𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖘𝖍𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗

The quiet of the medical wing smells like antiseptic and citrus. Through Shoko's office door, cracked open, the echo of two pairs of footsteps carries through. A familiar loud laugh travels down the corridor. Shoko straightens, wincing slightly at the ache in her neck.

Her door slams open, rattling the pencil holder on her desk, and Satoru fills the doorway with a heroic pose and a bright grin.

"Shoko! Shokooo, where are you?"

"Stop shouting, Four-Eyes. You know exactly where I am."

"Details, shmetails." He bounds into the room, vibrating with barely-contained excitement. He grabs her rolling chair and drags her away from her desk to the pristine white patient bed, where he hops up and swings his legs like a child. Her chair bumps the edge of the bed and stops. "Guess what?"

"What?"

"I beat up a curse user yesterday! Not the one we were hunting – YN took care of him with one bullet, it was awesome – but one of his grunts. Still cool. Apparently he's part of some criminal organisation that mixes jujutsu crime with normie crime. Totes illegal, on all fronts." Satoru grins, leaning close. "We basically dismantled a whole operation today! Isn't that crazy?"

"Pretty crazy. It seems you're moving up in the world, going from exorcisms to manhunts," she replies with a chuckle. "Now, did you break down my door to tell me this, or are you actually critically injured and about to die in my office?"

A second figure steps into her office, holding two ice cream bars. You greet them both with a soft hello, giving Satoru the strawberry one and Shoko the matcha one. Satoru tears open the packet with glee, leaning into your side as you move to stand next to him.

"I healed him on-site. He was bleeding too much for me to do nothing," you explain, lifting a hand and ruffling Satoru's hair. "Multiple lacerations – stellate and split, mostly around the knuckles. Shallow avulsions around the face and neck. Periosteal contusions in the hands."

She recoils slightly, pausing with her ice cream – half open – in her hands. "Avulsions? On his face? What the fuck?"

Satoru grins, unaffected. "I'm looking good, right? Props to YN for making me pretty again."

"Do you know what avulsions are?" Shoko smacks his knee, making him yelp. "People get those in machine accidents and bad car crashes! It's up there with degloving as some of my least favourite meat injuries! What the hell were you doing to get hurt like that?"

"Degloving?" Satoru tilts his head, biting his ice cream.

"Imagine pulling off a winter glove. Now imagine that glove is your meat and your hand underneath is the bone. That's degloving."

Satoru looks down at his reddish-pink ice cream. "I don't feel so hungry anymore."

With a harsh exhale, Shoko pops her ice cream into her mouth and breaks off a corner with her teeth. "I see why YN got me a snack, too. It's bribery."

"An apology," you correct. "Officially, I'd like you to minimise the damage on the medical report. Everything except the avulsions should be fine."

Shoko turns in her chair to look at you, pointedly facing away from Satoru. "Why? Just because it's ugly doesn't mean I can't fix it."

You sigh. "This was originally my mission. Satoru might have pulled some strings to join, but the responsibility is on me. Letting the elders know that someone managed to bypass his Infinity and injure him to that extent – under my watch – will tell them what they've always believed but can't prove: I am a detriment to Satoru's growth as a sorcerer."

Silence falls. A small frown creases her brow. After a moment, she glances at Satoru, who sits uncharacteristically quietly. His feet no longer kick above the floor.

"Is that true?" she asks quietly. "Did that curse user get past your technique?"

He huffs, fiddling with the wrapper. It crinkles in his grip as he lifts it to his mouth. "No," he mumbles. "I had it down so I could hit him. He didn't bypass anything."

"So then what's the issue? Why would they blame it on anyone but you?"

"They won't care that it was intentionally dropped," you say. "All they'll see is that he was badly hurt under my observation, and I couldn't stop it."

You remember your long hours in the temple's ancient library, reading the remnants of collected research about the man who shared your technique a thousand years ago. You remember how he vanished at the same time as the contemporary Six Eyes user stopped responding to all letters and summons – and how, only a few years after their simultaneous disappearances, a new child with those heavenly eyes was born.

The reports never confirmed it, but every sentence you read dripped like venom with the implication.

You killed the Six Eyes.

You glance down at your hands. Clean, now. Weren't always. Was it some awful joke the universe played, to make you Satoru's best friend? The universe didn't do jokes, of course, being an unfeeling logical cycle of cause-effect-rebirth, but something deep in you is convinced it must have at least cracked an eye open the moment Satoru first looked at you, all those years ago.

It was too perfect. You weren't even that good at sorcery; most of your strength came from taijutsu and knowing the human body better than your opponent. It just so happened that your innate technique was a perfect shutdown of Infinity, as if you were made for this one singular purpose.

Was it cruel, then? To let him stand by you while knowing that if something in you breaks, not even he could do a thing to stop you?

Now, he reaches for your wrist, pulling you away from Shoko's window, where you'd wandered during the conversation. You could throw him to the ground right now and you know, as certainly as you know your soul, that he could not lift a finger to hurt you.

Unable to protect himself both passively and offensively... Did the universe want you to kill him, too? Is this why it made him adore you, so that when his Infinity fails and your hands wrap around his throat, he'll think not of death, but of the familiar warmth of your skin on his?

The hand tightens around your wrist. Satoru, with his glasses on his head and his soft azure eyes on you, tugs you closer. "Angel, hey," he murmurs. "It's not your fault. You were fighting, too. You didn't just let me get hurt."

"I'm older. More experienced. I shouldn't have taken so long to put down that shikigami." You look away. "Then you wouldn't have been injured."

Satoru's brows furrow. His grip tightens on you as he stands up, crinkling the empty wrapper in his other hand. "Oi, dummy. Stop blaming yourself just 'cause I was stupid and reckless and didn't care to block." He exhales sharply. "See, there – I said it! I was stupid! Now quit beating yourself up and making that sad face. I hate it when you make that face."

"I'm not making a face," you say weakly.

"Yeah, you are!" He wiggles a finger and flicks you on the forehead. "Dummy. Just tell Shoko what to write in her report and we can get out of here. This place stinks like cleaning bleach and unpaid overtime."

Shoko snorts. "You can say that again."

