One pair where they should be, the other two stacked neatly beneath, climbing down the pale slope of his cheeks.

Six irises, all a clear, dangerous blue.

When they crack open for the first time, the elders stagger back as though the newborn has swung a sword.

“A blessing.” one of them says finally, voice shaking. “The Six Eyes.”

“A curse.” whispers another, thinking Satoru can’t possibly hear.

Satoru hears both.

He spends his childhood behind painted screens and tinted glass. The estate is wide, but his world is small — the same garden view from different angles, the same corridors memorised by the touch of his fingers on the walls when he walks blindfolded.

They teach him early how to wrap bandages and cloth over his face.

To keep three rows of eyes closed.

To watch the world with cursed energy instead, because his eyes “upset people” when they move in different directions at once, when they see too much.

“You’re the strongest man alive.” the elders tell him when he’s of age.

They also tell the servants not to let him near the windows during visits

Not to let him be seen.

A hidden strongest, locked up like a secret shame.

He starts hearing the summer festival long before he ever sees it.

Drums drifting over the outer walls, the distant pop of fireworks, the faint smell of grilled sauce carried on the wind. Every year he presses his forehead to the paper screen and imagines colours he’s never actually watched with his own eyes, only ever sensed as bursts of energy against the night.

This year, the drums are too close, the music too bright, the house too empty.

Most of the elders are away at some emergency council in the main compound, the remaining watchers are tired, sloppy with their vigilance.

The barrier at the outer wall hums like a thin thread instead of a rope, stretched as the clan’s attention leans elsewhere.

Satoru stands alone in his room and realises that for the first time in his life, there is no one between him and the rest of the world except paper doors and his own fear.

The thought terrifies him.

The thought thrills him.

He dresses himself with hands that shake a little, not from power training this time, but from nerves.

A dark indigo yukata printed with pale lanterns, the one his mother had bought and then never let him wear.

A soft white obi.

Gloves that tug up over his wrists. And finally, the hat.

It’s an old woven kasa they’ve modified for him, as if they knew one day he’d try this anyway.

A thin curtain of black gauze is stitched to the brim, falling all the way to his chest in a light veil.

From the outside, he will be just a tall shape, face a blur.

Inside, with all six eyes closed, he can still see everything through cursed energy.

The world glows in lines and currents, people like burning lanterns, buildings like slow stone rivers.

He slips through the estate with Infinity brushing gently over the floors, turning creaks into silence, their wards into suggestions.

Past the sleeping guards, past the gate that has always been locked for him.

When he steps onto the street, the world rushes in.

Noise hits first.

Vendors shouting their wares, children shrieking with laughter, the raw, overlapping murmur of hundreds of strangers.

Then smells — sugar, soy sauce, charcoal smoke, sweat, spilled beer, perfume, warm pressed cotton. The air is thick and humid, his yukata clinging under his arms, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Lanterns line the street, hung on poles and stalls, warm orange light brushing against him. Paper streamers flutter. A goldfish scoots in a plastic bag near his elbow, the leakage of its tiny life brushes the edges of his perception and makes him smile.

It’s so wonderful, colorful, alive.

Overwhelmingly so.

He doesn’t know what to do first.

So he walks.

He moves carefully, trying to imitate the way he’s seen people walk when he spies them through cracks in the gate. Not too fast, not too slow, arms loose at his sides.

His height helps, people part around him on instinct, muttering apologies when they brush the curtain of his veil.

“Sorry,” he says back, every time, even when it isn’t his fault.

His voice sounds strange to his own ears out here, less like something trapped in a room, more like a thing that can hang in the air.

“Satoru Gojo is to remain within the estate.” the elders would say.

He hears their voices in his head, and for once, he walks anyway.

He pauses near a stall selling candied apples, the red glaze catching the light.

Three children stare at him, whispering to each other.

“Why’s he dressed like that?”

“Maybe he’s famous.”

“Maybe he’s ugly,” one of them laughs.

Satoru’s mouth pulls down under the veil.

His fingers twitch at his side.

Of course even here—

He’s jostled from behind.

Someone stumbles into him hard enough that he rocks forward, Infinity catching them both before they really collide.

