’t take the opportunity to make a snide comment about how you’re definitely not sweet, teeth grinding together as he glares at Naotaka.

“Stay away from her,” Naoya hisses, enraged. You blink in surprise. Naotaka looks entertained by his younger brother’s righteous fury. It’s not like you didn’t know that Naoya has a temper, it’s been quite clear from your first meeting with him, but this is different—it feels more personal. The anxiety you felt from being around Naotaka drains into mild curiosity, wondering exactly what the relationship is between Naoya and his older brothers. When you think about it, you realize that this is the first time you've seen him interact with any of them.

“I think she can speak for herself, can’t she?” Naotaka hums, gaze sliding over to you again. “Was I bothering you?”

Hm. 

You’re not stupid. You were born into this life, and you’ve had years now of dealing with the Zenins to know how the minds of these boys work. This is some sort of test—for you, or for Naoya, maybe? Both of you? Are they testing to see if you’ll take the side of your future husband? If Naoya can control his future wife? The Zenins want their women docile and obedient, and while you’re neither of these and Naoya knows that, the two of you have been careful to present otherwise around people. 

Will there be backlash on you for whatever your answer is? No, you realize. Whatever this is, its centered around Naoya. Naotaka is openly trying to get under his skin for whatever reason. They clearly don’t get along, so you’d be willing to bet that is an attempt to make Naoya look bad. Probably trying to make him look immature for flipping out over a non-issue if you say you’re not bothered.

So, do you want Naoya to look bad?

No, you decide. You still can’t stand Naoya, and he still can’t stand you, but the two of you have been in a united front with the threat of mutually assured destruction since your first meeting. There’s no reason for you to ruin that now.

“You were, Naotaka-san,” you confirm with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. You see Naoya blink and look back at you, an unreadable look in his eyes. “Naoya was only being a good betrothed. He could tell I was uncomfortable.”

Naotaka’s eyes widen slightly, as though he didn’t expect you to take Naoya’s side. You don’t think Naoya expected it either from the way he directs an owlish look at you. You don’t know why he’s so surprised. He knows what the deal is between the two of you. United front. 

“Well,” Naotaka says after a moment, clearing his throat. “My apologies then. I came on too strong.”

“You did,” you say, eyes not leaving his until Naotaka bows his head slightly and turns away. Your gaze lingers on his back until he turns a corner, and you finally look over at Naoya, who is back to looking seriously bothered, face pinched in frustration and eyes teeming with annoyance. You bite back the snide comment on the tip of your tongue and place your hand on his bicep. “If you’re done training, walk me to the gardens.”

Naoya’s gaze lingers on you for a second, calculating and suspicious, but then he lets out a sharp puff of air. As soon as he gets moving, you drop your hand back to your side, linking them behind your back as you race to keep up with him. You realize he’s a lot more bothered than he’s letting on, because he doesn’t even snap at you to walk behind him.

“They always do this,” Naoya says through gritted teeth. “They’re always trying to make me look bad.”

“You don’t get along with your brothers?” you ask him curiously instead of making a snide comment about how you seriously can’t blame them for not liking him. It’s not like he makes it pleasant for anyone to be around him. Instantly, he glares at you, so you figure this must be a sensitive subject, but you raise your eyebrows anyway, beckoning him to answer.

“They’re useless,” Naoya finally tells you, voice clipped. “Weaklings. They’ve been jealous since the moment I was born with our father’s technique, so they try to make me look bad in other ways. It doesn’t work, obviously, and they’re too stupid to stop trying.”

“You should stop reacting to them,” you tell him, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “They’re clearly trying to get a reaction out of you. Just ignore them.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” you interrupt, side-eyeing him, ignoring his apocalyptic expression. “Seriously. If they’re useless and weaklings, then why even bother with them at all? You don’t need to prove anything to people who are weaker than you.”

Naoya blinks, then frowns, and then as though he catches himself considering your words, he scoffs. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You roll your eyes. 

“Sure,” you say simply as the two of you reach the gardens. “Was that projection sorcery you used before? To get between your brother and me?”

Naoya smiles smugly. “It was. Impressive, right?”

“Mm.”

“Hah?! What the hell does that mean?” Naoya demands furiously, crossing his arms over his chest. He glares at you childishly once you’re out of sight of the rest of the estate, hidden behind the hedges of the garden. The united front the two of you put on for the rest of his family crumbles in an instant. “You sound judgmental for someone who doesn’t even have a cursed technique. Know your place.”

You tilt your head to the side, squinting. “I have a cursed technique, and it’s better than yours.”

Naoya’s face reddens. “It is not.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

“I even bet I could beat you in a fight if it came down to it, but don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you like that,” you tell him with a pleased smile, enjoying the disbelief that crosses over his face. Just to needle him some more, you add, “My technique is way more useful than yours, too.”

“You’re a girl, you can’t beat me in a fight,” Naoya hisses. “I don’t care what your technique is.”

This again.

“What if Gojo Satoru were a girl? Would you be able to beat her in a fight?” you counter.

“That’s not—” he splutters. “He’s not a girl, so that doesn’t count anyway. A girl wouldn’t be born with the Six Eyes and Limitless. There’s a reason why he was born a boy.”

“Hm. If you say so,” you say simply, swinging around him with a teasing smile, hands locked behind your back. “I’d still beat you in a fight.”

Naoya’s lips curl up into a sneer, but his gold eyes are more curious now than annoyed. “I do say so,” he says spitefully. Then, like he can’t help himself, he asks, “What’s your cursed technique then? If you’re so proud of it?”

“Why would I tell you?”

“What?”

“I’m not telling you,” you sing, skipping away from him, down the path to the koi pond. “You’ll just have to believe me.”

“Well, I don’t believe you,” Naoya snaps, chasing after you, “so tell me what it is.”

You don’t answer, lips curled up into a small smile as you look at the blue birds that fly away as soon as the two of you approach.

“Hey! Don’t ignore me!”

----------------

2003 | READER, AGE 10; NAOYA, AGE 12

You meet Gojo Satoru for the first time when you’re ten years old. 

You fall in love instantly.

He’s just too pretty, you think dreamily, bright in a way that almost feels unreal, all smiles and easy confidence. He’s everything that Naoya’s not. Before you know it, you’re chatting animatedly with him for hours at an event hosted by the Zenins, hopping from topic to topic without effort: the time you spent in the west, new anime, Digimon, anything the two of you can think of.

It feels strange, almost surreal, because the rest of the estate is wound tight with tension. Servants move faster and quieter than usual, heads bowed, footsteps hushed. Elders murmur to one another, voices low and urgent. The Gojos and Zenins have never needed much of an excuse to dislike one another, but after the clash at the meeting with the higher-ups, that old hostility has become much more volatile. This gathering was meant to be obligatory—an exchange of appearances, nothing more. No one truly expected the Gojo clan to show, least of all him.

Gojo Satoru arrives without ceremony or restraint, as though he hasn’t just walked into enemy territory. His presence sends the Zenins into a frenzy they’re desperate to conceal, smiles stretched too tight, movements too careful.

Your clan is suddenly pulled into mediation.

Your father sits rigidly between Zenin Naobito and the Gojo clan head, voice measured, posture perfect, every word weighed like it might tip the scales. Your brothers are off to the side, speaking with members of the Gojo main family, doing their best to look composed and capable. This is huge—you know it, it’s an opportunity of unfathomable magnitude balanced precariously on the edge of disaster.

You are also ten years old, and Gojo Satoru came straight up to you after arriving and asked, very, very seriously, if all Digimon and all Pokémon were put into an arena to fight to the death, which would win. 

So, priorities.

You find yourself sitting with the boy in the inner courtyard. He talks to you like you’re a person, not a future wife or a political tool, just a person. When he first approaches you properly, you’re sitting on the engawa watching everything unfold, and he crouches down to your level, grinning, and asks your name like the answer genuinely matters to him. 

Gojo Satoru is easy to talk to. He doesn’t expect you to act the way the Zenins want you to act, and when you slip into formality out of habit, he rolls his eyes and tells you to relax. Somewhere along the way, he admits he doesn’t really have anyone his age to talk to, and he wears it lightly, like a joke, even though it clearly isn’t one. He whittles down your defenses without even trying, until you’re talking to him as freely as you do with Naoya—only without the constant threat of mutually assured destruction hanging over every word.

He smiles openly and laughs loudly. He talks with his hands, with his whole body, leaning in too close when he gets excited and flopping back dramatically when he’s bored. He kicks his heels into the grass like this isn’t currently the most politically fraught estate in jujutsu society, like he didn’t just decide on a whim to show up to an event he was never really meant to attend. He complains about Zenin food, praises the sweets you sneak him when the elders aren’t looking, and declares that most adults are exhausting and wrong about almost everything.

You tell him he’s rude. He tells you he’s honest. 

He doesn’t talk down to you or get angry, and when you correct him on something—some detail about a band he misnames or a Digimon evolution he gets wrong—he stops, stares at you for a second, and then laughs like it’s the best thing that’s happened to him all day. It makes your chest so warm and fuzzy that you can almost forget Naoya is lurking across the courtyard. 

“Why the hell is that punk staring at me still?” Gojo Satoru demands as he sits cross-legged on the grass with you, much to the horror of his clan’s elders, who are watching the two of you from a distance. You try to keep a semblance of propriety because even if you are expected to keep him entertained, you know your actions tonight will reflect on both your father and the Zenins, so you have to be careful not to make too many waves. Your brows furrow at him, and he lolls his head to the side and nods his chin over to where Naoya is sitting tense on the steps leading up to the main hall, expression twisted as he watches the two of you carefully. He stiffens when Satoru nods in his direction, gaze flicking between the two of you. “That one.”

“That’s Naoya,” you tell him. “He’s going to be the 27th clan head of the Zenins. We’re betrothed.”

Satoru pauses.

“Oh,” he says, slowly turning his head back to you. Then, after a beat, he adds, “Yikes.”

You snort despite yourself, quickly hiding your smile behind his hand, and he grins wider like he’s won something. Across the courtyard, you see Naoya’s lips pinch together, brows furrowed. You wonder if he’s more irritated with you or with Satoru. Both, probably—you, since you get to sit there talking to the infamous Gojo heir when he’s expected to keep a distance because of clan rivalry, and Satoru, since even though the two of you can’t stand each other, Naoya still gets pissy whenever other people talk to you.