"Dummy," Satoru repeats, smugly.

You sigh. "You don't have to sound so happy to insult me."

"You're never stupid, so when you are, I have to rub it in your face to get proper mileage out of it."

"Very funny…"

He leans in and bumps his forehead against your temple, butting you with his head like a cat. Or a goat. You laugh softly, and Satoru smiles, flushing with pride.

"Alright, alright, Satoru. Sit down while I discuss your medical report with Ieri."

With a toss like a three-pointer, Shoko chucks the wrapper of her ice cream in the wastepaper bin. She kicks off the floor and spins back to her desk, picking up a clipboard and snapping two double-sided pieces of paper beneath the clip. She lifts a pen, turning around and crossing one leg over another, all business.

"So – you wanted to list just minor lacerations and bone bruises, right? Is there any reason beyond the political bomb that is your relationship?"

You hum, leaning against the edge of her desk as you read her scrawled notes. She goes down a list of checkboxes, ticking them off in rapid succession. "It's not just about me. He needs to remain the strongest so no one will undermine his name. After so long without a Six Eyes user, the big clans have grown attached to their power – if Satoru shows weakness, they may believe he can be overruled, and whispers of his fallibility may trickle down to curse users like the ones we fought today. They might try something."

Shoko nods as her pen scratches over the paper, detailing injuries and checking 'no' for 'continued observation recommended'. "Damn, that's so shitty. He can't even get slightly more hurt than usual or people might try to kill him? It's hard to imagine medical notes about breaking an arm leading to assassinations and mutiny."

"You don't know what power-hungry vultures these old farts are. Once, a bunch of them tried saying I wasn't fit for leading my clan 'cause I invited YN to my birthday party," Satoru scoffs, leaning back on the patient bed and tucking an arm under his head. He deepens his voice mockingly. "Such close attachments are indicative of immaturity. A clan head should stand strong on his own. What a load of utter bullshit."

"Why wasn't I invited to your party, rich boy? I bet your house is huge."

"I was, like, nine. I didn't know you existed."

Her nose crinkles. "Oh, no – immaturity at nine years old, how terrible. What, did they expect you to pop out of the womb fully-grown?"

He closes his eyes. "Probably. They blamed my clan for coddling me. Pah – as if I needed the protection of a bunch of sycophantic grade three sorcerers."

"It’s always demanding old dudes dictating what we do with our lives, huh? Some things you just can't escape." She shakes her head and signs off the date on the second sheet of paper. She leans back and grabs the stapler, punching them together. "Right, all done. Gojo, deliver this to the principal." She holds it out expectantly.

Satoru's eyes widen. "Eh? Why me?"

"'Cause I'm putting my career on the line to make sure you don't get yourself killed. Consider the delivery paying back a favour."

Reluctantly, he takes it, scanning it briefly. Wow, she already has the doctor's chicken scratch down. "The principal's office is literally down the hall. What's so bad about doing it yourself?"

"If it's such an easy trip, surely the great Gojo Satoru won't have a problem walking there, hm?" Shoko smiles sweetly. "Or is this a task too arduous for a man of your noble standing?"

Groaning, Satoru picks himself off the bed, lower lip pushed out in a pout. "Okay, okay, fine… Sheesh. So many words just to say you're lazy."

"Gojo."

"Mmhm?"

"Get out of my office before I break your legs and make you crawl there."

He swallows and skitters for the door. "Yep! Uh-huh, leaving, going right now. Angel!"

"Yes, just give me a moment, no need to shout." You turn to Shoko and squeeze her shoulder with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you for doing this for me, Ieri."

"No problem." She pats your hand. "Least I can do to pay you back for your company. Are you staying long this time?"

You shake your head. "No, only a little while. I have to meet with the elders soon. They likely have another mission for me." You sigh, glancing pensively out the window. "I haven't returned to the temple in a while. I'll stay here for a few days to ensure Satoru isn't hiding any lingering injuries, then see if I can't fit in a visit before travelling. I'll make sure to come say goodbye before I go."

"I can watch Gojo, if you want," she offers, spinning a pen between her fingers. "I'll get him to come in tomorrow and the day after for a check-up."

"Thank you, but I should do it. I... also have things to discuss with him," you admit. Having him sit still is a miracle I need to take advantage of."

Shoko chuckles, but you can see the flash of concern that flits over her features. "If you insist. Guess I'll be busy with the curse user you brought back, anyway. You can leave the door open when you go – I need some air circulation in here."

You nod, stepping away. "Thank you again, Ieri. I know politics should stay out of what you do, but I'd be naive to ignore the ramifications of unfiltered truth. Don't hesitate to call me if you need anything."

She waves as you leave and says lightly, "I'll hold you to that promise."

You exit her office to find Satoru lazily sprawled across a cushioned bench, papers hanging from his grasp in a rolled-up cylinder that will definitely take some flattening to get back to normal. He lifts his head when you step out, expression brightening at the sight of you.

"Angel! Ready to go?"

You hum as you fall into step beside him, your shoulders brushing as you walk. "You didn't need to wait for me. Did you forget the path to your principal's office already?"

"No, of course I remember. Down the hall past the drinking fountain, third door on the left." A sigh flutters past his lips. They twist as he looks away. "I heard what you said, by the way. About your meeting."

You glance up, surprised. "You were listening?"

"Pressed up with my ear to the door," he says sarcastically. "No, the door was slightly ajar. I heard everything. I'm not hiding injuries – you know I wouldn't. So why did you refuse Shoko's offer?"

You watch your boots, footsteps naturally perfectly synchronised with his. "I wanted to talk about earlier," you say quietly, "regarding your fight with the curse user."

Glancing at you from behind his glasses, he presses his lips together. "Well, go on, then," he replies. "Why wait for tomorrow when you can say it now? Fresh on the mind, and all."

The silence stretches. He doesn't back down. You gather yourself with a soft inhale.

"Physically, you fight efficiently. Good control of the fight, good minimisation of collateral damage. You understood that as a shikigami user, he would likely be less comfortable in close quarters, and you gave him no space to breathe. I'm pleased you applied my tip of using your legs to both take space and deny it. Here, you outranged his arms – I saw you noticed how he seemed more confident with them – and to reach you, he had to overcommit. He left himself wide open."

