en

You hated Ryusui Nanami

The world feels as though it was frozen in time. Every fibre of your body being consume by the shining green light is all that you could recall. What was one skin turned into solid stone as you stare - petrified. The only thing not stuck in place is your mind. Your brilliant screaming spinning mind.

What are you thinking of? Many people would’ve assumed it would be panic. Perhaps even a ridiculously accurate counting system if you are insane. Yet, neither are right. Nor are any other logical conclusions others might have thought of.

What you are thinking of was rather simple. Rather idiotic if you are being honest. It was something so silly and dumb and childish that it makes your heart ache in such a familiar way.

It is your research.

Perhaps it is habit after being a self-proclaimed scientist for so long, yet all you could do was quietly try to interpret your final piece of data before the paper before you decompose. No matter how useless its knowledge is, it’s still knowledge. It’s still a step into the future. A small one yes – but a step nonetheless.

Oh look at you. You’re just trying to cling onto the hope that everything you dedicated your life to was actually important. You’ve been doing this your whole life. You know better.

If your body isn’t frozen in stone, you would’ve pulled your limbs together. You would’ve cover your mouth trying to stifle the noises that came out. Your eyes would water and blur as you’d try to pretend it is all worth it in the end. But, it’s not.

How could measuring radio waves from the moon be any useful? How could understanding every crease and crevice be any useful? How could measuring the weight of every stone bird be useful? Maybe they were right.

For how could any of it be useful if you can’t bring yourself to talk about it?

It sucks. Words and conversations feeling like sharp needles poking at your throat anytime you want to say anything. You can barely manage a grocery run. Let alone talk about some silly passion project.

You want to talk about your project. You want the fame and the value of your work to finally be recognized. Yet, you are so scared. You are terrified of everything you’ve been thinking about being said out loud. You are scared of hearing the words you told yourself for months.

You’ve only ever voiced out what your research was about once. There was one unfortunate soul who heard. Who sat there for hours as you mumbled about how these waves don’t seem to be thermal; how something was off about those stone birds. You quietly pitied him when you came to your senses and realized what you’d done.

You pity Nanami Ryusui.

Ever since you both were young, he’s sit and listen to your little rambles. He’d beg, whine and cry for you continue. He’ll exclaim that he desired all the knowledge you had in your head. His hand would grip onto yours as he listens so passionately.

Did he understand what you were talking about? You doubt it. Yet his brown eye shined with an unfiltered desperation. The desperation for you to continue. That was your first mistake.

No, in fact that was your third mistake. Three mistakes that culminated into a long game of cat and mouse. A game of tag that left your legs aching and your heart pounding after every interaction. A game you could finally rest from.

When that green light of petrification washed over humanity, you accept it like a blessing from an omnipotent force. Your petrified face is one where your mouth relaxed into a smile. Your eyes staring straight at the beam. As your vision disappears and your heart is pounding you just wanted to scream in joy.

For you are finally free. Free from all the fears of finding him again. Free from all the judging overlooks of society. Free from all the pressure about the worth of your work.

You are all practically dead anyways; what else is there to do then analyze? Well, maybe you could keep count of how long you’ve been petrified. Maybe you could’ve been analyzing something useful. Maybe you could’ve done something better.

As a familiar ache in your heart reappears you question, is this a free field or just another prison yard?

You suppose it didn’t matter. The answer won’t free you in any way. It would just give you acceptance over your current blind and deaf state. Either option leaves you immobilize.

If you could, you would’ve stop your thoughts there. Yet you had a curse. A curse of analysis and thirst for knowledge that can only be kept alive with your subconscious. So for each change in season - every passing year - you thought.

Before long, sight became something you can’t recall. Sound comes soon after. Movement stop acting as a concept worth considering. You stop wondering whether or not you could ever escape; accepting the still reality of your future.

Until you hear a crack.

A sharp piercing crack. It is followed by subsequent louder crunches. The once muffled world broke into harsh snap. The sudden thuds of the fallen stone fill your ears as the stone crumbles around you.

Your vision fills with white as you open your eyes. The sun’s unforgiving rays blinding you as your hand covers your face. Trees and foliage blur into one as your eyes readjust from the previous darkness. Figures and faces go ignored as your mind drifts to your hands.

Your now bruised hands. Bruised from sliding against the ground as you fall back. A sharp pain running down your spine as you make impact with the ground. Your exposed skin getting scratched and clawed at as you lay limply.

It is too bright. It is too loud. It is too painful. Which could only lead to one thing. One thing you’ve been debating whether you dreaded or anticipated.

Freedom.

You take a sharp breath in as the feeling of the fabric - that you once wore - is replaced with a new material. It is softer, more breathable. It is something that someone must have cared to make.

You are no idiot. You can’t have revived yourself and spawned in new clothes. You know you aren’t alone. You can’t be. How could you be alone when multiple people stand before you?

As the fuzzy blindness of the light begins to fade, your eyes concentrate on the looking shadows before you. Shapes and forms that can’t be anything if not human. Your voice seems to get caught in your throat as you look up. Eyes analyzing you from overhead.

“What the…” your curse dies on your tongue as your eyes meet one man in particular. Your body tenses as you push yourself back. It feels as though you are about to choke. It feels like you are going to die. It feels like you are running back into the thing you tried to escape from.

The wounds scattered around your body ache with each movement of your body as you revolt backwards. You can’t let him notice you. You can’t let him see you. You can’t relive that life.

You are finally free. Yet freedom was nothing more than an another maze. A labyrinth filled with temptations of pleasure that lead to traps. You want to cry. How much of a sinner were you in the old world to be damned to such a fate?

For your eyes gaze into shining hazel ones. Eyes so wide it felt like they were trying to consume you whole. Every detail - every movement - was being watched. You are being watched.

The figure watches you as he extends a hand to your fallen figure. A wide grin pulling at his face as you stare at his fingers. Blue marks littering them. For a moment, you could pretend it wasn’t him. You could be ignorant. Wistfully away is your sanctuary of denial.

Until - of course - you touched his hand.