“The elders in my clan are trying to get me to marry, too,” he adds after a moment, stretching obnoxiously before he flops back on Zenin grass like it’s his god given right. You wonder if he walks around everywhere like this—like the world is his playground, his to sprawl about without consequence. You suppose it is, you realize after a moment, because there’s a reason why Zenin Naobito is drinking himself out of a liver instead of trying to kick him off the estate. If your birth had altered the balance of the entire world, you think you’d be just as insufferably unbothered by everything. “They tried to set me up with a girl from some minor clan last month. She bowed so low I thought she might actually disappear into the floor. Freaked me out.”

“Well, it is proper etiquette,” you say with a wave of your hand, because you were raised on the same rules, even if you never quite learned how to swallow this particular rule. “You’re supposed to bow to your elders and important people. More important they are, lower you bow. That’s the rules.”

Satoru tilts his head to the side, blue eyes glittering as he looks over you. “You didn’t bow.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t bow,” he repeats. “When I walked in. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, y’know? I was curious. You’re the first person I’ve met who hasn’t bowed when they met me.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but in this one regard, you’re not special, Gojo-san,” you say, leaning back on your hands. You’ve taken everything your father and your attendants and the Zenin clan have thrown at you except for this one thing. You’ll incline your head, and sometimes slightly bend your shoulders, but that’s as far as you’ll go. It pisses your father off endlessly, but it makes your brother laugh, and then they fight, which you think is funny. “I don’t bow to anyone. Even Zenin-sama only gets a head nod.”

“He must hate that,” Satoru says with an obnoxiously loud laugh.

You find yourself smiling again. “You have no idea.”

He tosses you a wink. “I think I do.”

From the steps, Naoya shifts, an uncomfortable expression plain on his face. You can see it from here—the way his shoulders tense, how his lips curve down when Satoru laughs and rolls onto his side, chin propped in his palm as he looks at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the courtyard. 

“Do you want to marry that little punk?” he asks you after a moment, tone suddenly quieter, serious in a way that makes you blink twice. You glance back at the steps without meaning to. Naoya is watching you both now without pretense, clearly only stopping himself from storming over to the two of you through force of will alone. “Well? Do you?”

“That’s not really a question I get to answer,” you say finally.

Satoru hums. “Not what I asked.”

It’s an honor. It’s for the clan. I’ll do my duty. 

You know what you’re supposed to say. The words line up nearly in your mouth, but you can’t seem to force them out. You’ve come to terms with marrying Naoya. The more time that passes, the harder it’s going to be to get out of the arrangement; Naoya doesn’t seem inclined to say anything to his father, and you’re in no position to say anything at all. And you suppose it’s not awful—he’s terrible and annoying and you really can’t stand him, you despise acting like the ideal Zenin woman in public, and most of your visits to the estate end with you and Naoya fighting, but he can be fun to talk to when he’s not acting like a little shit. 

“I’ll give you an out,” he says, not waiting for you to answer as he pushes himself to his feet, waving his hands in the air to get the attention of the elders lingering on the engawa. Your lips part in confusion, starting to scramble upright. You don’t like the expression on his face: bright and unapologetic, like he’s about to do something he knows he shouldn’t and is enjoying it immensely.

“Hey!” he calls, voice carrying far too well across the courtyard. Several heads snap in his direction immediately, and the murmuring dies. Naoya freezes on the steps, and even Naobito Zenin pauses in conversation with your father; the Gojo clan elders look like they’re bracing for the impact of whatever Satoru is about to say. He crosses his arms over his chest, posture loose and infuriatingly confident. “Since you guys want me to marry so bad, I figure I’ll save you all the trouble. If I get married, I’ll only marry her.” He juts his thumb back at you. Your eyes widen, blood rushing through your ears. “That’s it. Anyone else is a hard no. Don’t waste your time.”

Your stomach drops. 

No waves, your father told you sternly before you went off with Satoru—no waves, and Satoru just launched a tidal wave. 

Your father’s eyes widen as he glances over at your uncle, while Zenin Naobito straightens in his seat, eyes narrowing, attention snapping to you, a furious expression crossing his face. You don’t even want to look at Naoya, but your gaze drifts over to him anyway, and he looks like he’s been slapped. You usually like it when he gets all wide-eyed and red-faced, because it means you’re doing a good job at antagonizing him, but you find that you don’t like this expression. It reminds you too much of the one he wears whenever one of his brothers or his father succeeds in getting under his skin, and he’s trying hard not to let anyone know that.

“Are you insane?” you hiss at Satoru, but the white-haired boy only leans back toward you, grinning.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I said if. Hypothetical. I don’t wanna get married, but if you wanna use it as an out to get away from the Zenins, I wouldn’t mind if it’s you. At least you wouldn’t be sniveling and tripping over your feet to bow, right? We can just watch anime and play Digimon all the time.” 

Your heart is pounding. “You just declared political war on the Zenins.”

And you dragged me to the center of it, you don’t say out loud.

“Eh,” he shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Me being born was essentially a declaration of war.”

The Gojo elders are already in damage-control mode, voices sharp and urgent as they try to salvage the situation.

“Satoru, that is highly inappropriate—”

“You don’t understand the implications—”

“She is already promised—”

“Boring! Not my problem!” Satoru sings flippantly. “Sounds like a you problem.”

You fall out of love with Gojo Satoru as quickly as you fall in love with him. Not only is he a menace, but he’s a menace who doesn’t think before he detonates things and walks away smiling, never having to deal with the consequences.

The courtyard feels smaller all of a sudden, like the air has been sucked out of it. As the Gojo elders surround the white haired boy who just upturned what little peace you had with your life, you find yourself seeking out Naoya again, gaze cutting across the Zenin estate, trying to spot the familiar head of black hair and gold eyes burning with fury.

You don’t find him anywhere. 

----------------

Naoya doesn’t speak to you for months after the incident with Gojo Satoru, and it irritates you more than you care to admit. Not because you miss him—obviously not, why would you miss Naoya?—but because you seem to be in the doghouse with multiple people for something beyond your control. 

Your father has been on you since your family left the Zenin estate, furious at you for indulging Gojo Satoru “too intimately,” or whatever the hell that means, and destroying the alliance with the Zenins. And even more furious at your brother for “not teaching you proper etiquette” when you were whisked off to the west, as if you haven’t been getting it drilled into you for years now. Worse, for coddling your “hopeless delusions,” which you suppose all four of them contribute to, with the way they train you and encourage your disobedient behavior because they find it funny.

Your estate has been at war—a cold war, but a war nonetheless—with you and your brothers on one side, and your father and the rest of the clan on the opposite side. It’s not an unfamiliar state of affairs. Everyone in your family has a volatile temper, and the estate is constantly splintering into temporary factions. But you’re rarely drawn into the middle of it, and when you are, you usually skulk out of the estate and find somewhere else to hide until things die down.

For the past two years, that somewhere else has been the Zenin estate, against all odds.

Naoya has become more bearable over the years, or maybe you’ve just grown accustomed to his bullshit, so you find it easy to head over there when you’re fed up with your family, forcing Naoya to endure your presence on whatever whim leads you there. The two of you just sit in the garden and antagonize one another, and it usually ends with one of you getting a split lip or shoved into the koi pond, but it’s enough to keep your mind off things. The visits gave you distance, space to breathe—an escape route you didn’t realize you relied on until it vanished.

You haven’t been summoned back since that day. Two months pass, then three. You don’t need anyone to spell it out for you to understand that whatever fallout came from Gojo Satoru’s mouth landed squarely on you, but your father is still quick to remind you anyway.

So, here you are now.

You stand before the towering gates of the Zenin estate, head held high and hands locked behind your back to keep them from betraying your nerves. Each second that passes tightens the knot in your stomach. You know, distantly, that this was probably a rash idea, and you’re sure that your father will be furious when he learns where you disappeared to, but…

But he crossed a line earlier.

For all of his blustering outrage and moral lectures, he’s evidently been in talks with the elders of the Gojo clan, trying to see if something might actually come from Gojo Satoru’s brash proclamation. Looking for leverage in chaos, treating your future as a bargaining chip he can slide across the table if it suits him. And you know this was always to be your role to play, you know it, but you just—

You’re tired. Frustrated. 

Ever since returning to Kyoto, you’ve been nothing but a piece on a board, shuffled from strategy to strategy. No one wants you for you, only for what advantage you can be traded for.  You always knew this was your fate; a part of you even understands your father’s anger. Your brothers were cruel, in a way, not just for showing you a life beyond the clan, but for letting you believe—just for a while—that things could be different. That you could be a sorcerer instead of a wife, that you have some say over your future. You’ll never say that out loud. Your father doesn’t deserve the validation, and your brothers were only trying to give you something precious before the iron shackles snapped shut again.

So, instead of spending another day getting insulted by your father and hounded by attendants, you stand outside the Zenin estate, irritation simmering hotter with every minute the gates remain closed. You wonder, unbidden, if the things your father spat in anger were true. That the Zenins discarded you the moment Gojo Satoru laid claim, their pride too brittle to tolerate even the implication that one of their possessions might be taken from them, so they cut you loose without ceremony to get ahead of the humiliation.

After what feels like an eternity, a servant peers out, eyes flicking over you in unmistakable surprise before her expression smooths into something politely distant. She hesitates, clearly unsure whether or not you’re wanted there.

“You weren’t summoned, my lady,” she says at last, voice quiet.

“I know,” you reply. “But I’m here.”

There’s a pause. You see her brows furrow, eyes uncertain as her gaze flicks over to you. She bows and steps aside after a few moments. “This way.”

The gates close behind you with a loud thud, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Inside, the Zenin estate looks exactly as it always has: immaculate paths, raked gravel, the distant garden that you and Naoya would disappear into during your visits. You peel off from the servant escorting you, ignoring the yelp of ‘wait!’ she lets out, but you’re already slipping into the closest building, walking quickly down familiar corridors, past sliding doors you’ve walked through dozens of times, past training halls where you’ve listened to Naoya boast and curse and sneer in equal measure.

You push open the sliding door and duck inside his room before any of the servants can catch you, because it’s certainly improper for you to be in his bedroom unsupervised, doubly so if you’re no longer engaged.