The touch sparks instinct — his cursed technique snaps up, space tightening for a split second.

“Whoa, easy,” a low voice says right at his shoulder, lazy and amused, like nothing in the world worries him. “Sorry, sorry. Crowd’s a nightmare near the yakitori stand.”

The hand on his arm is warm and large. It shouldn’t be there — no one touches him without layers of rules and explanations — but the Infinity between them keeps actual contact from happening, so he doesn’t yank away.

“I’m fine,” Satoru says, a little too quickly. His voice comes out deep but unsure, shaped by years of talking mostly to people who expect answers, not conversation. “It’s… crowded. That’s all.”

The man steps back a pace.

Satoru feels the shift in the energy, the heat of him settling just to his left.

“That it is,” the stranger agrees. “And yet here you are, dressed like a bride at a ghost wedding.”

Satoru stares at him through the gauze and his closed eyes, six awarenesses focusing down on one person.

The man is tall, nearly as tall as Satoru himself, broad across the shoulders. His yukata is a deep red that looks almost black in the lantern light, left open careless at the chest.

Ink sprawls over his skin, black lines framing the sharp cut of his jaw, winding down his throat and over his collarbones.

His hair is cropped short and rough, a dull pinkish colour that should look silly but doesn’t at all.

It just makes the bright red of his eyes stand out.

Crimson irises, deep and mesmerizing, looking straight at him.

Not through him, not past him.

At him.

Satoru forgets to answer.

The stranger smirks, like he’s used to this reaction and finds it entertaining.

“Cat got your tongue under there?”

“I…” Satoru swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “No. I have my tongue.”

“Good start.”

The man shifts his weight, hands sliding into the wide sleeves of his yukata.

He tilts his head, studying Satoru’s veiled face.

“You local?” he asks. “Or did you come down from the mountains just to haunt the festival?”

“Do I look like a ghost?” Satoru blurts, then immediately hears how defensive that sounds.

The stranger chuckles.

It’s a low sound, rumbling out of his chest, and for some reason it sends a little shiver down Satoru’s spine.

“A very polite ghost, maybe,” he jeers. “What’s with the veil, anyway? Broken nose? Terrible haircut?”

“It’s to keep bugs out,” Satoru lies. It’s the first excuse that comes to mind and he clings to it. “Mosquitos.”

The man’s eyebrows lift.

“Mosquitos,” he repeats, flat.

“Yes,” Satoru insists, suddenly stubborn. “They like me.”

The smirk widens, showing a hint of sharp canine.

“I bet they do.”

Silence drops between them. It isn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s new

Satoru realises he has no idea what people do at this point in a conversation.

He stands there, hands useless at his sides, the festival roaring around them.

The stranger taps one knuckle lightly against the brim of the kasa.

“First time out?” he asks, too soft and certain to be a real question.

Satoru hesitates. He could lie. That’s what the clan has taught him — never let anyone know more than you have to.

But he is already out. Already breaking every rule that held his life together.

“Yes,” he says. “First time.”

The man huffs, almost pleased, like he’s won a small game.

“Thought so. You move like someone who’s only ever walked hallways.”

Satoru’s cheeks heat under the veil.

“That obvious?”

“To someone watching, yeah.” The man tips his head toward the line of stalls. “You eaten yet, hallway boy?”

“I— no.” The foods smells have been twisting around his head since he stepped outside, but he was too overwhelmed to approach any of the stalls alone, too aware of how wrong he must look.

“Then you’re in luck.” The crimson gaze flickers down his veiled form and back up again. “I was just thinking I needed a way to keep myself entertained before the fireworks. Tag along.”

Satoru blinks.

“With you?”

“Unless you see another handsome stranger standing behind me.”

“I don’t.” Satoru says honestly.

The man barks another laugh.

“Then yeah. With me.”

He doesn’t wait for more permission than that — he turns and starts walking through the crowd, expecting Satoru to follow.

For a few steps, Satoru just stands there, stunned.

Then his feet move on their own, drawn along by curiosity and something else that feels a little like gravity.

They slip into the flow of the street.

