#getohime

In the tense silence that follows, he calls on something from the void within his being. Watching as he produces what seems to be a full first aid kit from the repulsive inventory curse he summons to his shoulder, she’s struck by how attentive he is. He has all the trappings of a well-prepared parent, which doesn’t seem as surprising when she remembers the little girls from the report. Utahime wonders where they are, if they’re happy with him. ‘Painkillers,’ he says, offering her a little packet and an unopened bottle of water. ‘Take the edge off until you get to Shōko.’ Her thoughts must show on her face, because Getō’s lips quirk. ‘They’re not for me.’ There’s no reason to assume he’s lying. Not when he’s preoccupied with pressing a Hello Kitty bandaid to the tiny graze on her knee, carefully smoothing the adhesive flat against her skin. If she’d had any real concerns about the children’s wellbeing, the red bow affixed to the little cat’s ear would have put them to rest once and for all. It serves no purpose beyond artless joy. Something about it feels wrong. Swallowing a couple of pills behind her palm, Utahime finds herself fixated on it, even as she flinches away from the new curse he summons. Its technique is frightening to behold, but the effects of its frozen breath are soothing when applied to the makeshift icepack Getō has put together. Holding the supercooled gauze to the swelling, he winds a length of bandage around her ankle with the most careful fingers, wordlessly dismissing his curses. At last, they’re truly alone. ‘You know,’ he says, and there’s this strange edge to his voice. There’s this strange pause, like he’s working up to something. ‘Your technique is best utilised in support of another sorcerer’s goals.’ Utahime can’t help the laugh that slips out, despite the throbbing in her ankle.

Of course. It all makes sense now, both the fussing over her injury and the polite way he evaded mention of her scar. Of course he’s not going to insult the appearance of a potential accomplice. She’d feel disappointed if she hadn’t learned to expect disappointment from men as a default. It’s easy to lift her gaze to his again when she realises that the truth doesn’t even matter, that he’ll say whatever he needs to. ’Is that your big plan here?’ she asks. ‘To recruit me?’ Getō says nothing, but there’s something uncomfortable about the set of his jaw. Something almost guilty to his expression that’s all the answer she needs. Sighing, Utahime throws her hands out, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘What’s your mission again?’ May as well hear him out. ‘Eliminate all non-sorcerers, was it?’ ‘Something like that.’ There’s a twinkle to his dark eyes that makes her wonder if he’s fully aware how ridiculous it sounds. Shōko was right. Good parent or not, it’s an extraordinarily childish perspective on the matter. ‘No, thanks,’ she says at last. ‘I happen to rather like them.’ For the first time, she sees something resembling genuine irritation flash across his face. His lip curls in the moment before he softens it into a smile. Unthreatening. Safe. ‘What’s so good about them?’ he says lightly, those careful fingers still working around her ankle. There are a thousand things she could say. A thousand things that would make for a far more persuasive argument in favour of their continued existence than the reason she eventually gives. ‘They invented baseball.’ After a short moment of stunned silence in which Utahime feels herself flush furiously, Getō laughs. It isn’t a proper laugh — it’s soft, safe — but it does the trick. He nods, biting down on his grin as he returns his attention to her injury. Somehow, Utahime senses that’s it. He’s accepted her answer. He won’t argue and he won’t ask again and, for some inexplicable reason, it’s this that disappoints her more than anything else. He’s just really bad at being a bad guy.

‘So, now what?’ she asks before she can help herself. Getō glances up at her, that same gentle smile playing on his lips. ‘I’m not going to join you and you’re not going to kill me so—’ ‘How can you be so sure?’ Utahime blinks, surprised by the interruption. Of all the things she expected him to be sensitive about, it wasn’t this. The defensive jut of his chin, carefully hidden under a mask of indifference, feels curiously familiar to her. ‘Same reason Gojō hasn’t killed you.’ ‘I’m not Satoru.’ Oh, she knows. Utahime won’t tell him that she’s spent the last ten minutes cataloguing all the ways they’re different — good and bad — but she knows. ‘Same reason you didn’t kill Shōko, then.’ Getō says nothing, but his hands have stilled over her ankle. ‘I’m weak,’ Utahime grits out. ‘But I’m still a sorcerer. Even if I’m an abomination to you—’ Seeing the frown that settles over his features at that, she instantly regrets her foolish vulnerability. ‘—you won’t kill me.’ ‘An abomination?’ he repeats, quiet with his disbelief. ‘Imagine what I could achieve with a technique like yours, Utahime.’ His fingers ghost along her shin, dip behind her knee, press into the muscle of her calf. ‘Maybe I should take you with me,’ he murmurs, eyes flashing, cursed energy swelling. ‘Make you sing for me.’ It isn’t funny. It’s just sad.