“Naoya—” you start to say, but you cut yourself off when you realize he’s standing in front of his mirror, teal shirt pulled to the side as he stares at the purple and green bruises that mottle his abdomen. “What happened?”

Naoya whips around instantly, gold eyes wide and lips parted. He lets his shirt fall back into place—too late. He freezes, and for a second, his features soften from the sharp edges you’re used to, uncertainty flooding his face instead. He stares at you like you’ve caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing, shoulders stiff, breath shallow. Then his expression hardens, lips curling up into a sneer.

“Get out,” he snaps immediately. “Who the hell let you in here? Why are you here? What the hell?”

“I asked first,” you counter, irritated by his attitude, but then you gnaw at your bottom lip, brows furrowing. “Naoya. Those bruises—”

“Don’t fucking pity me. I don’t need your pity,” he hisses, fists tight at his sides. He’s thinner than he was, looks like he’s drowning in the outfit that was tailored perfectly to his frame three months ago. His shoulders are tight, posture rigid—he’s in pain, you realize, and you’re instantly uncomfortable. You shouldn’t have come. “It’s none of your business. Get out.”

You don’t know how to deal with this. You’re used to bantering with Naoya, insulting him, getting insulted back. He jumps down your throat about things you “aren’t supposed to do” since you’re a girl, and you, in turn, either shove him to the ground or punch him in the face. You don’t care about each other; this is only an alliance of convenience—mutually assured destruction—so you don’t know how to comfort him, and you don’t think he would want you to even if you did. You think maybe you should just leave as he told you to, but your feet won’t cooperate.

“Is it because of me?” you ask quietly after a moment, gaze flicking down to his now-covered abdomen before drifting back up to his face.

“You’re so full of yourself,” Naoya sneers. “No one likes an arrogant woman. You should be more modest if you want men to like you.” 

Your eye twitches. “How about you answer my question before I give you bruises to match on your face?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Naoya replies through gritted teeth, but when he takes a step toward you, he barely hides a grimace, having to shift his weight onto his opposite side. He says after a moment, voice strained, “That was humiliating. For me. For my father. My clan. And he did it in our own home. My father is livid. He’s going to remember it—I’m going to remember it.”

Your throat bobs as you swallow. You knew this. You knew that Gojo Satoru openly insulted and humiliated not just Naoya, but the entire Zenin clan with that single declaration, but it’s different hearing it out loud. Especially because you’re sure they think you have some involvement in it, that you prompted his words in some manner, when you didn’t. Your nails bite into the palm of your hand, jaw tightening as you stare at him, unsure what you should say in response.

“I didn’t ask him to do that,” you say after a moment, feeling the need to explain yourself for some reason. “I’m not unhappy with our arrangement.” Naoya’s eyes narrow as though he doesn’t believe you. You bristle, irritated. “I’m not. You’re unpleasant and annoying, and I can’t stand you most days, and it would definitely make us both happy if this arrangement fell apart, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to insult you publicly like that.”

Naoya scoffs. “Right—”

“I would just beat you up publicly instead of in private if that was the case,” you tell him, and he immediately directs a hateful look at you. “The united front, Naoya. Mutually assured destruction. I had nothing to do with what he said. I wouldn’t jeopardize our deal, even to get out of this arrangement.”

“You don’t beat me up,” he hisses, but he looks less aggravated by your words, clearly seeing the logic behind them. You hate stupid boys. You always have to spell everything out for them. This should’ve been obvious.

“Sure, I do,” you say, and then motion to his abdomen after a moment. “Not like that, though. What happened?”

Naoya hesitates, gaze flicking away stubbornly. You don’t think he’s going to answer, but he finally says, “My father made me spend the night in the disciplinary pit.” He pauses for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “I should make you spend a night in the disciplinary pit. Maybe then ya won’t get so mouthy with me and’ll start acting like a proper woman.”

You force yourself not to react to the latter half of what he said, especially when he casts that thoughtful look over to you, as though actually considering it. 

“What’s the disciplinary pit?” you ask instead.

Naoya closes off instantly. “Doesn’t matter. Mind your business. Why are you so nosy, huh? We’re not friends. When are you gonna start acting like a proper wife, huh? S’not cute anymore, acting like you’re a boy. Not that it ever was.”

“Why did he throw you in there?” you press, only finding a bit of amusement in the way he gives you an irritated, disbelieving look.

“The hell don’t you understand about minding your business?” he demands. “Mind your business. You know damn well why.”

Because of the Gojo incident? Your lips curve down into a frown—it was three months ago, would Naobito still really be disciplining Naoya for it now? You decide not to press again, because Naoya is becoming increasingly more incensed the longer the two of you stay on the topic. Instead, you shift uncomfortably on your feet.

“Are we still engaged?” you ask him quietly after a moment.

“You tell me,” he sneers, but there’s no heat behind the words, and something frighteningly close to insecurity flashing briefly through his eyes. 

You hesitate, but then you nod, and Naoya exhales through his nose, gaze lowering for a second. You don’t recognize the emotion that crosses his face—relief, maybe, it’s gone before you can figure it out.

“Good,” he says stiffly after a moment. “Didn’t wanna deal with breaking the news to the old man otherwise. Would’ve made you do it.”

There’s a comment on the tip of your tongue about how that sounds right, how you expected nothing less from the Zenin heir than for him to hide behind the skirts of a girl, but you remember the bruises marring his skin and the pain on his face that he was desperately trying to hide, and you swallow them before you can let them loose.

Just this once, you tell yourself. 

Silence stretches between you, thick and unfamiliar. You feel awkward. This isn’t how your conversations usually go. There’s no barbed back-and-forth, no childish threats or petty one-upmanship. You hate it. 

“Wanna go to the gardens?” you ask instead.

He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “God, you’re so annoying,” he mutters, but he makes his way over to you anyway, and this time, he holds his arm out to you, waiting for you to take it. “C’mon, the cherry blossoms are in bloom. Thought you were gonna miss ‘em since you’ve been avoiding me.”

You barely stop yourself from rolling your eyes. You’ve been avoiding him?

“I know,” you say instead of starting an argument, and then lie, “that’s the real reason I came.”

Naoya snorts. “‘course it is.”

----------------

2004 | READER, AGE 12; NAOYA, AGE 14

Naoya did not have a good relationship with his mother before she passed. 

You find this out by accident, arriving early to the Zenin estate for an end-of-year dinner your clan was invited to. You think that you should’ve figured it out on your own. Naoya is a prodigy, the golden heir, praised from the moment he could walk and weaponized from the moment he could think. Women in this clan aren’t respected; his father never would’ve allowed his mother to have a hand in the parenting of his perfect heir, in fear of tainting him with a woman’s touch.

In the two years following the incident with Gojo Satoru, things between you and Naoya… changed. It didn’t soften exactly, but it seemed to dull at the edges, maybe. Before the incident, it hadn’t been unusual for arguments to end with bruises, split lips, and blood staining the dirt. The two of you had turned to violence easily in the privacy of the garden you would spend most of your visits hiding in—it was the most honest language either of you knew. 

Now, things are more restrained. You still don’t like him, obviously, but you don’t think anyone truly likes Naoya, and he certainly doesn’t like you. He makes that abundantly clear from the way he constantly makes snide comments about how you’re the most unideal wife he could possibly have, bitter over the fact that the two of you are still trapped in this arrangement. But you don’t jump at each other’s throats anymore, so it’s a step up from how things used to be.

You’re halfway down a familiar corridor when you hear voices raised just enough to snag your attention. You slow without meaning to, nerves prickling. You don’t know what’s going on yet, but the scene still stops you dead in your tracks.

Naoya stands rigid near the engawa, while Naotaka lounges opposite him on a rock with a careless sprawl that almost looks deliberately disrespectful. It strikes you how much smaller Naoya looks like this, cornered even though he could easily leave; you don’t like the way it makes your stomach twist up. You realize quickly that you’re not supposed to see whatever is happening between the two brothers.

You only hear the tail end of whatever Naotaka said, but that’s enough:

“—wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for you. She could hardly stand to look at you.”

You still at the edge of the training grounds, eyes focusing on the two of them. Naoya stiffens, shoulders squared, chin lifted in that familiar way that usually reads as arrogance, but right now it doesn’t. His face is blank, eyes fixed somewhere just past Naotaka’s shoulder. Neither of them notices you. You don’t know if you should say something or leave.

You expect Naoya to say something back, a snide, derogatory comment that will cause Naotaka to fumble, but he stays silent instead, and it unsettles you. You’ve always wondered exactly what the relationship between Naoya and his older brothers was like; you knew it was unpleasant, but you figured it was because… well, Naoya is unpleasant. Not whatever is happening right now.

“She used to cry after watching you train,” Naotaka continues quietly, eyes curved as he smiles at Naoya. “Did you know that? You represented everything she hated about this family—proof that nothing was ever going to change. The irony of it killed her—spending her life trying to survive this place, hoping that things would be different one day, and in the end, gave birth to its perfect product.”

Naoya finally speaks after a moment, and his voice is much smaller than you expect it to sound. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “She was proud. Everyone is. Everyone except you, because—”

“Proud?” Naotaka barks out a laugh. “You can’t actually believe that, Naoya. She was disg—”

“Naoya,” you call, finally stepping out of the hall and into the training yard. Both of the Zenins stiffen and look your way. You don’t meet Naoya’s eyes, gaze flicking over to his older brother. “Oh, Naotaka-san, you’re here too. Good! Were you guys about to train together? I was hoping to watch.”

Your lips curl up into an innocent smile, hands locked behind your back. You’ve spent six years playing the part of the perfect, docile woman, so they have no reason to think there’s any nefarious, ulterior motive behind your question. The Kukuru, lingering on the outskirts of the training ground and trying to pretend they’re not eavesdropping on the conversation happening between the brothers, perk up at the prospect of a sparring match. Naotaka’s expression instantly shifts from the pleasure he was finding in making Naoya uncomfortable into something more unsure, as you knew it would. Naoya has made it clear that all of his brothers are useless when it comes to combat.

Naoya, on the other hand, who absolutely understands the nefarious, ulterior motive behind your question, brightens, lips curving into a smug smile. He turns toward you, composure snapping back into place. Whatever uncertainty that had crept into his voice a moment ago is gone, replaced with that familiar sharp gleam in his eyes. You like this more, you decide—you don’t like whatever it was on his face when Naotaka was talking. 