People swirl past, noisy and alive, the man moves through them like he’s lived in crowds his whole life, a lazy predator who knows no one will bump him unless he allows it.

He keeps talking, as if it would be strange not to.

“Name?” he asks, glancing back once.

Satoru’s clan name sticks like a stone in his throat.

“Satoru.”

The man rolls it around in his mouth, tasting it.

“Satoru, huh. I’m Sukuna.”

Something tightens in Satoru’s chest at the name.

He’s heard it before, in old reports, in muttered conversations when elders thought he was asleep.

A dangerous sorcerer.

A problem.

A man the clans would rather avoid than fight.

He looks at the broad back in front of him, at the relaxed shoulders, the red eyes that had softened when they thought he might be a ghost, and the old stories don’t quite match.

Sukuna buys him things.

He does it without asking, tossing coins at vendors and shoving skewers and sweets into Satoru’s gloved hands.

“Try this,” he says, watching, when Satoru bites into a still-hot yakitori skewer and almost yelps. “Careful. Not invincible against heat, are you?”

Satoru chews, six eyes fluttering briefly under the veil as the flavour hits. It’s so salty and rich and real compared to the careful food of the Gojo kitchen that he almost sways.

“It’s good,” he murmurs.

“Of course it’s good. This stand’s been here since I was a brat. Here. Takoyaki next. Don’t choke.”

He eats dango, the sauce sticky on his tongue. He drinks cold ramune, the marble clinking at the top of the bottle when he tilts it back.

Sukuna looms beside him the whole time, making quiet comments about the people around them, pointing out ridiculous yukata patterns, counting how many goldfish kids spill on the road.

Satoru laughs sometimes before he can stop himself, short surprised bursts. Each time, Sukuna’s eyes flick to him, quick and sharp, like he’s collecting the sound.

They end up near the shrine at the edge of the festival grounds when the hour grows late.

The main crush of stalls thins out there, the crowd more scattered.

Stone steps climb up toward a torii gate half-swallowed by darkness.

Fireworks are due to start any minute.

“C’mon,” Sukuna says, jerking his chin toward the steps. “Best view from up there.”

Satoru follows him up, breath a little uneven from more than just the climb.

The stone is cool under his geta and the lantern light falls away behind them, replaced by starlight and the faint glow of the town below.

They find a spot on the steps, not quite at the top.

There’s space between them at first — after a while, as more people trickle up and sit down, that space shrinks until Sukuna’s shoulder brushes his.

The contact hums against the thin layer of Infinity he keeps out of habit, strange and electric.

He should pull away, probably.

Make room? That’s what people normally do, right?

But his body leans almost imperceptibly toward the warmth instead.

“Not going to take that thing off?” Sukuna asks after a stretch of comfortable quiet, flicking a finger against the brim of the hat.

Satoru’s hands tighten in his lap.

“No.”

“No?” Sukuna echoes. “Even just the hat? It’s hot as shit.”

“I’m fine.”

Sukuna hums.

“You’re certainly something.” He tips his head back, looking up at the dark sky. “You know, Satoru, most people come to festivals to be seen.”

“I’m not most people,” Satoru says before he can help himself.

The corner of Sukuna’s mouth twitches.

“That, I don’t doubt.”

A firework goes up, the whistle cutting through the night.

It blooms above them in a burst of gold, casting momentary daylight across the steps.

More follow, red and green and white, cracking the air with sound.

Satoru lifts his face anyway, veil or no veil — for the first time in his life, he actually sees the shapes, the colours, each flicker reflected in the fine threads of the gauze. All six eyes are still closed, but his perception stretches up, tracing the lines of cursed energy that spiral with each explosion.

“Pretty, huh?” Sukuna says softly.

“Yes,” Satoru murmurs. “More than I thought.”

“Mm. You sound like you’re reading a report.”

“I am not,” Satoru protests, offended.

“Then act like you’re having fun.” Sukuna’s shoulder bumps his again, deliberately this time.

Satoru breathes out and lets the next laugh come easier.

Their hands rest between them on the step, so close their little fingers almost touch.

During one particularly loud volley of fireworks, someone behind them jolts forward, and Sukuna instinctively shifts, his hand sliding over Satoru’s to steady him.