It was a moment of stupidity. A moment of idiocracy. A moment of being too trusting. Yet, you found yourself pressing your hand into his. Your fingers curling around a calloused covered hand.

You can feel every rough patch on his skin. Every part where skin was being worn and strengthens through years of sailing. You could feel each bump and inconsistency. You could feel his hand again.

It’s unfair. It’s unfair how his hands are still so warm. How his fingers are so soft. How - underneath all of the bruises and scratches and new skin - is the same small hand that held you captive all those years ago.

It’s unfair that despite running, you find yourself back in this endless dance.

The floor feels uneasy beneath you as you try stabilize yourself against the ground. Your hand retracts the second you could stand. Soft breathes from the various other members fall on deaf’s ear as you stand face to face with him.

Your hands clench around nothing as he prepares to speak. Your chest tightens whilst you anticipate what he’ll say. Praise? Insults? Admitting this was all a mistake and he recognized the wrong statue? You can’t seem to decide which could possibly the worst outcome.

“Do you remember the moon signals?”

“The moon signals?”

The syllables taste weird on your tongue. Your mouth forming odd shapes as you try recalling whatever he’s referring to. Unfortunately, The odd sound of your voice is what your brain chooses to single in on; ignoring the moon signals. Had you always sounded so hoarse?

As your mind begins to drift, you watch as a familiar gloved hand covers Ryusui’s mouth. A polite smile is shown at you as firm hands lead you to sit down on a near by rock. The once white gloves are stained as they patch up the scratches on your arm. A gentle voice eases you out of your tribulations.

“Master Ryusui, I apologize but you must remember that they have just been revived,” Francois speaks with a soft yet firm tone. Emphasizing any word that can evoke empathy. “Please wait.”

“You should listen to Francois, Ryusui-Chan!” A cheery voice you once heard over the radio years ago reaches your ears. Your eyes wonder to the infamous magician himself - Asagiri Gen. When did these two meet? Last time you checked he was in America while you and Ryusui were here in Japan.

“Ahh yeah,” A young boy with spiky white and green hair appears beside Ryusui. His attire folding and moving as he walks closer to you. His red eyes staring at you up and down. “There’s no answer they can give that would be useful without context.”

There was no answer that you could be useful, is what you wanted to argue. But your mouth is preoccupied by a piece of bread offered to you by a young child. Your mind drifts in and out of focus as you try to listen to what these new individuals were telling you. But you can’t.

All your mouth can taste is the bread. It’s bland. Not particularly soft. It tastes like something a bakery made that you’d buy in the afternoon. Yet, you keep chewing.

The bread grinding against your teeth felt oddly comforting. The familiar sensation of sustenances filling you feels, healing. Whether you were physical or emotionally hungry is unclear. It was unclear back then too.

The sun was particularly bright in that cafe. The soft afternoon light draping over the words written on your page. Scribbles of different questions that had haunted your brain were written across your books. The only thing separate was a lone bread.

The lone neglected bread sat before you; watching you trying to solve another aching question. Perhaps it was wondering what you were doing. Why you were wasting time. Why you weren’t studying, or socializing. You were sent outside to go ‘talk to people,’ so why are you so blatantly disobeying orders you normally run to fulfill?

Well, who were you to talk to?

To these people, you were nothing more than a middle school student. Scribbling away at what ought to be homework. To your classmates, you were the quiet agreeable somewhat weird science kid. To those you’ve emailed about your questions, you were a brat. So, who could you speak to.

It’s not as though you particularly wanted to speak to anyone either. You couldn’t stand it after all. The choreographed responses. The unsaid prompts you were meant to reply with. The tightening on your chest as you try to push words past your lips. It was torture you’d happily avoid.

However - as most do - you were undeniably lonely. Afterall, a scientist longs to share their discoveries. That’s how science has evolved. Yet, you could push down your instinct in fear.

But, how can you push down instincts when faced with acceptance?

You can’t really recall when the both of you met. Your mothers were well acquainted. Yet, you never could remember being introduced to him. He was simply there.

He was there in your life like how he was here in the cafe. Loud voice echoing as he placed his order. His hair almost appeared golden in the sunlight. The sight of him almost made you want to regurgitate the bread.

Yet the opposite is true for him.

For before you knew it, he sat before you. The only thing separating the both of you, were your walls of research and notes. The only thing separating the both of you was your bread. The only thing separating the both of you was your silence. A silence you choose to maintain.

The soft clicks of the clock acted as a musical score to your silent ballet. Your hand would write various notes, whilst his eyes followed your writing. Your mouth would occasionally mumble theories while his would remain shut. Your constant bites of food would be matched with his drinks.

It was almost like clockwork the way you two worked.

You had originally planned to shoo him off as you normally do. He was nothing more than an immature boy was he not? Always demanding for the world. It was only logical.

Yet something seemed to stop you. It wasn’t your childhood bond - if you could even call it that. You could barely recall a meeting with him you enjoyed. You’d spent afternoons trying to hide in the Nanami’s estate, hiding from this rambunctious boy.

After all, he’s spend his days whining and demanding the world. He was trying to pry out everything he could from you. He was trying to make you lose composure. He was trying to desire you too.

However love doesn’t come without trust. Therefore you ran. You were running from the fear of being something someone would desire. Something someone would look for. Something someone would remember. It haunted you.

Yet, you didn’t seem to fear that as you sat before him. For he didn’t speak a word. A desire never left his lips as he watches you work. Even as people filter in and out, and once full plate turn empty, he stayed quiet. It was as though your presence domesticated him.

Therefore he could stay.

You let him stay till you decided to return home to dwell for longer about various space missions. You let him stay till you ran out of paper to work with. You let him stay till you made a mistake. For you made a grave mistake that day.

A mistake that haunts you. A mistake that poison your blood and striped you raw. A mistake that holds you in the limelight of a circus. For it was a mistake that was the first of three. What was it?

It was the mistake of letting Ryusui fall for you.