“Oh?” he drawls, rolling his shoulders. “Ya want to watch? Sure, this’ll be fun. I’ll even put some effort in, since my pretty wife’s gonna be watching. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

Wife?!

You barely stop yourself from shooting him an appalled look when he calls you his wife. Smile a bit tighter, you reply, “Please do. I’d hate to be disappointed.”

That earns you a low laugh from Naoya. He steps into the middle of the yard, posture loose, radiating that casual arrogance you’ve become used to. Naotaka follows more reluctantly, rolling his wrists, eyes never leaving his younger brother.

“Don’t hold back,” Naoya adds, voice almost cheerful. “I know you’ve been dying to hit me.”

Naotaka braces himself on his back leg, and the fight is over before it even really starts. You blink, and Naotaka is on the ground, blood spilling from his mouth and nose, eyes wide. Naoya stands above him, a sneer on his face. He presses his foot against Naotaka’s cheek, smushing his face into the dirt, grinding his heel just enough to make a point.

“Well,” Naoya says mildly, looking down at his brother, “that was disappointing, but I expected nothing less from you.”

Naotaka coughs, blood and dirt mixing at the corner of his mouth. His hands twitch, fingers clawing uselessly at the ground, pride warring with pain. He finally manages to get out a hoarse, “Get off.”

Naoya leans down instead, lowering his face. “You talk a lot for trash. You’d think you’d have learned by now. Guess ya just can’t help stupidity, can ya?”

You make your way over to them, hands still clasped behind your back. Naoya straightens and steps back, gaze dragging up to your face. He preens and asks smugly, “Impressed?” 

You’re close enough now that only Naoya and Naotaka will overhear what you’re about to say, and your back is to the Kukuru who have gathered. You let your smile drop as you side-eye Naoya.

“No,” you answer flatly, ignoring his scowl. Naotaka blinks at your tone, brows furrowing as he realizes he might’ve misjudged your relationship with Naoya. You glance down at him, lip curled up in distaste. You don’t know why his words bothered you so much. You don’t give a damn about Naoya, but you think Naotaka has some nerve talking down on someone he can’t even land a hit on in a fight. You consider dropping the subject, because there is an off-chance that Naotaka will go running to his father to tell him what happened, but you think even if he does, nothing will come from it. His father doesn’t respect him, and you trust that Naoya will have your back—and Naobito will take Naoya’s word over Naotaka’s, you know that much. So, you tell him, “I think men with no skill in combat should hang themselves and die. What use are you to the world?”

Naotaka stares at you, eyes wide, shock and humiliation flooding his face. Beside you, Naoya lets out a loud, startled laugh, throwing his head back, hand braced on his hip, shoulders shaking.

“See, even my wife-to-be agrees. I knew I picked well,” Naoya says with a sharp smile, eyes shining as he stares down at Naotaka. He misses the repulsive look you cast his way. “You’re worthless. So do us both a favor and never talk to me again. Or, better yet, die.”

Naotaka pushes himself up to his elbows, scoffing at you this time. “You know, when we met that day after I came back from Tokyo, I wasn’t sure how someone like him could be with someone like you. Thought he was tormenting you behind closed doors. To think I was worried. But I get it—you two are the same, aren’t you?”

“Don’t you have any shame?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. “You don’t fight well. You don’t command respect. Your own father barely acknowledges you unless you embarrass him, and instead of fixing any of that, you stand around gossiping about someone who could crush you without trying in the same breath you pretend to be above him. At least Naoya earns his reputation. When people look at him, it’s because they’re afraid he might actually do something, because he can. When they look at you, it’s because they’re wondering why the hell you’re still here.”

 “You’re both disgusting,” he mutters, jaw tight as his gaze flits away, face red with humiliation. Naoya is staring at you—you can see it from the corner of your eye, but you can’t read the expression on his face. “Deserve each other.”

“And you’re forgettable,” you reply without hesitation. “That’s worse.”

Naotaka scoffs and starts to say, “You—”

Naoya interrupts. “You really don’t know when to quit it. Shut your mouth already, will you?”

Naoya reaches for you, hand curling around your wrist. He tugs you toward him, and then his hand slides to the middle of your back as he guides you away from the center of the yard. Naoya doesn’t do gentle, but you think this is the closest thing he knows to it, fingers pressing against your spine, not forceful or demanding, just there. Dare you say, almost comforting. The Kukuru look away. Someone moves to help Naotaka. The moment is over as quickly as it began.

You half-expect him to jump down your throat for what you said, for embarrassing him, or escalating things, or not acting like the Zenin perfect wife when the two of you were in public, as your deal demands. But he doesn’t. He keeps walking until the noise of the training ground dulls behind you and the weight of other eyes finally lifts.

He leans down, close enough that his breath brushes your ear. “Didn’t think you were the type to kick someone while they’re already down,” he says, amused. 

You don’t have to look at him to see the sharp grin on his face. 

You wipe it off him instantly.

“Didn’t think you were the type to take the words of such a lowlife to heart,” you counter, and Naoya stops dead in his tracks, hand falling from your back, limp to his side. You stop as well, turning around to look at him. There’s an unreadable expression on his face; you wonder if he was hoping you didn’t overhear anything that took place before you announced yourself. “You shouldn’t.”

Naoya stares at you for just a moment too long. Up close, without the performance and the audience, he expression looks almost… empty. The sharpness in his eyes drains in a way you’ve never seen before, and for a split second, he looks younger again. Smaller. The same way he did when Naotaka was prattling on about their mother.

He recovers quickly with a familiar scoff, gaze flitting to the side. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t give a shit about the opinions of trash.” Irritated now, he adds, “And you shouldn’t have spoken up like that in the first place. You’re gonna cause me problems if you keep running your mouth. You said you’d be obedient in public. I don’t need anyone defending me, ‘specially not you.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have hit him so hard, or so fast,” you tell him, ignoring the latter half of what he said, turning on your heel to continue making your way over to the gardens. He follows behind—testament to how bothered he really is, because there’s no world where he would willingly walk even half a step behind you, much less three. “He wanted to hurt you, and you let him.”

“What the hell would you know, huh?” he demands, reaching out to grab your wrist, stopping you mid-step. He forces you to turn to look at him. He’s not gentle anymore. “Answer me. What the hell would you know?”

“What would I know about someone trying to get reactions out of me and not letting them get what they want?” you drawl, tilting your head to the side, wondering if Naoya’s being serious right now. “Be real, Naoya. I’ve been dealing with it for the past six years—most of the time from you.”

“It’s not the same,” he tells you, voice quieter than you expect, looking away.

“It’s close enough,” you shrug. “Stop giving him what he wants. Knock out his teeth the next time he breathes in your direction. We’re engaged. It’s embarrassing for me as much as it is for you when you let him treat you like that.”

“Bitch,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind the insult, and his gaze flickers with something close to amusement. You roll your eyes, not falling for the bait. 

“Call me a bitch again, and I’ll knock out your teeth.”

He looks at you again when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and you catch it, but only barely. The smugness is still there, but it’s off, like it’s not sitting right anymore. His gaze lingers, uneasy and assessing, as if something about you no longer fits the box he put you in years ago.

You don’t know what it means. You’re not sure he does either.

----------------

2005 | READER, AGE 13; NAOYA, AGE 15

Naoya becomes even stranger after that meeting, and it’s making you antsy. You don’t really know how to articulate what’s wrong with him, but something definitely is. When you try to explain it to one of your brothers, he only snorts at you and tells you that he’s too busy to bother with an “emotionally constipated teenager.”

It’s little things. Annoying things. Things that would be easy to dismiss if they didn’t keep happening, but they do keep happening, and it’s seriously knocking you off-kilter.

Naoya stops correcting you in public. Well, not entirely, but he used to pounce at every perceived slight and every misplaced word because he had a “reputation” to keep up, and now, he lets most of them pass without even a snide comment in your direction. His insults toward you never land in front of his family the way they used to, because he knew that was the only time you could never snap back with a retaliatory one. When tempers flare between the two of you, he leaves first—jaw tight, fists clenched—rather than letting things escalate the way they usually would.

It unsettles you more than the violence ever did. You’d almost prefer a busted lip and giving him a blackened eye than whatever is happening recently.

When you arrive early in the morning for a visit, and the air is cold, he tosses his outer robe over your shoulders without a comment, already walking away as if it meant nothing. When a servant pours you tea that’s gone lukewarm, Naoya clicks his tongue, takes the cup from your hands, and tells them to replace it with another. Once, you realized halfway through a conversation that he’d been standing beside you for several minutes, listening to you talk about a new show you started without interrupting, and it unsettled you so much that you lost track of what you were saying. He starts positioning himself differently, too. Always just half a step closer than necessary, in front of you only when an argument breaks out between his uncles or brothers. 

He never acknowledges it afterward, and if you look at him too long, he sneers and asks what you’re staring at. One time, you made the mistake of thanking him, and he scoffed so loudly that a servant jumped in surprise halfway across the room. Then, he told you not to get the wrong idea before storming off.

Either way, it’s safe to say that things have been decidedly awkward, and you feel it more than ever sitting across from him in one of the smaller side rooms tucked away from the main corridors of the estate. Your father is talking to Zenin Naobito in the other room, and the two of you were told to sit here and wait until they come to a decision about… Well, you aren’t sure what they’re coming to a decision about, but it has you unnerved, because it can’t possibly be marriage, since Naoya only just turned fifteen, and you’re still thirteen. You want to ask Naoya if he knows what they’re talking about, but you can’t bring yourself to, because he’s just been so weird and unpredictable lately, and you don’t want to engage him if you don’t have to.

So, you sit across from him silently, knees tucked beneath you, hands folded carefully in your lap. Naoya leans back against the wall, head tipped back, legs spread out in front of him. You wonder, disdainfully, if he’s purposely trying to take up as much space as possible or if his obnoxious behavior just comes naturally to him as a Zenin. Probably the latter. He lets out an irritated sigh before bending one knee inward, draping his arm over it, fingers hanging idle, as if this is all terribly boring and beneath him.

It would almost be convincing, if not for the way his eyes keep flicking back to you.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally bring yourself to ask, “Do you know what this is about?”