He winces. "I hear the 'but' coming."

"But… you are emotional. You let it drag you around instead of sliding off like oil on water. It's something of a trend I've noticed with you: you begin strong, but you get cocky and turn the fight personal. All your opponent has to do is succeed in goading you and you falter because you're too busy trying to save face. You should work on that with Geto."

"Not with you?"

You lift a brow. "You think I would willingly insult you?"

He smacks your arm lightly with the paper cylinder. "We can train you this time. 'The Art of Shit-Talking'." He spreads his hands in an arc before him. "You'd probably be great at it, with how good you are at reading people."

"That's a terrible use of my skills."

"But think of the advantages you could gain by getting into people's heads!" He leans closer and wiggles his fingers with a grin, trotting by your side. "Make 'em let their guard down, y'know? 'Cause you need to get close for your technique to work. Just a split second of anger, and then bam! You're all up in their space, and you win."

Triumphantly, he smacks the rolled-up paper against his other palm. With a soft huff, you shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips against your will.

"I'm serious, Satoru."

"So am I." Competitively, he gazes into your eyes. You gaze back unblinkingly. He squints. He loses the staring contest – perhaps on purpose, but he won't tell you that – and blows a raspberry, rolling his eyes. "Okay, fine! No lessons for the master. I am, as always, your devoted disciple..."

"Good. As my disciple, then, you'll ask Geto to train with you this week. Refine that trick with Blue again – the trick from the mission. It seems like a good staple move to give you an edge in the neutral fight."

Glancing down, Satoru coats his fist in Blue, and his eyes gleam brighter as he traces the unstable waves of cursed energy, which fluctuate as his instinct attempts to reform it into a more familiar shape. The strength of Blue comes from the 'centre point' of the 'sphere' – at least, that's how he imagines it. It shouldn't be too difficult to stabilise that 'core' while it's stretched into a thin layer. Ideally, he just has to shift that core into the centre of his fist.

Now that he thinks about it, if he could learn to snap Blue rapidly around his fist, could he also technically stretch it into other shapes, like a really long stick? Like a laser? Though, the location of the 'core' where space condenses might make it ineffective. It sounds a little strategically useless, too, because regardless of the shape of the projectile, it'll still have the same effect.

But shit, a beam attack would look sick as hell.

He disperses his technique with a sigh. "Are we going to talk about… the thing?"

"Thing?"

"You know… the big one." He slows down slightly, and you match him automatically. "When I wanted to…"

"Ah." You hum, gaze trained on him as you choose your next words carefully. You glance away. "I'm willing to let it pass. You said you understood what I meant. I trust you."

He blinks, lifting his eyes. "That's it? You're just… letting it go?" He tilts his head. "Not gonna nag me? Everyone else would."

"I can if you want, but I figured you'd appreciate my belief in your maturity. Do you?"

Pausing in front of the principal's office, Satoru turns to you with his hand on the knob. Half a step behind him, you tilt your head patiently, hands clasped behind your back. His mouth opens and closes a few times before his throat bobs and his gaze slants sideways.

"Thanks," he says quietly, "for not treating me like a child. I won't let you down."

He pushes the door open and peeks around the edge. Empty. It wouldn't be out of character for him to snoop around, maybe try to find his schoolwork to find out his grades in advance, but he simply steps up to the desk and places his own medical report right in the centre. When he unfurls it, he even flattens it by briefly rolling it the other way, fixing the curled corners.

"What kind of mission are the higher-ups gonna give you, ya think?" he asks, turning around and resting against the edge of the desk. "I hope it's an exorcism. I wanna see if I can persuade them to let me come."

Your lips quirk up. "Again? You're not tired?"

He shrugs his shoulders, tapping his fingers against the desk's fine dark wood. "I slept well last night. You're warm. And before you make excuses about my homework: I finished it all early," he says smugly. "I've got nothing due for the next four days! Praise me, please. Tell me how great I am at time management."

"Sure, you finished it, but did you do it well?" you chuckle. "You still skip your working-out in maths. That bad habit got you a seventy per cent in last chapter's test."

"Ughhh, but I hate it," he whines, clutching his head melodramatically. He squishes his cheeks. "It takes foreverrr and takes up so much real estate in my pages! My brain works too fast for all this nonsense. Why do I have to spell it out step-by-step? It's baby calculus – maybe I'll oblige when I start vectors or whatever."

"I know," you say soothingly, "but they can't play favourites. They have to treat you like everyone else."

"But I'm not everyone else," he complains. "There's a conspiracy out there to prevent me from spending time with you, I swear. Are you in on it? Is that why you're telling me to waste my time writing out every single change happening to a number? I'll beat you up if you say 'yes'."

You step closer, glancing down at him with an amused glint in your eye. "Will you?"

He slouches further, crossing his arms. He blows a strand of hair out of his eyes noisily. "No… But I'll punch Geto in the face instead! You don't want that, right?"

"So you want me to lie, and you'll punch someone else for that lie? That doesn't sound very rational to me, Satoru."

"No, it isn't. I've backed myself into a corner. But I am no quitter – and I will defend this hill until I die!" he declares.

Silently, you reach out, wrap an arm around him, and hook your chin over his shoulder. You hold him gently, pressing him into your chest and threading your fingers through his soft hair.

His eyes widen as his heart stutters. His hands hover over your sturdy chest. He can feel the shifting muscle beneath your robes, so close to his own. You feel so warm.

He clears his throat, blinking rapidly as his body finally responds and he wraps his arms around your middle. "Not that I mind this," he coughs, "but is there a reason you're hugging me?"

"Do I need a reason to hug my friend?"

"N-No, of course not. But you're not, usually, you know…. the one who initiates it." His arms tighten around you and he buries his face in your shoulder. You smell like incense and something sharply herbal. His eyes flutter shut. "This is nice," he mumbles, trying to bury his nose even deeper in the collar of your robes. He's basically headbutting you. "Really nice…"

You tuck his hair behind his ear, cupping the back of his head. "I don't want to hear about you dying," you murmur, grip tightening around him as if to anchor yourself in his presence. "Please."