You weren’t an idiot. You knew what love was. You knew what it looked like. You knew when Ryusui’s eyes shined brightly up at you, that it wasn’t something friends did. You knew when he clutched your hand and asked your to come over to his, you both were no longer platonic.

Was it because you let him stay? Was it because you let him watch you work? Was it because you stayed? Perhaps. Yet hypothesis can only be confirmed through repeatable results. Unfortunately for everyone, people often only love in the same way once. Therefore you may never truely understand his mind.

All you could deduct is that he no longer desired the world. He no longer desired a future as the heir to the Nanami Conglomerate. He no longer desired any vain thing others would desire. Instead he desired a person.

You.

You hate how you could still see his love now. The way his eyes practically glimmer as Francois helps you to rest. The way he watches your expression to ensure you’re following along. The way he sighs in relief at each of your nods. You hate it.

You hate how your mind chooses to focus on him instead of the words being aimlessly thrown at you. A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you try listening to Senku once more. Your mouth parts slightly as the situation at hand becomes clearer. A weak nod is all they receive as you daze off.

“So tell us,” Your eyes look up at Senku; watching the boy’s mouth breaking into a grin. His red eyes shimmering. “What do you remember about those Moon radio waves?”

What do you remember? You almost want to laugh. The last thing you remember doing was measuring the frequency of an odd message being sent down to earth. He should be asking something more practical. You could tell him everything.

“I don’t remember anything,”

Yet you don’t.

Concerns and light whispers circle around you. The pain caused by Francois’ alcohol makes you want to flinch. Yet you can’t. All you could do is sit there and listen to the gossip and rumours that ran your life.

Your eyes focus on the trees behind everyone. The way the sunlight filters through them turns blurry as you continue to stare forward. The cool rock beneath you presses marks into your skin as you press your fist stronger against them. You allow yourself to flinch at Francois’ touches.

Perhaps there is a part of you that wanted to share and explain. But you can’t. It is the truth you had learned to live with. The truth not everyone could accept.

A larger warm blue highlighted hand is pressed against your shoulder. It’s rough texture scratches against your shoulder. Your fingers curl with the need to push Ryusui off. Yet once again you can’t.

“Right then! Let’s head back to the village and you can get some rest!” Ryusui’s voice is almost soothing as he nudges you to stand. Your legs feel weak beneath you as you lift yourself up. Yet, his hand is there — stabilizing you.

It’s awfully mundane. You’d expected to at least feel some sort of guilt for not saying anything. Yet, you don’t feel any difference. Perhaps the weight of guilt feels light to trained arms.

Perhaps instead of feeling guilty you heart was too preoccupied by worrying about Ryusui.

The hand on your back is a constant reminder of him. A light force suggesting the path to you. The side of his thumb pressing deeper into you. It is all so evoking.

Evoking of what? You aren’t too sure. All you can focus on is the sound of your syncopated footsteps and the blow of the wind. It is almost hypnotic.

Silences between the both of you had always been comforting. Yet this one felt particularly so. There is no need to speak. There iss no need to explain. There is no need to do. All that is necessary is to exist. That you are grateful for.

The trees of greens and browns turn into blurs as you continue to walk along side Ryusui. It’s so odd. In another life you’d be running away down roads and streets. Yet now, you’re simply walking besides him. Is it wrong to say that this felt like a break?

It is almost serene. Almost peaceful. It is as though you were back in the stone, only with the luxery of movement. For a moment, you understood the joy Ryusui found in your shared silences.

The hand behind you presses a little harder into your back. Firmly urging you to quicken your pace. The soft crunching between your feet still sounds as though you were walking. Yet, you can’t deny the growing distance between you and the group.

Surprisingly, there is no hesitance in your steps. You walk forth as though you know your way around the stone world. It’s funny. It’s funny how a simple touch can provide trust like no other.

“You remember don’t you?” His voice sounds different now. It’s hoarser, quieter, softer. He almost sounds scared asking. No. Not scared. Careful. “The radio waves from the moon?”

A sigh leaves your lips. Your gaze lifts to the blue skies overhead. You can’t see the waves, but you can’t deny something you’ve spent your life understanding. You nod your head softly.

“Of course I do,” you look up at him as you confessed. You are expected a look of disappointment. Perhaps frustration. Maybe even anger.

Instead he laughs.

A deep hearty laugh that seems to flow with the wind. His shoulders moves with each laugh. His eyes shut as his mouth closes into a large grin. Eyes crinkling around the edges as he looks at you.

His lips press together into a soft smile. His gaze is focused before the both of you. His shoulders drop as his laughter leaves. It is as though he was finally breathing.

“I’m glad you didn’t change,”

His words linger for a moment as he stares ahead. The soft warm light making his hair appear golden. His hair softly blows in the wind. It framing his face effortlessly.

His eyes are wide as he watches the horizon slowly approach. They are a warm brown. The highlights in his eyes turn into little stars; stars holding all his desire in the world.

A sweet smile is on his face. His shoulders relaxed as his hand continues to press against you. The freckles on his face appearing softer. It is as if there is no where else in the world he’d rather be.

He looks, ethereal. No. Ephemeral. You’d always found him ephemeral. Beautiful in moments of silences yet irritating anytime else. Yet, this kind of beautiful feels a little different.

His hair never glowed like this. His eyes never shined like this. His face was never this endearing. Perhaps he was never ephemeral. Perhaps he was only pretty. A pretty you are too petty to acknowledge.

The thought haunts your mind for the remainder of the walk. The various tree and animals does nothing to sooth your thoughts. The crunch of the leaves only acts as background noise. Even the sound of the rest of the group - when they finally reach up - goes ignored.

It is only when you approach civilization again your mind stops. Your eyes pan over as you see various huts and structures. They are nothing compared to the various sky scrapers and apartment complexes you used to walk past — yet they were nice. Quaint if you will.

There is almost something domestic about seeing little children run around. Almost something sweet as you watched various people engage with trade with each other. It all feels too human watching the village live. Which is perhaps why you sigh when you are brought towards a ship.