The touch catches on Infinity for a heartbeat, then Satoru, without thinking, lets the technique ease.

Skin meets gloved skin.

His entire body goes tight.

Sukuna doesn’t snatch his hand away, he just lets it lie there, heavy and solid and warm.

Then, slowly, he turns his palm, fingers brushing against Satoru’s.

Satoru’s heart stutters.

He looks down, even though he doesn’t need to see, and watches their hands inch toward each other.

It feels like one of those training exercises where he has to thread a needle with his cursed technique — tiny movements, high stakes.

Their fingers tangle.

Satoru’s glove rasping against Sukuna’s calloused skin.

Sukuna squeezes once, firm but not demanding.

“See?” he says quietly, as another firework bursts overhead. “Not so scary.”

Satoru’s throat works.

“You don’t even know what I look like.”

“I know enough.”

Enough.

Satoru doesn’t know what that means here, on a stone step under a burning sky, his hand engulfed in someone else’s.

The elders’ warnings crowd in at the edges of his mind.

If anyone saw.

If anyone knew.

“Why are you being nice to me?” The question slips out small, almost childish.

Sukuna’s head turns.

Satoru can feel the weight of his gaze on the side of his face, on the veil.

“Because you looked like you needed someone,” Sukuna says simply. “Because your voice is interesting. Because I was curious.” The fingers around Satoru’s squeeze again, gentler. “And because I wanted to.”

Satoru makes a tiny, helpless sound.

He’s never been told it could be that simple.

Nothing in his entire life was simple.

The fireworks continue, each bang echoing in his chest.

He thinks maybe his heart is going to wear itself out against his ribs.

He doesn’t notice Sukuna’s hand leaving his until the warmth shifts. Sukuna lifts his other arm, slow enough that Satoru feels it coming, a careful movement like he’s approaching a skittish animal.

When fingertips touch the side of his face through the veil, Satoru goes rigid, breath locking in his lungs.

He doesn’t pull back.

Sukuna’s fingers trace along his cheekbone, down toward his jaw.

Through the thin fabric, he can feel the shape of him, the slight hollows where extra lids lie closed, the faint raised seams left by old stitches the clan had once used to “manage” the eyes that frightened them so much.

Sukuna pauses when he finds the line of a closed eyelid where no normal human would have one.

His thumb lingers there, pressing very lightly, feeling the softness under the scar.

“Huh,” he murmurs.

Not disgusted. Not recoiling. Curious.

Satoru’s thoughts are a rising roar.

The elders’ voices snarl in his head — They will call you a monster. They will scream. They will try to kill you before you curse them.

His grip on Sukuna’s hand tightens until his knuckles ache.

“Don’t,” he whispers, finally, the word torn out of him. “Please.”

He’s not sure what his plea is about.

Sukuna’s hand stills.

For a moment Satoru thinks he’s going to withdraw, leave the veil where it is, let him keep pretending.

Instead, Sukuna’s fingers slide up, brush the edge of the gauze.

“Satoru,” he says quietly, the name soft in his mouth. “Look at me.”

The fireworks flare again, painting the world in flashes of red and blue.

Sukuna lifts the veil.

The night air hits Satoru’s face like ice cold water.

He squeezes all six eyes shut on instinct, lashes damp.

Part of him expects the crowd to gasp, for people to scramble back.

No one is close enough or paying enough attention to have seen yet — the roar of the fireworks covers everything.

“Hey,” Sukuna says, and there’s something new in his voice now, something that isn’t mockery at all. “Easy. I’m right here.”

Satoru forces one pair of eyes open.

Then the next.

Then the last.

All six meet Sukuna’s.

The world sharpens. Colours burn. Now the world is not shapes, frames, lines, the almost — the similar.

He sees everything as it is.

Every line of Sukuna’s face is perfect in painful detail — ink, scars, faint freckles across his nose, the shift of his pupils as he takes Satoru in.

Six pupils meet four.

Four crimson pupils, two side by side on the right eye, and the same configuration on the left one.

True polycoria.

He finds Sukuna’s eyes artistically beautiful, and yet he fails to see the beauty within his own self.