That horrible prophecy again, he thinks. He relaxes in your arms. "Okay. I won't."

You squeeze him one more time, lingering, before you let him go with a soft warmth in your cheeks. You scratch the back of your neck. "I'm sorry. It's been a long couple of days."

"It's fine, I know it has. My presence probably didn't help, what with you having to hide both of us instead of just yourself." Only reluctantly does he pull back. His thumb rubs absentminded circles into your wrist, feeling your steady pulse beneath the fine skin. He glances up – a little apologetic, a little hopeful. "Can we, maybe, go out for dinner? I want to try out this dumpling place I found in the city. Little alleyway shop. The type with six chairs total and only enough space to sit at the counter."

"Sure," you agree, "though I have my meeting at five-thirty. Can we go before that?"

"Lunner it is!" He beams. He hops off the principal's desk and reaches up to fix your collar. "Meet me by the eastern gates at four. Wear something casual."

—

The wind rakes gently through swirling fallen leaves on the stone path and rustles the hedges lining the bottom of the school's boundary walls. You lean against it near the entrance with your arms crossed and one foot kicked up against the wall. Your eyes are closed, and you wear a serene expression. Here, the hum of machinery and rapid, unimpeded modernity is silenced, replaced by birdsong and the hush of leaves.

It reminds you of the temple – almost reverent in its quiet, with so much room to breathe that you glance behind just to check where the nearest wall is. Nothing steps on your heels, urging you to move faster, kill quicker. These days are few and far between.

"Angel!"

A smile tugs naturally at your lips at the bright joy in his voice. You open your eyes to see him jogging up to you, waving excitedly. On his wrist is a familiar string of glassy red beads that match the ones around your neck.

They fit him, finally. They no longer slip off his wrist every time he lowers his hand.

"Hey," Satoru breathes, approaching quickly. "You're early. Miss me, didja?"

"I didn't want to make you wait," you reply, pushing off the wall. "Ready to go?"

"Mm-hm." He lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head and grins, linking his arm with yours. He wears a zip-up hoodie with a graphic tee, and relaxed, light-wash jeans. His sneakers are scuffed and a little grass-stained from kicking Suguru out of a tree in a game of hide-and-seek that got too serious, but he wears them with pride, refusing to buff out the marks. They're proof of his independence, a quiet rebellion – if his clan elders order him to be here, separated from you, then he'll be damned if he doesn't drag their pristine reputation through the mud as well.

"The restaurant's run by a little old lady and her husband," he says as he skips down the steps, rocking sideways into you on every other step as if he's dizzy. You're used to it, steady as a rock like always, and nothing could be more perfect. He gets to be so much closer to you this way. "Food's made fresh for every order. When the lady mentioned a vegetarian bowl, I just knew I had to take you there."

"You asked for recommendations?"

"Of course! All the pictures looked too good. I couldn't choose which one to get, so I asked for her opinion. I got her top three. All freakin' amazing."

You smile gently. "You're sweet, Satoru."

"Hm? For being indecisive?"

For thinking of you even when he's alone. "Just… in general."

He puffs up his chest and fixes his glasses with a smug grin. "I better be – with how much sugar I eat daily, I now share the atomic structure of a marshmallow. It's my greatest achievement. My second-greatest is the time I took to finish those three massive bowls of ramen. Seriously, they were huge." He fans his face. "Wow, I surprise even myself sometimes."

"I'm sure the owners appreciate your endless wallet and stomach. Maybe they'll name a dish after you."

He laughs, squeezing your arm. "That'd be awesome."

You spend the trip into the city practically glued together. Satoru sits right next to you when you board the train, shoulder and thigh pressed to yours as he pops in an earbud, listening to ripped songs from his newly-purchased MP3 player. It's fire truck-red – metallic, slim, and fitting perfectly into the palm of his hand. His foot taps along to an upbeat pop song, and his head comes to rest on your shoulder as he turns sideways along the seats and lets his feet hang over the edge. You should probably tell him off for being inconsiderate, but the train car is nearly empty despite the hour and he looks so peaceful that you'd hate breaking that.

He hums along softly, slightly off-key. His sleeves are pushed up unevenly around his elbows, and his bracelet gleams crimson in the late afternoon light as it flashes by billboards, skyscrapers, and tunnels. It's like a tiny piece of you with him all the time. He hates tradition for the sake of stuffy etiquette, wears Nike socks under the uber-formal kimonos his clan forces him into when meeting with the elders, but he chooses to wear something as religiously-charged as prayer beads because you gave them to him.

The beads around your neck probably aren't the same ones you wore all those years ago, but Satoru's bracelet looks brand new, carefully maintained and worn under his sleeves to stop the string from catching or the beads from chipping. And, even though he doesn't pray the way you do, when he fidgets with them, he never goes past the distinctive mother bead, larger than the rest – he flips it around and counts the other way.

You're not even sure he remembers why he does it. But you know he used to watch you do it, and so he does it, too.

His hair catches the light in a pale, effervescent halo as his head bobs gently. He hums a few soft words in fragmented English, copying the sounds more than anything, and he taps his fingers to the beat on his thigh.

You shift your shoulder slightly to make him more comfortable. He tilts his head back, gazing up at you through his lashes, and smiles, the warmth of the sun cutting golden shadows across his high cheekbones.

Your heart beats a little faster. You look away and stare at your hands.

Later, Satoru herds you into a tiny restaurant in an alley, hardly larger than a single bedroom. He smiles at the old woman behind the counter and drags you over to the seats she gestures to – one of only two tables. He takes the furthest seat from the entrance – to 'watch the door for bad guys', he says with a smug grin, winking over his glasses. You order the vegetarian bowl while Satoru agonises over putting pork on top of ramen or rice.

"It's a little cold tonight," you say. "Why don't you go for the ramen? It comes with soup."

He picks the ramen.

It arrives quickly. He barely manages to slam his palms together for a quick 'itadakimasu' before he's shoving the first huge slab of pork belly into his mouth. He nearly weeps with utter bliss, savouring the tender meat that falls apart in his mouth.