To call it a ship is an understatement. For a ship isn’t close to being as grand as the vessel before you. It’s wooden structure is sturdy and something beyond your imagination. The size of the ship made you take a step back to appreciate its beauty.

“She’s pretty ain’t she?” Ryusui says besides you. His smile turning into a grin of pride. “This is our Perseus! We’re planning to make a voyage around the world to gather materials for a space ship to head to the moon,”

“That isn’t happening if we aren’t sure on our lead of the moon,” a deeper voice says beside you. Senku sighed as he stares up at the sky. “It’s only a hypothesis that our enemy is up there. There no way we can confirm where the radio signals are from,”

No. No there is a way to confirm where they are from. That’s what you desperately wanted to say. Yet, your information goes undisclosed as you all stood there in silence. Your mouth is sealed as you boarded the ship for a small tour.

The ship is even grander the second you step on. Its vastness made you feel almost minuscule. The soft rock of the waves beneath you feels familiar. The wind pushes your hair back as you stare at the various structure.

Yet the thing that keeps your focus were the floors. The plank floors. Floors that thump when you walk across them. Floor that creak when you jump on them. Floors that remind you of the floors you once ran on.

You can remember that evening almost perfectly. Your shoes thumping against wooden surfaces as you hid from Ryusui. Hiding maybe the wrong word. You were perhaps waiting for him.

The desk of his ship was wide and vast. It felt like enough space to scream and run around yet small enough it felt safe. The dark nature of the night sky and the docked nature of the ship left you to be alone as you set up a small telescope of sorts. You waited while watching the clock tick.

Your foot tapped against the wooden floor as you waited. Your eyes traces constellations as you waited. You heart pounded as you waited. You couldn’t help but get excited.

For perhaps for the very first time you’d see the subject of your investigations in its full glory. Perhaps you’d uncover what those unidentifiable radio waves were truly saying. Perhaps you’d see the man on the moon you’ve been talking to. Maybe none of that will happen.

Maybe the only thing that would happen is you and Ryusui staring at the moon. Maybe the only thing that would happen is small talk between the both of you. Maybe the only thing that would happen is a wave good bye as the sun will behind to rise. It was too early to say.

Yet, it wasn’t too early to call Ryusui late. Normally you’d panic. Perhaps be annoyed. Yet, this time you felt a bit more lenient.

For normally Ryusui wouldn’t recheck his eldest brother’s room in case of his return. Normally Ryusui wouldn’t walk up and down the hall in solitude before Francois would remind him of the time. Normally Ryusui wouldn’t let anything get in the way of his desire of you. Yet, life wasn’t very normal.

Most people say you’re far too caring. A bit too lenient on the boy. Sure it’s been over years since Sai left, yet, it only felt recent. It felt recent to you at least.

It must be recent if everything still felt new. It must be recent if you still struggled to say no. It must be recent if you are still leaning against the ships rails and staring at the night sky overhead.

If you were still enough, you could see the clouds moving away from the stars. If you were still enough, you could see how everything was changing so fast you couldn’t see the changes. If you were still enough, it almost felt like it’s been a few days since the start of your operation. Everything moved a bit too quickly didn’t it?

You sighed as you stared at the water beneath you. Your eyes raking over your appearance. You shook your head softly, before noticing a new figure beside you, one whose blonde hair shone in the moonlight.

“So what is it that you would like to show me?” Ryusui’s voice lifted with a grin on his face. His eyes stared at yours through the water. “It’s not our reflections is it?”

A small laugh left your lips as you shake your head. Your fingers get to work adjusting the telescope. Yet, the telescope was useless. For the real beauty was seeing it with your naked eye.

You and Ryusui looked up at the moon. It was bright shining brighter than usual. It was bigger, closer to us both figuratively and physically. It was entrancing.

Your hands released the cold metal of the telescope as you pointed to the shape in the sky. The answer to all your questions. The final destination of your research. The only thing you could ever desire.

“It’s a supermoon,”

The words slip out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. You doubted Ryusui even knew what a supermoon was. It was barely a scientific term itself. He likely couldn’t even tell the difference in the moon. Yet, you said it anyways.

“It’s when the full moon happens at the same time as the moon reaches it’s perigee,” you were rambling now. Your eyes never left the spherical shape before you both. “It can causes the moon to appear 14 times bigger and 30 percent brighter,”

Your eyes scanned over the moon. You had seen it millions of times. Yet, there was something peaceful about seeing its beauty with someone else. It was perhaps a link between you both.

“They happen 3 to 4 times a year and normally in clusters,” you whispered out. A soft smile was on your face. “This might not even be the biggest one. But I felt like you needed to see something nice.”

Ryusui fell quiet at your words. His eyes stared at the figure before you both. He was dying to spot anything you’ve mention. Yet, even when he doesn’t he pretends he does.

“Ah is that why the tides were so high today?” He pondered softly. His words faded into a chuckle as his eyes gazed upwards.

“Mhm,” the both of you stood in silence as you both stared up at the lunar figure. Perhaps it was only you who could see any change, yet either way something felt different between you both.

The cold wind pressed hard again the clothing on your body as the waves beneath you crash against the ships body. The wooden floors underneath you hold strong as you both continued to stand there. It was idyllic. Standing together under the moon that is.

“You said that these normally in clustered right?” He asked as you suddenly. You hummed in agreement as you looked over at him. His gaze fixed on the horizon before turning to you.

At the sound of your approval, he grinned. His teeth shone as his eyes widen. His fingers lifted up snapping extravagantly as he laughed. A sweet loud real laugh.

“Then I desire it!” His eyes never left yours as he made his proclamation. “I will see all of the supermoons with you. Together we’ll see the biggest ones.”

You could’ve said no. This was your final escape. Final warning. Yet, you were an idiot. Especially when he smiled like that for the first time in forever. So, your agreement was predictable yet still regrettable.

For that was your second mistake; letting Ryusui trust you.

Since, you did watch all the supermoons with him that year. You did stand together on the deck comparing the various sizes of supermoons. You and him both there; shining under the moonlight. It was a constant you were both afraid to admit you needed.