“Do I look like my father’s keeper?” Naoya asks snidely without wasting a breath. You give him a dirty look, and he promptly rolls his eyes. “Probably has to do with Gojo Satoru’s genpuku ceremony. I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“What does that have anything to do with us?” you scoff, shifting to sit cross-legged when your knees start to ache. You’ve been stuck sitting here with him for almost two hours now, and you’re getting fed up.

Naoya casts you a droll look, and it takes everything in you not to break the six-month streak of no violence, because your hand twitches to punch the expression right off his face. He says, “Everything the Gojo clan does has to do with us. They’re probably considering moving up my genpuku ceremony now to make a point. Which means we’ll be getting married sooner.” 

He says it so off-handedly that you almost misunderstand what it is he’s saying. You stare at him for a moment, and then you blink twice, lips parting in disbelief. “How can you say that so casually?” you hiss. “What are we supposed to do?” 

Naoya shrugs lazily. “It was bound to happen. My ceremony was always going to happen sooner rather than later. My father wants me to reach Special Grade One before I turn seventeen.”

That’s not what you meant. You want to throttle him. You don’t want to marry him, and you know damn well he doesn’t want to marry you. He’s made that abundantly clear through the barrage of insults and reasons why you’re unfit to be anyone’s wife, much less his. So, why isn’t he seeing the problem with this? If his ceremony is moved up, the two of you will probably be married within a year of it, if not sooner.

“We need to do something,” you say, shaking your head. He tilts his head to the side and raises his eyebrows, like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. You almost want to launch yourself at him, teeming with frustration. “Naoya, we need to tell them.”

“Tell ‘em what?” he asks, looking at you from the corner of his eye, brows furrowing.

Is he being purposely obtuse?

“What is wrong with you? That we don’t want to get married,” you hiss. You miss the way his expression shifts when you close your eyes and shake your head again, trying to quell the rising panic. “The longer this drags out, the worse it’ll be. Are we supposed to wait until our wedding day and then be like ‘Hey, you know, actually we can’t stand each other.’”

Naoya doesn’t answer for a moment too long, so you turn to give him a questioning look. The expression on his face gives you pause: his jaw is tight, and there’s an unreadable look in his eyes. Not angry, surprisingly, but more… well, you’re not even really sure. He blinks once like he’s confused, genuinely, and it throws you off more than any shout ever could. His mouth opens, then closes again, and he stares at you like he’s about to say something but thinks better of it. 

The harsh scoff comes too late and too forced. 

What the hell is happening?

“If ya wanna tell them, be my guest,” he snaps, angrier than you expected, “but you better keep me out of it—”

“What is your problem, asshole?” you demand, glaring at him. Your chest twists up, and you don’t know why. “How am I supposed to keep you out of it? You’re the only one that can say something—I’m in no position to. And you’re the issue.”

“I’m the issue?” Naoya echoes, seething. He rises to his feet, and you push yourself to yours. Here you go, six months of no violence down the drain. You suppose it was only a matter of time. Your hand curls into a fist, body tensing, but it never comes. Naoya steps away from you as though he catches himself, running his hand through his hair, and you want to scream at him to just fucking fight you, because you’ll understand that more than this. “You’re the damn issue. You don’t act like a woman. Not the way you’re supposed to. You don’t listen. You don’t keep your head down. You’re always arguing and snapping back like you think you’re my equal. It’s embarrassing.”

“I get it,” you reply loudly, voice inexplicably cracking over the words. “I know. You tell me all the time, Naoya. I’m loud and difficult, and I embarrass you. I hear it from you, from my family, from everyone. So, why are you losing your mind over me finally saying we should put an end to this?”

For a split second, Naoya looks thrown, like he doesn’t know the answer himself. His lips part to speak, but he seems unable to spit out any snide comments. After a long moment—too long—his face finally hardens again.

“You don’t get anything,” he finally seethes, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning his back toward you as he walks over to the sliding doors. “You never get anything, but you run around acting like you do. I don’t give a damn anymore. Do what you want. I’m sick of putting up with your shit. Good fuckin’ riddance if you manage to get them to agree to calling off the engagement.”

You stare at him as he leaves. Angry, you shout at his retreating back, “They told us to wait in here!” 

He flips you off over his shoulder, not even deigning to look back or respond.

You sit back down, a heavy feeling in your chest. You can’t shake the feeling that you seriously messed up, and you don’t even know how.

(Your father tells you that you and Naoya will be married once he’s promoted to Special Grade One. You have at most two years left. Two years, and it’s done, and with every day that passes, the space to object shrinks.)

----------------

Naoya stops doing nice things after the argument that day.

He starts correcting you again, publicly, snapping at your words the moment they leave your mouth if they’re not Zenin perfect. His voice is cutting and loud enough to draw attention, and the timing is deliberate, always when others are listening, and you can’t afford to snap back. Arguments don’t really happen anymore at all, not because the two of you are on good terms, but because he never lingers long enough for them to start. He’s there just long enough to make a comment, to look at you like you’re a nuisance that he’s decided not to deal with, and then he’s gone again. You’re left bristling with words that have nowhere to go, and then you’re forced into lessons to prepare yourself for your duties as his wife since he refuses to spend time with you anymore.

The small things disappear completely. No robe when the mornings are cold. No interference when servants ignore you or rush past you. If tea is poured wrong, it stays wrong. If you’re talked over, you stay talked over. When you arrive, he doesn’t acknowledge you, eyes sliding past you like you aren’t there at all. If he’s nearby, he acts as though you aren’t, angling his shoulders away and directing his attention elsewhere, erasing himself from your immediate world.

You become used to it.

It’s better this way.

----------------

2007 | READER, AGE 14; NAOYA, AGE 16

You’ve spent most of your time this past year during your visits to the Zenin estate watching Naoya train with the Hei when you’re not forced into your lessons with the other women in the estate. He’s preparing for his promotion, and it’s easier to linger at the edges of the training grounds than it is to find somewhere to hide away alone. He’s started talking to you again over the last few months—a comment tossed over his shoulder when he passes you on the way to training, a curt acknowledgment when you’re in the same room, sometimes he asks if you’re leaving already when he catches you on your way out, sometimes he tells you not to sit near him because you’re in his way. Nothing that invites a response longer than a sentence.

Watching him train fills in the gaps. Makes you feel less awkward hanging around the estate when you’re expected to be there for your weekly visits and have no other obligations or duties to attend to. From the sidelines, it’s easier to exist around him without having to think too hard about how things have changed. Occasionally, he glances your way between rounds. Not long enough to mean anything, just enough to register that you’re still there. Once, when you lingered too close to the edge of the engawa while he was sparring with his uncle, he snapped at you to move back before you got hurt. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt, but you listen anyway, if only because you’re surprised at the emotion in his voice. 

It’s while you’re watching him train that a terrible, terrible thought crosses your mind. 

Naoya is… kind of attractive.

It’s so unprompted and alarming that you almost drop your fan, expression twisting in disgust as you stare at him. You immediately try to rationalize it. It’s proximity bias, obviously. You’ve been stuck seeing the same dumb face for years; of course, your brain has finally snapped. Like Stockholm syndrome, but worse, because there’s no way you would ever think shitty, insufferable Zenin Naoya is attractive.

Except—he really has changed. He’s grown taller. From gangly limbs and a narrow frame to broad shoulders and toned arms. His face has lost some of the childish softness that yours still has; the lines are sharper now, more defined, especially when he scowls. Which he does a lot. It’s all much easier to notice now while you’re watching him spar than it is in the brief moments you pass by each other across the estate.

He moves differently now, too. He’s faster—more sure of himself. There’s no hesitation behind his strikes. Projection sorcery carries him across the training yard in clean, decisive bursts, body snapping into place with perfect precision. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt, clinging to him in a way that makes you look away, and then, traitorously, look back.

You frown, unsettled, as he floors one of the Hei members with a brutal kick, barely sparing him a glance once he hits the ground. Everyone has been raving about how he’s going to be the youngest Special Grade One sorcerer that the Zenin clan has ever had. In two months, he’s going to submit his petition to the higher-ups, and then he’s going to go on his missions—which, in his humble words, he’s guaranteed to succeed on, so he’ll be Special Grade One before he even turns seventeen.

And you will be married to him within a year of the promotion.

You sigh, gaze dragging back up to his face. His lips curl up into a smug smile as he pushes his black hair out of his face, and you want to die because your stomach flips when he catches your gaze and winks at you before moving on to the next opponent. 

What the fuck?

You’re not sure if you’re more confused by your reaction or the fact that he acknowledged you so casually at all. You stare at Naoya in abject horror, noticing things you’ve never noticed before against your will. His eyes narrow before he strikes, his smile sharpens when he realizes someone underestimated him, and he doesn’t bother hiding his disdain when he inevitably wins, because he knows he doesn’t have to. 

You remind yourself how obnoxious he was before he started icing you out—he would tug on your hair when he felt like you’re not giving him your full attention as children, he forced you to listen to him as he droned on about legacy and his useless brothers and how the Zenin clan would fall apart without him. He complained constantly, picked fights with you for sport, and took a perverse amount of joy in reminding you—loudly—that you’re his future wife, and he would take serious pleasure in turning you into the perfect woman for him.

You know all of this, and it’s not enough to fix whatever is currently malfunctioning in your brain, because then—then you think about how he would give you his outer robe when it was cold, about how irritated he would get in your defense when the estates servants didn’t treat you with the proper respect, how he would listen to you ramble with few complaints. He wasn’t as insufferable last year, you realize. In fact, you might even go so far as to say he was decently good to you, and then everything went to shit because…

Well, you still don’t really understand why, you think belatedly.

He moves again—too fast for your eyes to follow properly—and you watch as he flashes forward, heel catching his opponent square in the ribs. There’s a sharp crack, a grunt of pain, and then Naoya is already past him, barely slowing as the man crumples to the ground. He doesn’t even look impressed, and you think that’s what gets you the most: not the strength, but the fact that he’s so fucking full of himself that he expects the world to bend to him and is never surprised when it does. You hate how smug he is all the damn time.

God, you can’t stand him.

Yet, you still can’t draw your eyes away.

“What the hell?” you whisper to yourself, trying to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’re in, as Naoya makes a derogatory comment to his uncle before he wipes the sweat from his brow and turns toward you. His gold eyes lock onto yours immediately.

“Enjoying the show?” he calls, an infuriating grin on his face as he makes his way over to you.