Satoru knows what he must look like.

Pale skin, too much of it taken up by shining blue.

Two eyes where they should be, the other four marching down his cheeks in eerie symmetry.

Tear-slicked lashes, lower lids already going pink from the strain.

He waits for the flinch, the recoil, the disgust.

Sukuna’s expression doesn’t twist. It doesn’t even harden. His red eyes widen a fraction, then soften at the edges, lids lowering a little as if he’s really seeing something he likes.

“Satoru,” he says again, almost on a breath. “You are— fuck.”

His other hand lifts, joining the first.

He cups Satoru’s face carefully, palms broad and warm, thumbs resting just beneath the lowest pair of eyes.

The touch is grounding, steady, so warm Satoru feels like he could melt.

“You’re beautiful.” Sukuna tells him, clear as if he’s stating a fact. “Wickedly so. Hauntingly.”

The words hit harder than any praise Satoru has ever received.

Strongest. Weapon. Asset.

Those have all been thrown at him like weights, like chains.

Beautiful lands like something else entirely, something fragile that has to be held.

A small, choked sound catches in his throat. He doesn’t know if it’s a laugh or a sob.

His six eyes tremble, the top pair going glassy, tears threatening again for an entirely different reason.

The corner of Sukuna’s mouth lifts, soft and sure as he leans in while the sky cracks open above them in another spray of colour.

“Relax.” he murmurs, close enough that Satoru can feel the words against his lips. “Let me?”

Satoru doesn’t know how to answer, so he doesn’t.

He just doesn’t move away.

Their first kiss is not perfect, yet it is nothing less than it.

Satoru tilts his head wrong at first, bumping noses. Sukuna huffs a tiny laugh into his mouth and corrects the angle with a gentle tug of his hands. Then it’s just warmth and the press of lips, the faint taste of ramune and soy sauce and something sharp underneath that must be Sukuna himself.

Satoru’s hands finally move, almost of their own accord. One clutches at Sukuna’s sleeve, feeling the muscle underneath. The other tightens around their joined fingers, holding on.

Above them, fireworks bloom and fade.

The crowd cheers somewhere distant.

The elders’ voices are far away, drowned out by the rush of blood in Satoru’s ears and the quiet sound of Sukuna breathing against his mouth.

When they part, just a little, Satoru keeps his eyes open.

Sukuna’s face fills his vision, reflected six times over.

His four red irises hold tiny shards of light from the fireworks, like he’s caught bits of the sky there.

“Better than watching from hallways?” Sukuna asks, voice low.

Satoru swallows hard and nods, because if he tries to speak he isn’t sure what will come out.

Sukuna’s thumbs stroke once more under his lowest eyes before he lets the veil fall back into place, carefully, like he’s covering something precious rather than hiding something shameful.

“Good.” he says. “Then stay with me a little longer.”

For the first time, Satoru thinks that maybe he can.

You have your will in your palm So plant your dreams and wishes now You must grow strong No room for wilting flowers

Will you stay or will you go The choice is yours it's yes or no Voices whisper in your ear 'There's nothing in this world to fear'

So, will you stay or will you go The choice is your it's yes or no Voices whisper in you ear 'There's nothing to fear'

Rise and take flight, darling Let's soar high For the first time in forever you're alive Don't you forget that Rise and take flight, darling It's your time There's no room for wilting flowers here Smile and wipe away your tears

Cruel and wicked life How it hurts you deep inside Cold and vicious life How you wish to make it right Eden's waiting for you beyond it all

You have your will in your palm So plant your dreams and wishes now You must grow strong No room for wilting flowers

Rise and take flight, darling Let's soar high For the first time in forever you're alive Don't you forget that Rise and take flight, darlingIt's your time There's no room for wilting flowers here Smile and wipe away your tears

Will you stand and fight For the war has just begun And there's nowhere left to run Here's your chanceTake it in your hands

Will you stand and fight For the war has just begun And there's nowhere left to run Here's your chance Take it in your hands

You have grown You have strived First time in forever you're alive The power is in your hand A floral crown for you, my dear Smile and wipe away all your tears