As you walk down the wooden path with Ryusui in this new world, you miss it. For it’s uncertain if you both will ever have the time or the knowledge to find another supermoon again. It makes your heart claw and twist in way that’s felt so odd. Is it regret?

You don’t necessarily have the heart to answer. For before your thoughts could finish you have arrive at the main room. Next to the door are metal acoustic horns, all neatly lined up. It is as though they are waiting; waiting for you.

A man with a yellow cap sits down and adjusts some frequencies. You peer over, interested in what you are meant to be listening to. The seated man nods at Senku. Who subsequently nods back.

The change in the room is electric.

You take a step forward, before taking three back. Your eyes wide as you stare at the horns. Fingernails pressing into your palm. Your mind seems to scream as you listen.

Listen to the man on the moon you’ve been conversing with.

You have never heard him before. The basis of all your research are the waves themselves. Yet your computer and lack of equipment means you could barely get any further. However you can dream.

You’ve always imagine the man on the moon to have a deep voice. Perhaps a bit raspy. You’ve always imagine him being serious and say nothing more than what needed to be said.

Your expectations are close enough. For this man too has a deeper voice. It isn’t quite raspy but rather choppy. As if he isn’t saying words, but combining syllables. It is all too unnatural. All too fake. It sounded all too much like—

“Our friend Why-man here has been using my voice this whole time,” Senku explains. His hands moving as he recounts their events with Why-man. “He seems pretty set on not revealing his voice. I’m guessing this is the first time you’ve heard it too?”

You nod in confirmation. Once again staring at the acoustic horn. You have never tried listening to him. Not only of account of your equipment, but he never said anything. Only Morse code.

Yet now, he’s repeating a single phrase. A phrase over and over again it’s ingrained in your mind. Two numbers and two measurement. Repeated again.

“12,800,000 meters, 1 second” you repeat softly. You lips pressing against each other at the sound of your own broken voice. “He keeps saying it,”

“The petrification device is activated through saying the diameter of the petrification range and the time it will take to complete,” says the man in the yellow hat - who you later find to be called Ukyo - calmly. He looks up at you with a knowing look as your fist clenches tighter.

12,800,000 meters. The diameter of the earth. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that the man you’ve been studying had been the one who bestowed your centuries of freedom. Perhaps it was a thank you, or perhaps it was an attempt to kill you before you found out more.

“So you need me to confirm the location of this ‘why-man’ right?” You ask as Ukyo finally stops the message. A few nods and agreement fills the room. You sigh as you shake your head. “I’m not sure if we got the same guy,”

Your why-man always spoke in Morse code. Your why-man always repeated the phrase why. Your why-man never even attempt to communicate. How could you be sure they are the same?

“I’m sure we do” Ryusui grins as he walks next to you. His brown eyes glimmering as he looks at you. “He started sending us messages is Morse code,”

His fingers tap against the table in a familiar patterns. Dot, dash dash. Dot dot dot dot. Dash, dot, dash dash. It doesn’t even take a moment for you to realize what it could mean. You’ve heard it millions of times before after all.

Why.

Eyes fall onto you as you think about a response. You can tell them their answer. You can just say he is on the moon. Yet they’ve already figured that out haven’t they? Aren’t you useless in their eyes? Isn’t everything you worked for useless?

Yet, despite all this, they keep looking at you. He keeps looking at you. Ryusui keeps looking at you. They keep awaiting an answer, a confirmation, anything.

“Why-man is on the moon,” you manage to breath out. You fixate your gaze away from the group; staring away. Cheers and celebrations go ignored.

Why are they waiting for something stupid, is beyond you. Perhaps it is charity work in your eyes to entertained so many fool. Perhaps it feels too cruel to keep them waiting. Perhaps - just maybe - you want to share your research too.

A weight is placed on your shoulder as you look up. Your eyes widen slightly as Ryusui’s face once more enters your vision. Neither of you say anything. For the small nod he sends your way says everything it needs to.

Your shoulder that has been tensing this whole time drops. A small smile cracks onto your face. Your cheeks aching from the motion. You advert your gaze momentarily, just long enough for him to start laughing.

“Well then! It’s a cause for celebration!” Ryusui’s fingers click as he boastfully announces. His smile turning into a grin. “Would you like a tour of the ship?”

You open your mouth to agree before Ryusui’s hand is replaced with another. One that is small and lighter. One that pulls you slightly away. One that comes with a warning.

“Trust me say No,” the blonde girl beside you warns. Her blue dress brushing against you as she whispers into your ear. “He’s going to talk your ear off for hours!”

You tilt your head slightly at the information. Your eyes land back on Ryusui as you thought about your next action. You can retreat. You can go rest. You can perhaps even go eat.

Yet, how could you say no to him? Not when his eyes are staring at you with a small glimmer. Not when his eyes are as wide as they were when you were both young. Not when you -instead of Ryusui - see a small boy. A small boy begging you to play with him.

“Let’s go Ryusui,” you hear the girl beside you sigh and send you a parting prayer as Ryusui runs in front of you. His expression is nothing more than pure bliss, as he invites you go around the ship.

The soft glow of the sunset filtered through the windows as he shows off the control panel. It was almost like a painting. The room is enveloped in warmth as you stare. The cool silver almost appeared gold like this.

You feel somewhat bad. Ryusui and Senku are talking about science and purpose of the ship - yet you can’t pay attention. Not to Senku at least. For your eyes are transfixed onto Ryusui’s demonstrations.

His skin almost appears golden now. His dark brown eyes shines in the light as he shows you the steering wheel. The steering wheel doesn’t particularly seem like much. Yet, he talks about it with so much vigor you couldn’t help but notice the details.

Every little knack feels familiar to look at. The wood itself looks identical to something. Ryusui’s fingers curling around the wood almost felt right. It is like Deja Vu.

Except you know where you’ve seen this wheel before. You know why it’s so prominent in your mind. You know why it unsettles you slightly. For it looks like the steering wheel he was fixing then.