Is he actually talking to you? 

You blink once, bewildered, and he raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down at you. When did he get so tall? you think woefully. He towers over you now—a few months ago, the two of you were almost the same height.

You think of making a snide comment about whether or not he’s actually talking to you now, but you decide against it, snapping your fan shut. “You’re loud,” you say, hoping that he can’t see through the facade you instinctively throw up. “And sloppy. You could’ve finished that fight three strikes earlier.”

He steps closer, damp hair sticking to his forehead as he leans in. “If you’re gonna lie,” he tells you smugly, “you should try harder to make it believable.”

What is his problem? Why is he getting so close to you? He’s hardly spoken to you at all in the last year. You’re becoming increasingly more confused, and worse, flustered, because your heart is inexplicably racing the closer he gets to you.

You cross your arms over your chest. “You’re so full of yourself. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that modesty is attractive?”

“In women, maybe. Take your own advice, you arrogant hag,” Naoya counters, and you gape when he calls you a hag, staring at him in disbelief. “Tell me how impressive I was. I know ya think it from how long you were staring.”

You think the ground should open up and swallow you whole. 

Instead, your lip curls up into a mocking smile. “Aw,” you croon. “The little prince wants to be praised. You did so good, Naoya. You’re so strong. So impressive.”

“Bitch,” he mutters scornfully, crossing his arms over his chest, but there’s something unmistakably pleased flickering in his eyes, happy with the shallow flattery. You almost roll your eyes. “At least try to sound sincere.”

“And let your head get even bigger? As if,” you snort, motioning for him to take your hand and help you to your feet. He raises his eyebrows and then pointedly yanks you up so hard that you crash into his chest. Eyes wide and caught off guard, you flail for a second as you try to catch yourself, hyper aware of how your face is pressed against his chest and how his hand dropped down to your lower back. After a long moment, you finally are able to spit out a flustered, “Asshole.”

You lift your head up to glare at him, but you falter when you find he’s already looking down at you, head tilted to the side, smug smile painted across his face. 

“You’re much prettier when ya keep your mouth shut, you know? Women shouldn’t be saying such ugly things. Or anything at all, really,” he says lazily, gold eyes raking over your face. “It ruins the view.”

With the rest of the Hei distracted as they continue their drills, and the right half of your body out of line of sight, you drive your fist hard into Naoya’s side. He hardly budges, but he does scowl at you, grabbing your wrist to stop you from going in for another blow. 

“Careful,” he warns, voice low, an edge to it now. “If anyone sees you swingin’ at me like that, they’ll think I’m going soft for you.”

“You are soft,” you say immediately, then try to punch him again when he lets go of your elbow. He grabs your arm again with a slight frown. “Just not where it counts.”

“You’re a violent little beast, you know that?” he snaps, fingers tightening around your wrist and splayed across your lower back. “You should be grateful it’s me you’re betrothed to. Any other man would’ve disciplined you by now. Ain’t I so generous? Say thank you.”

You sneer, the two of you falling back into routine banter so easily that it surprises you, like the last year of distance and tension didn’t take place at all. “Yes, thank you,” you agree, and his eyes widen slightly, a pleased smile curving at his lips. Then you add scornfully, “Thank you for proving, yet again, that you are insufferable to be around. I almost forgot.”

He clicks his tongue, annoyed, but he doesn’t let go right away. His grip is firm, possessive in a way that makes your skin crawl and your pulse jump all at once. You raise your chin stubbornly, and he squints at you.

“Tch,” he scoffs lightly. He finally lets go of your wrist and lets his hands drop back to his sides. “You really don’t know when to shut up.”

You rub your wrist as you step away—you can still feel the warmth of his fingers pressed against your skin. You shoot him an accusing glare. “I can’t believe you, of all people, just said that to me.”

He ignores your comment, stepping past you to the water basin, grabbing a towel, and slinging it around his neck. 

“Honestly,” he says casually, and you know you’re not going to like whatever he’s about to say solely from the shit-eating grin on his face. You brace yourself for whatever it is, but even that’s not enough. “It’s about time you noticed anyway.”

You side-eye him, stomach dropping. “Noticed what, exactly?”

“Me, obviously.”

You instinctively scoff. “Trust me, I noticed you and your big head ages ago, Naoya.”

“You know what I mean,” he says with an easy smile. “I’ve always been like this. Strong. Talented. Better than everyone else here. It was only a matter of time.”

“Humble too,” you add sarcastically, voice strained. “Get over yourself. You’re not as impressive as you think you are.”

He steps past you, close enough that his shoulder purposely brushes yours, voice dropping for only you to hear. “Just try not to fall in love, yeah?” he tells you mockingly. “It’d be inconvenient.”

You whirl on him, furious, and you hate the way your heart kicks traitorously in your chest. “As if,” you hiss. “I’d rather swallow glass.”

He winks at you as he walks away, goading one of his uncles to step into the training yard to spar with him, and you turn your back on him, eyes wide and lips parted as you try to piece together what just happened.

Fuck.

----------------

Things go back to normal after that—mostly, at least. Naoya waits for you to arrive every Sunday morning, and on the mornings he’s busy, he has a servant bring you right to him, regardless of what he might be doing. He walks with you around the garden, listens to you complain about your brothers, lets you ramble about your favorite show with only the occasional snide remark. You’ve started arguing again, constantly bickering and insulting one another, but it still never escalates physically. You’ve even started forcing him to buy you things—or, well, force is harsh, you just remind him that since you’re engaged to him, it’s his duty, and he reacts exactly how you expect him to.

(“What? Why the hell should I buy you that? Get it yourself.”

“Hah?! ‘Cause you’re a man. Aren’t you supposed to buy your woman things? What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re not a woman. You’re a beast.”

The next time you show up at the Zenin estate for a visit, he throws a small box at your face without warning. You only barely manage to catch it before it hits the ground.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he snaps at you, already turning away. “It won’t happen again.”

It does.)

He’s touchier than he usually is, too, and it unnerves you. Even before the argument a year ago, when he was being good to you back then, he would only touch you to help you to your feet or lead you across the estate. Now, he’ll take any excuse to press his body against yours, or lean in far too close to be considered appropriate, or rest his hands on your shoulders while he stands behind you. When he wants to say something only for you to overhear, he’ll bend down so that his lips brush your ear as he speaks, and you think he gets a kick out of how it makes you jump every single time. 

(“You’re so jumpy,” he remarks once, arms draped around your shoulders as he hangs over you. When you try to elbow him away, his arms tighten around you. “Relax.”

“You’re in my space,” you snap at him. “Screw off.”

“Your space, my space,” he says with an insufferable smile, ignoring the outraged expression you direct toward him. “Is it a crime now to touch my wife?”

“I’m not your wife, you asshole, quit it with that!”)

You become used to this, too.

You like it better this way, you think.

----------------

2008 | READER, AGE 15; NAOYA, AGE 17

Zenin Naoya faces failure for the first time when he’s seventeen years old, and the world ends. 

Well, his world ends. 

Yours keeps moving forward, indifferent to the fact that his has come to a sudden halt.

Naoya doesn’t make Special Grade One on his first petition. Not that anyone says it like that. The words are dressed up and softened, wrapped in excuses and timelines and reassurances meant to preserve the Zenin name. Soon. Next year. He had a subpar partner for his missions. But the result is the same, and everyone knows it. The failure of the Zenin clan’s prodigy will be the talk of jujutsu society until something more exciting comes around.

For the most part, you don’t really care. Naoya’s failures are his problem, and his not making Special Grade One means you get to put off your wedding an extra year. So, honestly, you’re kind of happy that he failed, not that you’ll say that to him—or maybe you will, depending on how annoying he decides to be.

Well, you don’t care until you actually get to the Zenin estate for your first visit after his failure. You’re bemused when no one is there to greet you, so you let yourself in. 

You hear the commotion before you see it. It carries through the estate in uneven bursts—laughter too loud to be friendly, words slurred just enough to be unmistakable. The inner courtyard is crowded. Too crowded for a normal Sunday afternoon. Members of the clan linger at the edges, pretending not to watch what’s going down. Servants hover uselessly near the pillars, frozen in place, eyes carefully lowered, but openly eavesdropping on the loud conversation taking place between Zenin Naobito and his heir.

You pause at the opposite end of the courtyard, gaze hesitating on the wide and ugly smile on Naobito’s face before it drifts to where Naoya stands in front of him, straight-backed and silent, hands clenched at his side tightly. He wears a brittle expression that you’ve never seen before, and you can tell that he’s trying and failing to mask it with apathy.

“Well?” Naobito laughs, sloshing the bottle as he gestures vaguely in Naoya’s direction. “This is him. Our prodigy.” He snorts, and Naoya fights a cringe. You can’t tell if it’s rage or humiliation burning behind his eyes. Maybe both. “Special Grade One before seventeen, they said. A sure thing.”

One of Naoya’s brothers snorts, whispering quietly to the man at his side. You give them a dirty look, arms crossing over your chest as you stand there awkwardly. You can’t interfere in Zenin affairs, doesn’t matter how long you’ve been engaged to Naoya—this is clan business, and even if you were part of the clan, you’re still a woman.

Doesn’t stop your chest from tightening, and your body from twitching to move forward.

Naobito leans forward, squinting at him. “You know how embarrassing this is for me, boy?” he continues, voice rising. “For the clan? What do you have to say for yourself?” 

Naoya doesn’t respond.

“Say something,” Naobito snaps, the smile dropping, “or did failure knock the tongue out of your mouth too?” 

Silence. Naobito is making a spectacle out of Naoya—purposely humiliating him in front of the whole clan. The Zenin clan might make excuses in front of jujutsu society, but there’s no such mercy within the walls of the estate. 

Naobito scoffs when Naoya still doesn’t speak. “Look at him,” he says to no one in particular. “All that talent and still not enough. Maybe I overestimated you.”

Naoya’s jaw tightens at that. His nails dig into his palms hard enough that you wonder if he’s drawing blood. You’ve always known that Zenin Naobito was an impossible man with impossible expectations and impossible cruelty—you’ve seen his ire directed at countless people, servants, his brother, his other sons, but never you and Naoya. Not like this. He’s always favored Naoya more than the others, more lenient to his whims because of his inherited technique, but clearly that favor shatters the moment Naoya screws up. You shouldn’t be surprised, and you aren’t really, but it does make your stomach turn.