"Ohh, that's good," he says through a mouthful of food, shovelling bamboo shoots and greens into his mouth before he even swallows. "It's melting in my mouth. Melting. If I start crying – no, I didn't."

Even though you haven't started eating, this is already the nicest dinner you've had in a good long while. You feel as if you can relax for once – nobody here is watching your every move, just begging you to twitch wrong so they can brand you a problem they have to forcefully correct. Every breath comes lighter, easier. The bowl is hot under your fingertips; the air is pleasantly warm and carries the scent of grilled meat and sweet steamed vegetables. You can focus on the sensation of the porcelain bowl burning your fingers as you rotate it without wondering if it's a test of your obedience.

Your lips quirk up as you watch Satoru's glasses fog with the steam, blocking his view. Your ramen is a rich umami broth filled with miso-roasted vegetables and topped with tofu, and you don't even blink as Satoru tangles a huge ball of noodles on his chopsticks and shoves the whole thing into his mouth. He has nearly his entire bowl's worth of noodles wrapped around his chopsticks.

"You should slow down when you eat," you suggest. "You'll get heartburn."

"So? You're here. You can heal it, right?"

"I could. That doesn't mean I will."

He gasps and whines, eyes widening with betrayal. "So mean, angel! You wouldn't do anything even if I was in horrible pain and begged for your help? Heartless!"

"I'll see how I feel when you start begging." You pop a piece of tofu into your mouth. "Besides, you know how much it takes out of me to heal someone else. I'm not sure RCT for heartburn is worth it when antacids exist on every block's corner store."

"But you'd receive my devotion and undying gratitude," he tries, stirring his bowl. A thin layer of oil swirls perfectly on the surface. "You're talking like over-the-counter medication will give me the same love and affection you give me. Pills just give me an icky coating on my tongue. An' you know how many times I have to push the pill down? Like, physically shove it down my throat?" He drags his fingers down the front of his throat and scrunches up his face. "I hate it! Feeling the bump go down grosses me out. It's seriously body horror. You're so much better – gentler on my fragile body."

You sigh, even though you're smiling. "You're not supposed to hold the pills on your tongue. You can also just… take the pills with water, you know that? You aren't any cooler because you're dry-swallowing. It's like running down the highway instead of taking a car."

He narrows his eyes, pointing at you dramatically. "How many times have you seen someone in a movie drink water with pills? Huh? Now compare that to the number of times they toss it back, maybe grunt a little – like, hngh – and then go on with sewing their own wounds up while their abs glisten under a single fluorescent lightbulb. It's undeniably cooler than washing it down."

"And who are you looking cool for?" You arch a brow, feeding yourself between sentences. The deep, savoury heat of the broth tingles on your tongue. "I watched you fall into a pond once."

He makes a noise, brows furrowing as his cheeks turn pink. "Not true! You pulled me in! And you tricked me. That wasn't my fault."

"How was it not? You were so small I barely had to try, and you barely reacted until after you were already falling in. Such slow reflexes," you tut. "I could've done far more embarrassing things to you if I had the will for it. Fortunately, you looked so pitiful, sitting in that pond. I suspect you wouldn't like me half as much as you do now if I had, for example, held your Game Boy above your head out of reach every time I saw you."

"You were a year older, of course I looked small in comparison! One year for kids is like five for us." He pouts hard. "I wasn't small, by the way. I was a perfectly normal size for my age."

"Maybe it was those big eyes of yours, then. They made you seem so much younger because they took up half your face."

"You mean these big eyes?" He widens them, batting his thick white lashes up at you with that pout still on his glossy lips. He presses his hands together against his cheek. His pupils are larger than usual in the soft light, swallowing the blue of his irises; he looks like a doll, porcelain skin included. "You should totally give me some of your food to apologise for being mean – past and present. I'm a growing boy, y'know. I need extra protein to build more muscle so I can finally beat you without cursed energy."

You point at his half-full bowl. "You still have most of your pork, Satoru."

"And? You think that's enough to sustain muscle growth across my entire body?" He stretches his legs out beneath the table and hooks his feet around your heels as he flexes an arm and leans back. "There's so much potential here. So much real estate. Angel, you'd be praised by the entire jujutsu world for helping me become the strongest, once and for all."

With a smile, you lean over and grab his wrist, tugging it up between you. You glance at it and encircle his wrist with your thumb and middle finger. They touch.

After a beat, Satoru goes bright red, yanking his arm back and cradling it as if burnt. "Oi! That's considered bullying, you know!"

"I didn't even say anything."

"You didn't have to! I-I tasted the intent behind that look on your face!"

You hum. "Maybe you should order another bowl, Satoru. Have you gone mad with hunger? You're not talking right anymore."

"You're not talking right," he replies stubbornly, still cradling his hand. "You're also being very mean, poking my insecurities like that, and I'm heartbroken right now." His eyes glint with mischief. "But – I bet I'd cheer up if you gave me half of your egg."

"Why did we even order separate dishes if this is what happens?"

"Hey, hey!" he says, affronted. "It's not like I planned this. You don't have to sound so suspicious. You just happen to be a bully, and I just happen to know what brightens my mood. So pay up – share with me."

You purse your lips. "You're not even asking anymore."

He grins cheekily. "Did I ever?"

You sigh. You edge your bowl closer to him, and he lights up with glee as his chopsticks snap out and transfer the egg so quickly to his own bowl it feels like teleportation. You blink and it's already submerged in his soup.

"You can have the other half if you like," you offer, watching as he reaches for the soy sauce and drizzles it over the egg, an amount that's just shy of being 'too much'. "Did you eat before this?"

"Nah, you keep that piece – I'm feeling generous. And nope, not since breakfast." Satoru's feet jiggle against the backs of your calves, his legs stretched all the way out and under your own chair. He bites into the soft, creamy yellow yolk, and his body does this excited little wiggle as his eyes flutter shut in total bliss. "Oh, man, it was so worth it, though! I can fit twice as much as usual inside me."

Pulling back your bowl, you stir the rest of your ramen, chuckling as he renews his efforts and inhales half his bowl in roughly four mouthfuls. You eat at a more respectable pace. "Consistency is better. Three meals a day, 'Toru. It's what everyone else does for a reason."