The soft sounds of Ryusui’s muttering consoled you back then. You were gazing out of his ship’s windows as he tried readjusting the ship. As always, silence enveloped you. Yet it made you particularly uneasy that night.

You didn’t want to be there. Yet, he begged that he needed ‘moral support’ to finish the ship before Sai visited. So you showed up. Albeit begrudgingly, yet you were there.

However - now as you stood on deck - you regret that mistake. Your heart was tightening in your chest as you stared aimlessly out of the window. Your vision got blurry. Your hands clasped each other.

For, something with your research went wrong. The lead didn’t make sense. All the waves didn’t seem to match with previous data. Were you analyzing radio waves or were their microwaves? Maybe there was no outlier but your research was just inaccurate? Maybe you were just a—

“You ok there?” Ryusui’s closeness scared you. You took a gasp in as he stands before you. His head tilted to stare at you. His eyebrows scrunched up.

“Yeah it’s just,” you shook your head. You tried to laugh off your worries. Your eyes landed back on the wheel, no flaws seeming too apparent. “Anyways did you finish your steering wheel? It looks good! Well you don’t need me here so I might j-“

“No,” his answer was short as he blocked your pathway to the doorway. His hands hover against your arms, trying to decide whether to hold you or just stand there. The latter took place as he sighed.

“I didn’t want you here just for you to leave,” Ryusui said softly now. His voice broke like it did when you both were younger. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Talk?” His eyes were wide as he nodded softly. A small pout on his face as his eyes wander to the scenery behind you. The sparkle in his eyes were no where to be seen.

“It’s been a while,” it was always so odd seeing Ryusui so soft. It felt raw. It felt real. It was beautiful in a way.

Yet - what you weren’t expecting - was to feel a similar way at his next question. You don’t know what happened. Words pushed past your mouth as you just talked. You keep talking.

You should’ve stopped when the tears came. You should have stopped when he pulled up chairs for you both to stop and talk. You should have just stopped.

If you had, you wouldn’t have made your third mistake.

Yet you couldn’t. It almost felt instinctual to tell him everything. The highs. The lows. Everything. All the mistakes, all the inaccuracies. It all came out in a mess of words that you were sure he’d laugh at.

Yet, he didn’t. Perhaps he was expecting that response when he asked his question. Perhaps he didn’t. Either way all he did was stare.

“How is your research going?” That was what broke you. That was the words that turned you like that. Those five innocent words.

That once curious question had caused him to console you. His silence was comforting enough as you spoke. He didn’t say anything. He just listened.

Which was your third mistake; letting him listen to you.

For once you were done, you both stared aimlessly at the ship. The weight of your words hanging between you both. It was nice. Your sobs had died down and the silence felt nice. It was nicer than the critisim imagined.

“I don’t think they are microwaves,” Ryusui said simply. You looked over at him as he stared blankly ahead. “I think he’s trying to communicate with us,”

Communication. It would be more logical to use radio waves rather than microwaves for that. Yet the data didn’t make sense? How could something of that frequency be a radio wave?

“I don’t fully understand the science but,” his head tipped back as he stared at the ceiling. His hands moved behind his head. “I’m sure we both know that this science is beyond the both of us,”

You kept silent. What else were you meant to do? He was right after all. The science was beyond anything you could do. That why they laugh. That’s why they didn’t take you seriously. That’s why you were ignored. It was all too complex for them to want to acknowledge.

“Haha!” Ryusui laughs as he looks over at you. Not a mocking laugh, but a knowing one. As if laughing at how predictable you were. His laughter turned into a grin as he made you a promise. “Then I desire it! I desire all the knowledge you’re uncovering!”

His hair was as golden then as it was now. His smile was softer. His soft lips shining in the light. His freckles framing his face sweetly. Warm eyes stared at you as they stare at you now.

Warm sparkling eyes look at you.

The soft thumping against the floor of the Perseus echos as you listen to Ryusui’s words. Senku had long left to deal with other matters; leaving you with Ryusui. You don’t particularly mind. It is rather sweet hearing him speak of his travels aboard the Perseus.

“Finally, this is our deck!” Ryusui exclaims taking a few steps; allowing you to looking around. You sigh as you feel the cool breeze push your hair back. You admire the structure presented.

Sunset has long since passed by now, the deck being illuminated by light bulbs and the night sky. Minimal activity took place. Most other crew members are dwindling down for the night. Before long it is just the two of you.

The soft rocking of the boat continues as you walk towards the side. You lean against the cool wooden ledge as you stare at the vast ocean before you. A shimmering deep blue. You can almost understand why Ryusui spent all his time here.

Faint chatter from the crew is still audible as yours and Ryusui’s conversation died down. It’s been centuries since you’ve both stood like this. Over 3,700 years. Yet, to you it feels like just yesterday you were both leaning against Ryusui’s ship.

It kills you to know that for Ryusui, he’s spent a year without you. It kills you to know that he felt every moment of separation. It kills you to know no one was there to listen to him. Sure Francois was there, but she’s master the art of evading Ryusui’s rambles. A skill you were eager to learn.

For, the past hour between you two were filled with recounting stories. Recounting events. Recounting the year of his life you missed. His descriptions were so vivid. It was as though he wanted you to live them as well.

The cool breeze of the ocean hits your face once more. You stare into her blue waves. It’s always been so odd that the ocean is what brought you both together. Moon and waves. Astronomer and sailor. Friends and friends.

“I figured you like the deck?” Ryusui says. His expression unreadable in the reflection of the water. “I designed it based on your preferences after all!”

A small laugh leaves your lips. Are you surprised he did? Of course not. You aren’t stupid you know this was his attempt at courting you. Yet, it still adorable how sure he is of your revival.

“It’s nice,” you reply. You stare at his face. His gaze distant and a small smile forming.

“I’m glad,” he turns to face you now. His back leaning against the ledge. His eyes moving to gaze over the open deck. “I figure you’ll spend a lot of time up here on our trip to America,”

You breath hitches as you heard him. You chest tightens slightly. Your eyes widen as you look at him; trying to find a sign of lying or teasing. Only to find none.