“You think being strong is enough, boy?” Naobito goes on harshly, waving the bottle again. You wonder whether this is his first time talking to Naoya since the failed mission, or whether it has been a daily occurrence this past week. “Strength without results is useless, and useless men don’t become the Zenin clan head.”

You inhale sharply at the implication, and even Naoya’s brothers seem struck by that comment, exchanging calculating looks with one another. This is the first time Naobito has openly threatened Naoya’s position as heir. Naoya swallows thickly, and then he forces himself to bow stiffly, just enough to be considered proper, and that somehow makes it worse. Submission where you’ve only ever seen arrogance.

“I’ll do better,” he says at last, voice flat and controlled.

Naobito snorts harshly. “You’d better, or I’ll find someone else who can.”

The older man finally wanders off, bottle in hand, still spitting out derogatory comments under his breath, and the rest of the Zenins slowly begin to disperse. They keep looking at Naoya, whispering to one another, some are confused, some are scheming, many of them are pleased. Naoya is not well-liked amongst the Zenins, and for good reason, so they’re glad to see him openly humbled by his own father. They enjoy it—seeing him falter, having the proof that the arrogant heir isn’t so untouchable after all laid out in front of them. You can see the humiliation plain on Naoya’s face as he stares after Naobito. 

What a vicious group of people, you think bitterly to yourself before you force yourself forward, making your way over to him. He doesn’t move an inch even as people walk all around him, blatantly whispering about him.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask him as soon as the crowd mostly scatters and the two of you are alone. You keep your voice low enough that only he can overhear you, but you become more incensed the longer he doesn’t acknowledge you. He’s standing there, staring at his father’s back, letting people whisper. You find yourself inexplicably angry. This isn’t Naoya—not your Naoya. “Naoya.”

“What?” he demands through gritted teeth. He’s still not looking at you, still staring after his father. “Are you here to gloat now, too?”

“Gloat? Get over yourself,” you snap. His gaze finally shifts over to you, irritated. “What is there to gloat about? What’s the matter with you? Are you seriously just going to stand there and let them laugh at you like that? That was humiliating, and you just—you just stood there. You let it happen. You let them make a spectacle out of you.”

“What was I supposed to do?” he hisses. His voice cracks. Both of you ignore it. “Throw a tantrum? Prove him right?” 

You don’t know the answer to that. You don’t know what he was supposed to do, but you know he shouldn’t have just stood there like a beaten dog. He shouldn’t have let all of those useless brothers of his make a joke out of him. That’s not—it’s not him. It shouldn’t be him. Can’t be him. That’s not Naoya.

Naoya sighs when he sees the expression on your face, gaze lowering. That pisses you off even more. He should get angry at you, he should snap back, or sneer, or say something cruel just to reassert himself. That’s the Naoya you know—not whoever this is.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he finally mutters, dragging his eyes away from the ground back up to you. There’s irritation there, but it’s dulled. “Ya don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” you shoot back, glaring at a lingering brother of his as the two of you finally make your way back into the main building in the direction of his bedroom. “Right now, it looks like you’re letting a bunch of mediocre men and a drunkard tear you apart just because they finally got the chance.”

His jaw tightens again. You press on before he can say anything.

“They were waiting for this,” you continue, voice sharp with anger. “Your brothers, the servants—half of them could barely hide how happy they were. Like they’ve been dying to see you mess up.”

“You don’t think I don’t know that,” he snaps automatically, pushing open the sliding door to his room and guiding you inside it. He closes the door behind you, and you make your way over to the wall, sliding down it to sit cross-legged. He sits next to you, close enough that your shoulders press together and your thighs almost brush. Neither of you acknowledges it. He doesn't look at you as he says, “They don’t matter. None of them matter. They’re useless.”

“Then act like it,” you tell him, the fire draining now that the two of you are alone. “You’re better than them, Naoya. They’re weaker than you. Every single one of them. They have no right standing around, laughing at you like that.” Naoya doesn’t respond right away, so you look at him with a frown, and you catch an odd expression on his face—something between amusement and resignation. You demand, “What?”

He tilts his head back against the wall, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Nothing,” he says after a moment. “It wasn’t my fault, you know? I was paired up with a fucking woman for my mission. I’m pretty sure the bitch purposely screwed me over.” He adds bitterly, “This is why they have no place in combat. They get emotional, and then everyone else pays for it.”

You turn your head to the side slowly to stare at him, irritation pricking at your chest. You’ve heard him say things like this before, but this time it comes out rushed and defensive, like he’s scrambling for something to shield himself with. He doesn’t look at you, and there’s a pensive frown on his face as his head falls forward, black hair hanging in his face. You scoff and roll your eyes, a loaded insult about the fire off the tip of your tongue, but you pause when you see red staining the white shirt he wears beneath his kimono. 

“Are you hurt?” you ask him with a frown, shifting from where you’re sitting next to him to sit in front of him instead. He blinks once as you settle between his spread legs, and when you reach up to start unbuttoning the shirt, his hand darts up to grab your wrist before you can undo the first button. You give him an annoyed look. “What?” 

“It’s nothing,” he says after a moment. “Just a scratch.”

“How did you get it?” you press.

“I just did.”

“How?”

“You’re being annoying,” he tells you, but there’s no heat in it, more deflection than insult. “It’s not serious.”

“Then let me look.”

Naoya lets out an aggravated sigh, eyes rolling upward in irritation, but he lets go of your wrist. You continue in your efforts to unbutton his shirt, sliding his kimono off his shoulders when it gets in the way. He sinks back into the wall, posture loosening despite the tension still in his shoulders. You part the fabric carefully, eyes widening slightly when you get a better look at the wound: half of his chest is bruised an ugly green and yellow color, and there’s a deep slash from his shoulder to his hip.

“The hell is the matter with you, Naoya?” you demand, giving him a dirty look as you rise to your feet and rifle through his stuff, looking for the bandages you know he keeps in his room. You find them after a few moments, along with a small wrapped box that you eye curiously, but he clears his throat before you can peek at it. You make your way back over to him, settling back down between his legs. You say snidely, “So much for just a scratch.”

From above you, you hear a soft scoff.

“You’re fussing,” he says, but his tone is different now—lighter, almost teasing. When you glance up, you catch a far too smug and self-satisfied expression on his face, lips curved up, and eyes lidded as he looks down at you. It aggravates you, but you find that you like it more than the empty, dull one he was previously donning.

“Don’t start.”

He hums, pleased, and naturally starts. “Ya know,” he says lazily, “you’re actin’ an awful lot like a proper wife right now. Maybe all hope isn’t lost. I’ll make a decent woman out of you yet.”

You jab your fingers into his wound, and Naoya chokes, giving you an accusing look. 

“Oops,” you say. “Arm spasm.”

“Bitch,” he hisses.

“Douchebag.”

You tap his shoulder, signaling him to lean forward so you can wrap the bandages around his torso. Your lashes flutter as you slink your arms around him to do so—he’s so close that you can feel the heat emanating from his body, and his breath unsteady against your ear, clearly in more pain than he’s letting on. 

“Did it happen on the mission?” you ask him quietly when the silence becomes too much.

Naoya pauses before he admits, “No.”

You tilt your head up, eyes meeting his gold ones. You don’t realize how close you are to him until his gaze flicks down to your lips briefly, and his breath catches as though his brain has stalled for half a second. The moment stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable, so you avert your attention back down to his wound, getting back to work. “Your father, then?” 

Naoya doesn’t answer right away. You feel his thumb brush over your outer thigh absentmindedly, and you try to ignore it. “He recommended I stay in the discipline pit until I learned my lesson,” he finally says, a bitter edge to his tone. “Didn’t give me a time frame.” He lets out a humorless huff. “So he meant for me to stay in there until I couldn’t anymore.”

“How long?” you ask him quietly.

“Long enough,” he replies. Then adds with a scoff. “Not long enough for him. Nothing’s ever fuckin’ enough for him.”

You tie off the bandage and sit back on your heels, not moving from where you’ve settled between his legs. Your hands rest awkwardly on your lap, and your gaze lifts to meet his; he’s already looking at you, gold eyes lidded as he studies your face.

“You should—” you start to say, but falter, because you know what his reaction is going to be, and it’s going to sting, so you want to brace yourself for it. “You should train with me. Not the Hei.”

Naoya’s head drops forward slightly, eyebrows raised up in disbelief, an amused smirk curling onto his lips. “You?” he echoes, humor laced into the word. “I should train with you?” 

You bristle slightly, teeth grinding together. “Yes.”

“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he asks you, amused, leaning back against the wall again, arms folding loosely over his chest. “You don’t actually think you’re on my level, do you? I know you like to think you’re tough, but you’re still just a woman, ya know? You only get away with how you act ‘cause I’m generous and I let you.”

Even bracing yourself, you find that the words hurt. You know Naoya better than anyone, and you know what he thinks about women as jujutsu sorcerers, but this is the first time he’s commented so directly on your capability.

“Women ain’t built for this,” he continues before you can get a word in. “You hesitate. You get emotional. You overthink. You break.” His mouth quirks up. “It’s not an insult, just reality.”

“Is that so?” you ask coolly, grateful that you sound less bothered than you actually are.

“It is,” he agrees, and then his face twitches in annoyance as he looks over you. “I thought you would’ve gotten rid of this stupid dream by now. You’re going to be my wife, not a sorcerer.”

You stare at him for a second too long, waiting for the familiar sneer to follow, or a joke that would make this easier to swallow. It doesn’t come. He just watches you, chin tipped up and expression hard, like he’s already decided this is settled.

“I can be both,” you say firmly after a moment.

He has the nerve to laugh at you, and then he shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he disagrees. “Not my wife.”

“You can’t stop me, Naoya.”

He gives you a droll look. “Wanna bet?” 

Your eyes narrow. “The Zenins aren’t the end-all of influence in jujutsu society. Especially after your little stint last week,” you say, driving the dagger in just to watch his expression flash in anger at the reminder of his failure. “My family has influence, and we have more friends than just your clan. I have more friends.”

Naoya realizes what you’re saying instantly, eyes dark. “You would go to Gojo Satoru to get around me,” he says, voice low and edged.

“Yeah,” you tell him without hesitation. “Yeah, I would.”