With some difficulty, he swallows, and his mouth twists into a lecturing grimace. "Uh, says the guy who used to never eat after noon?"

"That's different. And I can't really do that anymore – the number of missions I receive requires me to eat more to keep up, biologically speaking." You shrug. "But I don't mind it much. It means I can eat dinner with you."

His expression softens slightly. He hums as he hooks his feet around your boots, then kicks up one foot to brace against the footrest of your chair. Your calves press together. "Silver lining, huh?"

"I take everything I can get," you agree, and Satoru grins as he kicks the side of your boot lightly, playfully.

"Hope that doesn't apply to your egg," he teases. "It's non-refundable, but I could probably give something back if I tried hard enough."

"No, thank you. I prefer to chew my own food."

He laughs brightly, a clear sound that rings out in the tiny restaurant. He doesn't bother muffling it. Why would he, when genuine joy comes so rarely to sorcerers?

He plucks a laminated menu from the edge of the table closest to the wall, where it's propped up by the napkin dispenser. He leans in and points at a dish of pan-fried vegetable gyoza. "Let's get some of these, too. I'm still hungry. Do you feel like ginger?"

As late afternoon turns to early evening, Satoru grows noticeably clingier. There's a slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates on pulling apart one of the last dumplings. He'd dumped more than half of them into your bowl before you could protest, and you're certain he's making up for your stolen egg. You're not sure how part of an egg is equivalent to half a dozen dumplings, but drawing attention to it might just make him embarrassed rather than anything productive. In a way, they're gifts, and you won't ever reject his.

"We should order more. Or go to a dessert place. You up for crepes? Shaved ice sounds really good right about now."

Your chopsticks clack against the rim of the plate as you dip a dumpling into sauce. "You're trying to think up excuses to make me stay."

He glances up. "Hm?"

"You look like you don't want me to leave this restaurant. Your legs are twisted with mine. I might trip if I try to get up."

He rests his cheek on his palm as he averts his gaze. He tries to whistle – doesn't get far. "Eh, what're you going on about? No idea. Stumped."

You lower your chopsticks. "It won't be long – I should only be gone for an hour or so. If you like, I can stay tonight on campus rather than returning to the temple. Would you like that?"

"Yeah," he says immediately, and the sound of his own voice is pathetic, even to him. He clears his throat and rubs his warm cheeks. "I-I mean – it's closer than the temple. Easier for you."

You hum and smile slightly, lifting a dumpling to your lips. "Oh, but before I forget – can I ask something of you?"

He straightens. You never ask him for help. "Sure, anything. Whatever you need."

You reach under the table. When your hand comes up, you're holding the little blue rectangle of the Digimon Pendulum, your thumb hooked through the loop of string.

"I want you to keep this safe for me," you say, brushing your thumb over one corner as you gaze at it. "I fear I might not give it enough attention. I've already hatched it, but I feel it might have a better life with you."

"You hatched it already?" He blinks. "When?"

"Last night, after you went to bed – got curious, plus I couldn't sleep. Too quiet." You click it on, and a tiny, pixelated creature pops up on the screen, looping through an idle animation. "I want you to take care of him."

Carefully, he accepts it from you. You haven't fed it today, so he does that in your place. "You're abandoning your Mochimon?" He frowns, lifting it next to his face and turning the screen around to face you. It's a circle with big eyes, a line for a mouth, and two little feet. "But look how cute he is! He has my eyes. You're really gonna orphan our baby like that?"

"It's not 'orphaning', it's a handful of pixels."

Satoru gasps and cups it to his chest protectively. "Don't let him hear you say that! His own father… How cruel!"

"Please don't make me feel bad over a virtual pet."

"Well, maybe you deserve it, angel," he sniffs, propping his elbows on the table and pressing the buttons on the side to give the creature a little wash-down when the alert pops up. There – poop-free zone. "You didn't even clean him! You're so neglectful. He poops every three hours, and he could get sick if you don't clean him once a day. If he gets sick twenty times, he dies."

"Twenty days?" You look horrified. "I've gone on missions longer than that."

He harrumphs. "Maybe it is better I take care of the little guy. As long as you pay child support, I'm okay with keeping him with me."

"How much does that cost?"

He lifts a thoughtful finger to his lips, his eyes roaming the ceiling of the restaurant. "One soda whenever I ask for it. On campus."

"Don't I already do that?" you tease. You incline your head. "But alright. I can afford that."

"Good. Now, look, our son already wants to evolve. He's so eager. C'mere, come watch."

You lean in and he matches you. You probably look silly, heads pressed in close as you stare at the tiny box in Satoru's palm. But Satoru's almost vibrating with excitement, his foot constantly kicking yours as it jiggles.

"This is where his future is written," he whispers, his voice almost reverent. He lifts his eyes to yours, his smile bright and eyes brighter. His messy hair tickles your temple. "What he becomes now will determine what Ultimate forms he might eventually evolve to. Are you ready to watch our son graduate from 'baby' to 'child'?"

You nod firmly. "He'll always have a warm home to return to, regardless of what he becomes."

Satoru reaches out and grabs your hand, gripping it tight. You hold him back, unable to hide your smile as you watch him practically tremble in your arms. You shift your arm around his shoulders and he leans into you, holding his breath.

With a celebratory animation and a musical jingle, the Digimon evolves.

Letting out a gasp far too loud for the location, Satoru throws his hands up to cheer. "Yes! He's a Gottsumon! Angel, I'm such a good single father! Tell me I am!"

"You fed and cleaned him once," you note, though you laugh anyway because his delight is infectious. "But you're a great parent, anyway."

He bobs his head fervently. "From here, he can evolve into a Tortamon, a Starmon, or a Gekomon." He lists them off on his fingers. "But what I'm really hoping for is that he'll become a Monochromon! That's basically a dinosaur, by the way." He grabs his hair. "Argh, but I can't remember what the prerequisites are for it! I found this blog that details a whole bunch of Pendulum evolutions, but since this is the 1998 version, I'm not sure if it'll have it. Might be too old. But that's for future-me to worry about. Look, look – see how cute our baby is? Look at his widdle frowny face," he giggles, cooing as it blinks in what is, indeed, an adorable animation. "He gets that from you."