A trip to America? A trip? That you are going on? You’re going to laugh. Why would you go with them to America? Your work is done. All you had planned to do is wait aimlessly until someone calls upon you. That is always the plan.

Yet, now he’s proposing you join their crew? The crew of their best? The crew of highest priority. You almost want to laugh at the association. Yet all that comes out was a chocked reply.

“What?” You breathe out; staring at Ryusui, whose gaze doesn’t even attempt to meet yours. It as thought he thinks everything is normal.

“Well maybe you’d spend more time with Senku in the lab b-“

“No what,” your voice is firmer now as you look at him. His eyes offer you a glance in confusion. “What do you mean a trip to America?”

“Did I not explain? We’re going there to get the corn! So we can make infinite revival fluid,” Ryusui explains. His demeanor never changing.

“Yeah I know that,” you started carefully. “What do you mean by our trip? It’s your trip.”

“No our,”

“No”

“Yes”

“No,”

“Ye-“

“Ryusui Nanami,” You don’t even realize you got louder. You don’t realize you got close to him. You don’t realize until the silence got so loud. You take a step back and look away. “I’m not going,”

“Do you not want to go to America?” Ryusui asks tentatively. He tries to step closer, but he can’t. “I mean it’s more like a voyage around the world,”

“No, I don’t and I’m not going to,” you tell Ryusui firmly. “Why should I? I’d just be extra weight you don’t necessarily need me on board?”

“Yes we do,” He tries to argue. His hands becoming more animated. More desperate. “We always need another scientist on board. Especially someone who can help interfere if Why-man communicated again,”

That’s what finally made you stop. Your breaths turns into pained laughter. Laughter that echoes over the rushing waves and wind. Laughter that dies down after you realize he was serious.

“Interfere?” You question. “I can barely research him. I can barely understand what he was saying. You think I can interfere?”

“Of course you can,” Ryusui says. His eyes gazing up at you, yet the light makes them appear black and almost empty. “You can,”

“No I can’t,” you exclaim. Your throat hoarse from screaming. Your hands flipping up as you push yourself off the ledge. “Even if I could uncover everything about Why-man, I’d discover it too late. I’d discover it too slowly. I’d never be able to explain it to anyone.”

“Yes you would be able to,” Both of you are screaming now. The sharp rocking on the ship beneath you almost goes ignored. The wind is barely a presence between you both. “You’ve always been able to explain it!”

“To you Ryusui!” Your voice is breaking now. “Just because you were too stubborn to leave, I could tell you. But I can’t. I can’t tell anyone else I’m trying but I can’t! You’re the outlier!”

The final syllable echos around the deck as you both stare at each other. His blonde hair appearing dim now. His eyes black as he stares at you blankly. He shakes his head and sighs.

“I won’t stop you from leaving,” Ryusui says; turning back to the sea. Voice quiet now. His eyes gazing above. “It’s your choice if you want to go either way. But I did not pick you since I desired you to work in the lab,”

The rocking waves crash into the boat as you watch him look down at the sea. His hands clenching hard at the wood. His eyes shut as tight as they could. Before he breaths out his answer.

“I just desired you,”

You knew he desires you. You knew he loves you. You knew he is greedy for you. Yet, it feels different hearing him say it now. His voice was so soft. Not to console you, but himself.

His arms aren’t wrapped around you after all. They rest loosely beside him; offering him all the comfort he never got. Comfort he desires most of all.

“I don’t desire you as a scientist,” he breaths out. His voice shaky. “I desire you as a partner in life. I desire your silences. I desire your inability to speak. I desire your knowledge. I don’t even desire you any more,”

“I love you,” his voice is gone by then. His eyes staring back up at the sky. Even if his face is concealed from you, but you know how it looks.

The waves rocks the Perseus in a melancholic rhythm. The wind pushing you away. The starlight is nothing in comparison to the light of the ship and the village. The wood presses against your side uncomfortably; begging you to leave.

“I’m not looking, you can leave now,” Ryusui whispers out. His voice cracking like it did when you are younger. His hair flowing to the side softly as he waits.

Wait he did as you walk closer to him. Your shoulders touching as you both look at the sky now. Shimmering stars overhead as you both stand on the same rocking ship. Your breaths falling in beat as you stood in silence.

Your eyes scan the sky before it lands on one thing in particular. The moon. It is larger than usual. Brighter than usual. It is like staring at a friend who you haven’t seen in a while. You almost want to ask him how he’s been.

“The moon is beautiful isn’t it?” You whisper out. You both stare up at the moon. It’s reflected moonlight shining at you both.

“Yeah,” Ryusui whispers back to you. You look up at him for a moment. The tears on his face shining with the moonlight. “It’d hurt less if you just left you know?”

“Why would I?” You reply, your gaze staying on him. His eyelashes framing his beautiful brown eyes. “You haven’t finished showing me the ship. If I’m going around the world, I’d like to know my vessel,”

The smile that breaks onto his face is almost, childlike. A wide uncontrollable smile that creases his eyes. A smile that mimics the one he’d flash anytime you used to come over. A smile that made you heart ache. His face is radiant.

His laughter is almost contagious. He snaps his fingers as he stares at you. He wanted to say something, but he doesn’t.

Instead his arms wrap around you. His touch is warm. His hold is strong. His breath was warm as he held you. Too scared to let you attempt to leave him again.

“I love you,” Ryusui whispers once more as he holds you a little tighter. His fingers memorizing the shape of your back. “Thank you”

That’s when you let yourself cry. Crying for you could never imagine being held like this. Crying for you can never imagine hearing those words. Crying for you can never imagine being stopped from leaving.

Your arms wrap around him. Pulling him even closer. You are too scared of leaving him. You couldn’t leave him. How could you?

That is when you made your fourth and final mistake. The mistake that left you stuck with him forever. The mistake that left you hugging him like you are going to die otherwise.

Your fourth mistake is letting him love you.

You both finally pull apart after too many tears being shed. Your eyes both turn towards the moon once more. Your pinky fingers still intertwined as you both stood closer to the edge.