Naoya’s jaw tightens. He says, “You wouldn’t,” but there’s no humor in his tone now.

“I would,” you repeat, “and you know he’d do it. He hates your father, he hates your clan, he hates the traditionalism of jujutsu society, and he loves sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Naoya scoffs, but it’s thin. “You can’t possibly think he’d take you seriously.”

“I do, because unlike you, he doesn’t think women are a liability.”

“No,” he finally says, shaking his head as he sits up straight. “No. You’re not becoming a sorcerer.”

“What part of ‘you can’t stop me’ don’t you understand?” you demand, becoming a bit irritated. “Jesus, Naoya, I—”

“You’ll get yourself killed,” he interrupts, voice rising. He slams his fist down against the floor angrily. The two of you often get into screaming matches with one another before, but this feels different. It’s not just rage that has him like this. “You’re reckless, and naive, and you’re going to get yourself killed. I shoulda fuckin’ put you in your place years ago, since your father and brothers clearly aren’t. I’m not going to sit back and watch you die for pride. You’re not cut out for it, you’re not strong enough to be out there. You’re meant to stay home—stay safe.”

Your eye twitches, blood hot and vision tinting red. You bite down on your tongue until it bleeds to stop yourself from spitting a barrage of insults at him. “Then train with me,” you say instead, voice strained. Naoya lets out a frustrated sigh, running his hand through his hair. He looks at you like he wants to throttle you, and you raise your chin. “I’m serious. If you think I’m weak, then train with me yourself. You won’t stop me from doing what I want, so prepare me for it.”

“Ya won’t be able to keep up,” he finally mutters, but there’s no heat behind the words anymore. He sounds defeated. You know you’ve won.

“I’m the only one in the world who can,” you counter without hesitation, and then add belatedly, “except your father.”

He pauses and then tilts his head curiously, considering your words. His eyes narrow slightly on you. “Your technique—”

Your lips curl up into a smug smile. “Train with me, and you can finally find out what it is—while I kick your ass with it, of course. You’ll improve more against me than you ever will with the Hei.”

Naoya’s eyes flash at the challenge, then he leans forward. “How about this? You land a single hit on me, and I’ll step out of your way, let ya go play at sorcerer for as long as you want,” he says, lips curling up smugly. He reaches out to pinch your chin between his fingers, shifting even closer as he continues, “But if you can’t, you drop this, and learn to be what you’re actually meant to be.” His thumb presses lightly under your chin, forcing your face up just enough that you have no choice but to look at him. His smile sharpens, cruel and satisfied with himself. “A perfect, pretty little wife. Quiet, and obedient, and safe at home where you won’t embarrass me or get yourself killed.”

For once, Naoya’s terrible, terrible ego works in your favor.

Your lips curve up into a smile that’s twice as smug as his. “Deal.”

----------------

A natural counter to the Zenin’s Projection Sorcery, your father described the first time your technique manifested. You had no idea what projection sorcery was at the time, and you’d only heard of the Zenin clan in passing, so you were just gleeful that none of your older brothers could land a hit on you anymore. It was only once you started watching Naoya train, and finally convinced him to explain his cursed technique to you, that you realized what your father meant.

“What the fuck?”

You crouch down next to Naoya’s head as he lies on the training ground of your family’s estate, staring up at the clear skies above.  His jaw is tight, irritation radiating off him in waves, but you can also see the confusion plain on his face. You almost laugh, but stop yourself before you can.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands, pride wounded, a mortified expression on his face as he tries to grasp what just happened. “How did you—what did you—what the fuck was that?”

“I win,” you say, pleased with yourself. “You can’t make it difficult for me to become a sorcerer.”

“What was that?” he asks furiously, pushing himself up onto his elbows and turning his head to glare at you. “You—you didn’t dodge, and you weren’t faster than me, it’s like—”

You lean in, smug. “Like I already knew what you were going to do before you did it?” 

Naoya stares at you, expression twisted into something between fury and disbelief. For a moment, you think he might actually swing at you again just to make a point. Instead, he exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head. 

“That’s bullshit,” he says through his teeth. “No one can do that.”

“My cursed technique lets me trace the path someone’s cursed energy commits to before they actually take that path,” you explain to him, sitting cross-legged as he pushes himself into a sitting position, seriously disgruntled.

He says, aggravated, “Future sight. Your cursed technique is future sight. What sort of bullshit hack is that, huh? Cursed energy can’t do that.” 

“Well, not exactly,” you say with a frown. You lean forward a little, waving your arms around. “We know that the better the sorcerer, the better they are at controlling cursed energy, so it’s hard to predict an attack until it’s executed.” Naoya gives you a droll look, patience clearly being tested as you explain cursed energy to him. “Just listen. But in the heat of battle, cursed energy flows in response to instinct, so there’s always a moment before someone acts, before they even decide what they’re going to do, where their cursed energy shifts first. Only traces of it, so only someone like Gojo-san with the Six Eyes would be able to see and make use of the information, but my technique latches onto those traces, so to speak, and I can path out someone’s movements accordingly through them. It’s not future sight exactly, but I can see what you and your cursed energy have already decided to do, even if you haven’t realized it yourself yet.” He squints at you, unconvinced. You continue, “It’s not perfect. If someone hesitates or panics, the path I’m tracing falls apart, but against a sorcerer or curse who trusts in their technique and their instincts… Well, it’s almost impossible to lie to your own cursed energy.”

Naoya rolls his eyes so obnoxiously that your eye twitches. “And against a cursed technique that relies on the user taking a predetermined path…”

You give him a lazy smile. “Yeah. Sucks for you. I’m like your worst nightmare.”

“You’ve been my worst nightmare since the day we met,” he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fucking deceitful bitch. You tricked me.”

“Not my fault that you’re too full of yourself,” you say, knocking your shoulder against his. He immediately shoves you away, and you let out a noise of complaint as you go sprawling against the dirt. “You’re such a sore loser.”

“Fuck you. You should’ve mentioned your technique was a rip-off of the Six Eyes,” he snaps bitterly. Then he asks, “What’s it called anyway?”

“It’s not a rip-off,” you complain, half-tempted to throw dirt in his face. “Gojo-san can do a lot of things I can’t with his Six Eyes, but my technique can do some things he can’t with the Six Eyes, too.”

“Like what?” Naoya presses, and when you don’t answer him immediately, he scowls at you. “Hah?! Now you’re going to play coy?!”

You grin at him. “How about this? You land a single hit on me, and I’ll tell you.”

Naoya lets out a sharp, incredulous noise, caught between a laugh and a scoff. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Where did you learn to fight like that anyway? Your clan trains women to fight?” 

You pause. “Well, not really,” you admit, “most of the other girls aren’t trained, but since I was born with a technique, my brothers insisted I learn to use it properly. My oldest brother is the one who really taught me how to fight. He’s really strong, you know? He’s not like your useless brothers. I bet he could beat you too, and his technique isn’t like mine. I want to be just like him when I get older.”

“So I got stuck with the only beast, couldn’t have even given me a proper woman” he says snidely, glaring at you. Then adds, “You can’t be like him. You’re a girl, and you’re going to be my wife. He’s going to be clan head.”

You glare at him. “Obviously I won’t be clan head, Naoya, I’m not dumb. I mean I’ll be a sorcerer like him. He’s saved so many people. That incident a couple years ago in Sendai—he was the one dispatched to handle it. Did you know that? I’ll be as strong as him—stronger. I’ll make him proud.”

Naoya doesn’t like the idea of it, clearly, but he grits his teeth and scoffs when he remembers the bet he made and lost. He rises to his feet and holds his hand out for you. You blink once, then take it, letting him haul you up. He doesn’t let go right away, fingers curling around yours as he looks down at you, gaze sharp and assessing, like he’s recalculating everything he thought he knew about you. 

He finally says, “I’ll train you. Your form is sloppy—if ya didn’t have that bullshit hack,  I would’ve had you flat on your back in half a second.” He raises his chin, daring you to say something, but you only roll your eyes. “Here. Not at my family’s estate. I don’t need them to see I’m training a girl.”

Your lips curl up into a satisfied smile.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps. “This doesn’t change anything. You’re still an infuriating bitch, and you’re gonna be a proper wife for me, one way or another.”

“Right,” you say sarcastically. Then you add, “Don’t go crying when you lose.”

He bares his teeth in a grin that’s all challenge. “I was just about to say the same to you.”

----------------

Three months after that, your betrothal to Naoya falls apart. Surprisingly, it’s not because of either of you. In fact, you and Naoya were doing good in those three months—really good. 

Every Sunday, you went to the Zenin estate, and the two of you would wander the gardens, sprawl out in shaded rooms, and complain about family and obligations and everything in between. Naoya was insufferable in the way he’s always been, but his comments were less barbed, and his presence was much easier to be around. Comfortable, even. You found yourself laughing more often than not, and there was always an oddly bemused, but not unkind, expression directed toward you whenever he thought you weren’t looking.

Every Friday, Naoya came to your family’s estate, away from Zenin eyes and expectations, and the two of you sparred until you were exhausted enough to collapse in the dirt, barely able to move your limbs. Without an audience, Naoya was… Well, he was still an asshole, he was always an asshole, but he wasn’t as condescending, and you liked sparring with him. You still had the advantage with your ability—which he never failed to remind you was stupid and you don’t stand a chance without it—but none of your brothers could push you the way Naoya was able to. He was set on knocking the “smug smirk” off of your face—his words, not yours, which you found deeply ironic coming from him—so he trained like crazy, determined to find a flaw in your technique to exploit. 

Three months of that made it easy to forget what the betrothal actually was: a political arrangement, something that existed entirely outside of the two of you. That’s why it’s so jarring when it falls apart. It came out of the blue—there was no fight, no scandal, no dramatic failure on either party’s side. The adults simply decide that the alliance is no longer useful. 

You find out from your father first that the Zenin clan is withdrawing from the arrangement. There’s another alliance on the table—one that requires less negotiation and less compromise. You don’t even get the chance to see Naoya again once it falls through. 

For the first time since you were ten, Sunday comes and goes without you setting foot onto Zenin property. When one of your brothers finds you crying in the gardens at your family estate, you can’t explain why. You never wanted this betrothal, and you can’t stand Naoya—so then, why is it that when you finally get what you wanted this whole time, it feels like something important has been taken from you?

It doesn’t matter, you decide.