"Didn't you say he evolved from a baby? You have to treat him like the grown-up child he is," you say with false solemnity as Satoru pouts. "Otherwise, he'll get embarrassed. I'll become the favourite parent by elimination."

"So mean! But I guess you're right. I'll hatch mine when I get back to my dorm tonight – then our firstborn can have a little sibling and they can grow up together on my desk." He grins, putting the Gottsumon to sleep for the next few hours. "Can't wait. It'll be adorable."

You pop the last dumpling into your mouth. "You're going to be busy with two of them, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but that's fatherhood for you! I'll be fine. In a way, Gottsumon will be my reminder of you when you're off doing god-knows-what. I'll remember all the highs and lows we had together, raising him from an egg through many harsh winters and scorching summers." He sighs, resting his hand against his forehead like a fainting maiden. "But that was all before you decided we weren't good enough for you."

"I think you're overreacting slightly, Satoru. I'm working hard to make money for us so we can live comfortably. An unfortunate side effect is my absence."

He lowers his gaze and his lips curve up, a slightly mournful tilt to them. "Yeah, I know…" he sighs, and pushes all the empty plates and bowls together. "Fine, I can take a hint. I guess I've stalled you as much as I can." He looks up with a complicated expression. "You promise you won't take long at the meeting? Come back right away. You should get to witness the birth of our second child."

"Of course, 'Toru. It only makes sense," you promise, standing up as he does. "Why don't you wait outside? Too cramped here to fit both of us if customers want to come in."

"Paying for our meals without me having to say a thing? What a gentleman," he jokes, pretending to swoon. He pats you on the shoulder. "I'll pay you back later. I'll be outside."

He attaches the Digimon to his belt and steps out of the entrance as you move up to the counter, where the old woman walks over and greets you. Satoru leaves the steady heat of the small kitchen and tugs his hoodie sleeves down his arms as he leans against the wall, tilting his head back and exposing his pale throat. A silent sigh escapes his lips.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

Stole your bo staff for training, will be keeping for a week. How's the date?

He rolls his eyes.

Geto I h8 u

It's not even surprising how quickly he responds.

RMB: don't be a nerd, don't eat lobster, don't talk about the weather ;) IDK how senpai even likes u honestly

Satoru makes a face, fingers already moving rapidly.

'Senpai' eww LOL Fine mr know it all, hows ur d8s then? Oh u dont even have 1 Cuz ur a LOSER hahahaha

"Um… excuse me?"

Satoru glances up from his phone, not even bothering to move his head. Doesn't really need to, anyway, because the voice belongs to a teenage girl who barely comes up to his chest. She wears the fiercest blush he's ever seen on someone. She's gripping her phone tightly in her hands.

"Oh," he says, glancing back down to his phone. "Not interested."

"A-Ah, don't worry, I wasn't going to ask for your number," she squeaks, waving her hands madly, and her friend giggles behind a hand – he assumes it's her friend, anyway, because they have matching charms on their shoulder bags. "I saw you inside with that guy in the red… I assume you're friends?"

Satoru's eyes narrow suspiciously. He straightens slightly, and perhaps that gives the girl hope, because she stands a little more confidently and lifts her chin. "Yeah. Best friends, actually."

"Oh, great!" She takes a deep breath. "If it's not too much trouble… Could you introduce me to him, maybe? I just, um, think he's super cute."

What did she just say…?

Cute?

Cute?

His fingers twitch. His heart begins to pound beneath the cage of his ribs.

Oh, hell no.

"He's off-limits." His voice is flat, controlled. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears.

Her smile fades. A sick satisfaction settles in his chest, and something dark compels him to keep going.

"What, were you too busy mooning over his pretty face to realise what he's wearing? Are you seriously blind or something? He's very clearly a monk – the only thing that could make it more obvious was if he wore bright yellow and started chanting the Wisdom Sutra in your face. Y'know what a monk is, right? That means no romance, no marriage, and no picket-fence life where you hand-feed him strawberries and make pancakes for breakfast." He scoffs, settling back against the wall. Is everyone fucking in love with you or something? What's changing? You don't look that much different from three years ago. "Sheesh. Kids these days."

"Hey—!" Her face is bright red, and her annoyance seems to have overtaken any embarrassment. "I can't be much younger than you, dickhead! And I only saw him for a few moments, it isn't that clear he's a monk. Even if he is – who are you to be so rude for nothing?"

"Yeah, yeah, go cry me a river. Isn't like he'd be into someone like you, either, so just drop the whole creepy idea and turn around. You look like you could be in middle school."

"I'm sixteen!"

He looks her up and down and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. "Could've fooled me. Now shoo, shoo. You're blocking the light."

"You…!" She glares hard, her curls bouncing around her face. "Ha. Fine, I'll go. But just so you know, nobody ever gets this defensive about their buddy potentially scoring, even if that buddy's religious. I've only had this kind of response in one situation: when I asked a girl about the guy she's in love with. Maybe you should just say that next time, rather than being a shitty person to a stranger."

Satoru stiffens. His neck almost creaks when he slowly turns to stare at her, his eyes wide with something unreadable. A sharp, dark shadow bathes half his features in shadow.

"Say that again," he whispers, his voice dangerously even. His nails dig so deep into his bicep that he feels his knuckles grind under his skin.

"You deaf?" she barks. "I said: you're acting like a jealous girl in love!"

His blue eyes almost seem to glow.

A few minutes later, you exit the restaurant with a cheerful jingle of the bell overhead. You look up to find Satoru leaning against the opposite wall, staring unblinkingly down the dark end of the alleyway, where the skinny road ends in a burst of light and movement – but there's a long stretch of darkness between you and that light.

"Satoru," you call, and his head snaps to you. "Are you alright?"

After a beat, he drops his folded arms. "Never better," he replies, pushing off the wall and joining your side. He pushes his hands into his pockets, concealing his clenched hands.

Why is it only you who makes him this way? Why does it have to be you, and no one else?

You watch him for a moment, but he flashes you an easy grin, hiding behind the shield that is his sunglasses. His strides are long, loping, and normal. There's a slight tension to his shoulders, but you suppose there's a hundred-and-one things someone like him might be stressed about. Your heart aches – if only you could ease that burden.

"Alright," you relent, and Satoru hums. "Try to walk quickly – we spent longer than I anticipated at that restaurant and we might miss my train."

Making a face, Satoru begins exaggeratedly dragging his feet, whistling off tune. He dodges backwards when you try to grab his arm, giggling when you chase after him a few steps in the wrong direction.

"Hey, hey! Hands to yourself, mister. I might throw up if you manhandle me like that. I ate way too much back there."

"Satoru," you try, and laugh when he dodges you again but trips backwards over an uneven manhole cover. You dart forward and catch his wrist, pulling him upright. You misjudge the distance and he ends up crashing into your chest, but that's better than being sprawled on the ground.

"Ow!"

"Satoru, you're so clumsy," you chuckle, flicking his forehead with a finger. He whines and rubs the spot. "That's payback for earlier. Be careful, silly."

"Dummy," he retorts, pouting. "Seriously, you nearly pulled my arm off! You know how much it'd cost to sew that back on?"

"Probably about… a minute's worth of constant cursed energy usage. And a particularly filling meal to stop me from getting a headache," you estimate, and Satoru rolls his eyes with a big, loud sigh. You smile and turn around, pulling him along. "Come on. The sooner I leave now, the quicker I'll be back."

"You better. Our second child is going to be born tonight. You gotta be there for it."

"I'll do my best," you promise. "I'll hold your hand through it. You can squeeze my hand as hard as you like."

"Ooh, you say that now, but it'll hurt. Bad." He sways into you, draping an arm over your shoulder with a lazy stretch. He grins, glancing at you from the side of his glasses. "It'll be a real test of your love for me, angel! I'll scream and cry, and I'll need a lot of attention and burden you with bringing me breakfast in bed every day for months. Think you can survive that?"

"You're not a burden," you say. "Not to me. Not if it's you."

For once in his life, words fail him. Something about the way you spoke – so earnest, so plain and painfully truthful – makes his words catch in his throat, his laughter dying before it can fully form.

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

Your cursed energy reserves are running thin. The last time he saw you operating at full capacity was before he enrolled at Jujutsu High. You always recovered slower than him, and now also slower than Shoko or Suguru. He assumed it was the trade-off for being able to hit so hard, and on anyone else, his Six Eyes would tell him at a glance whether or not he was right. You, though… You've always been different. He can't read you the same way; it's like his Eyes falter when they pierce too deeply, shying away from learning you too intimately.

But he doesn't need his one-in-a-billion eyes to see that you glow whenever you spend time with him. Despite your tired eyes and slow blinks, there's a joy in the curve of your mouth that's hard to ignore, lighting you up from the inside with the warmth of a star. He's seen it in the way you smile at the sight of him, the way you stand straighter and never look away until he's pressed securely against your side, safe where you can protect him best.

You're not a burden, you say, but what you really mean is You could never make me leave you.

"Oh," he whispers, and there's a humiliating little wobble in the middle that he can't control. He clears his throat and drops his arm from your shoulders, looping it around your elbow instead. He flashes you a big, overconfident grin and pushes his glasses higher on his nose. "Of course not, angel, I was just testing you! You passed, by the way. Flying colours. Gold star."

"Thanks." You smile, amused. "Now, try not to trip again. The train station looks crowded."

"That was one time! It was only 'cause I ate so much that it affected my centre of gravity and I wasn't used to it. I am, now. And you caught me that time, so whatever, I'll just make you catch me again."

"I fear I spoil you too much," you muse, unwrapping your arm from his to hold his hand instead. You manoeuvre around a queue of salarymen in dark suits at a small food stall, walking single file along the underground tunnel towards your platform. There's not enough room to walk side by side. You glance back and smile at the pout on his face as he's forced to give up his preferred proximity to you. "Case in point. You don't have to look so upset when you can't walk beside me."

"I do, actually," he argues. "The angrier I look, the more space people will give us, and then I don't have to walk behind you like a kid."

"Is that your angry face?"

"Yeah. How is it?"

"Ah…" When you said 'upset', perhaps you should have used 'sad'. "You certainly look more emotional than the rest of the people here."

Satoru laughs and shrugs, absently rolling his beaded bracelet higher on his exposed wrist. "Close enough. But stop walking so damn fast – I'm tripping over myself back here, y'know?"

"Can't do that. I told you, we're already late – all because someone wanted extra dumplings."

"Hey! That was the best idea I've had in weeks, thank you very much!"

He complains about your blindness to his apparent 'genius' all the way to the correct platform – down two sets of crowded stairs. Luckily, you manage to dart between the doors of the train moments before they close, though it forces you and Satoru chest-to-chest in a crammed-up carriage of underpaid and overworked nine-to-fivers.

Somehow, Satoru retains his smile all throughout – he pops in one earbud and offers his MP3 player to you in the tiny space between your bodies, mouthing 'You choose' and tapping the little LCD screen. You pick a playlist at random, pressing play, and you must have chosen correctly because he lights up and nods ferociously. He accepts the player back from you and tucks it into his pocket.

Listening to music for the sake of enjoyment is typically not allowed for you. But as Satoru cranks up the volume, and as the crowded space forces you to press your cheek to his temple, you can hear the song playing clearly enough that you can pick out the lyrics. It's a pop ballad, a woman crooning about life in the big city where everything moves too fast and love clings on like cigarette smoke.

With a hard sway of the train, Satoru's forced to switch handles hanging from the roof. His fingers brush yours in the loop, and his lean body presses closer. You wrap a hand around his bicep, steadying him from someone bumping into his shoulder blades, and he rights himself quickly.

He smells like his honey and vanilla shampoo, silky and luxurious. A silent, embarrassed laugh vibrates through his chest, and you can feel every inhale, every shift of his ribs beneath his clothes. His body is warm and solid against yours. You inhale without sound, shutting your eyes as the train emerges from the dark tunnel into the violet, neon-lit evening.

I love you, stay by me; these feelings

They lead the night astray

Just for now, stay by me; nestle close to me…