“Tonight’s a super moon isn’t it?” Ryusui says gently. You nod in agreement. “This is the biggest I’ve ever seen the moon,”

“I think this is the first one this year no?” You ask him. Receiving a nod from him as well. You smile softly at his starstruck expression. A soft pale pink spread on his face as his eyes glimmer in the moonlight. “Well then, we need to see the other moons to see if they get any bigger,”

Ryusui nods. Before long, your conversation flows back and forth between ships to the moon to the trip. Neither of you moving. Neither of you attempting to leave. Neither of you willing to remove your hands.

You’ve always hated Ryusui Nanami.

He is greedy. He is the embodiment of entitled. He desires the world. It is his confidence in his desires that always annoyed you.

He always is sure he’d get everything he wants. He is always so confident on the surface. Yet it annoys you that people hate him, not knowing how he looks when he cries for others. It annoyed you how he desired all of humanities pain and treasures. It annoys you how he desires everyone.

Yet, what annoys you the most was how he always got everything he desires. Including your love;

“I love you Ryusui,”

“I love you too,”

“Also why is there money in this world?”

“because I desired it!”

“What,”

“Haha!”

…. ————————————————————————

Taglist: open!!!

2018 | READER, AGE 25; NAOYA, AGE 27

“So, um, one of my students has become Sukuna’s vessel,” Satoru says casually to you one day over the phone. You blink once, looking down at your phone, then back up at the wall. Naoya gives you a questioning look from where he’s lounging on your couch. “I already made sure the higher-ups can’t execute him just yet, but I’m sure they're going to call a meeting with all of the big sorcerer families about it soon. I thought you should hear it from me first. Anyway—”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Satoru,” you hiss furiously. “What the hell do you mean one of your students is the vessel for the King of Curses?”

Naoya’s eyes widen slightly across the room, and he puts his phone down before pushing himself to his feet, making his way over to you. He leans in so that his ear is against the back of your phone, trying to eavesdrop on what Satoru is saying to you. You scowl at him, pressing your hand against his face and pushing him away, much to his distinct displeasure. 

“Well, I mean, I guess vessel is kind of a harsh word. They’re more like cohabiting the same body,” Satoru corrects, and like he can hear the disbelief just in the small puff of air you let out, he sighs. He continues, more seriously, “He ate one of Sukuna’s fingers to protect his friends and Megumi—which, before you yell at me, I agree, was extremely stupid, but it was also extremely brave.” He talks so casually that you can almost forget he’s talking about an ancient calamity wearing a teenager as a hoodie. “Mostly brave. I think I’m leaning more brave than stupid.”

“Satoru,” you say through gritted teeth. You exhale, trying to quell the panic that’s steadily rising in your chest as the weight of what he said to you starts to settle in. You knew something wasn’t right—knew it. You’ve had a bad feeling since the incident at the end of last year, but this— “Just, who is this boy?”

“The kid’s name is Itadori Yuji, fifteen years old. Physically gifted, absurd inclination for cursed energy, moral compass that’ll probably get him killed if I don’t interfere,” Satoru tells you. “The higher-ups want him dead. Immediately. Public execution wrapped up in a neat little bow, so no one has to think twice about it.”

“And what do you want?” you ask quietly, leaning against the wall and rubbing your hand against your face, suddenly very, very tired. 

“To keep him alive,” Satoru replies simply. “Long enough to eat all twenty fingers.”

Which means Satoru probably has at least one of the twenty hidden away somewhere no one could ever hope to find. He wouldn’t push for an alternative that still ended in the boy’s execution. You exhale, gaze shifting up to the ceiling. 

“You’re putting a lot on this kid, Satoru,” you say quietly.

“I know, but what am I supposed to do? Let the old bastards murder him?” Satoru asks quietly, sounding a bit tired himself. “Anyway, that’s why I’m gonna be staying right next to him. Like a very handsome, overpowered babysitter.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re an idiot,” you say. “I’ll come to the school to meet him before I attend the meeting.” You can see the smug smile on his face without even hearing him say anything. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

“Oh, I know,” he replies easily, “but you are agreeing to look. Still a win.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow. Unannounced. Don’t tell them.”

“Please do—the kids love surprises. Builds character.”

“And if I decide this is a terrible idea, Satory? That the risk is too high?” 

There’s a long pause on the other end. “Then you’ll say it to my face, and I’ll listen. Well, I’ll probably end up ignoring you, but I’ll listen at first, at least.”

You roll your eyes. “How generous.”

“I try,” Satoru answers, and you hang up the phone, turning to Naoya, who’s still disgruntled by the way you shoved him away.

“What the hell was that?” Naoya asks, and you stare at your phone a second longer than necessary before letting your arm drop to your side. “Hello?”

You let out a long exhale through your nose. “That,” you say slowly, already dreading the oncoming headache, “was Satoru informing me that the King of Curses is currently squatting inside a fifteen-year-old, and the higher-ups are going to be dragging us all to a meeting about it.”

Naoya stares at you. “And you’re… going to meet the vessel, instead of just letting it die?” he asks, voice a low drawl. “You know, I know you’re a woman, but you can’t seriously be this soft-hearted. We’re talking about Sukuna, the King of Curses, y’know?”

You give him a sharp look. “Watch it.”

“What?” he scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m not wrong. This ain’t some stray he found bleeding on the street. It’s the King of Curses wearing some kid like a skin.”

“I’m not arguing with you right now, Naoya,” you say flatly, shaking your head and turning away. “You—”

“There’s no argument at all. You’re not fuckin’ going to go talk to this kid, end of story,” Naoya says so firmly that it makes your eye twitch. “I’m serious.”

“You don’t get to order me around, Naoya,” you remind him, voice low. “Don’t piss me off right now, I already have a headache.”

“There’s no point,” he says dismissively, lips pinched. “You know damn well the clans ain’t gonna protect him. The moment Satoru-kun isn’t looking, they’re gonna push for an execution anyway. You’re gonna go there and talk to this thing, and it’s gonna be wearing the face of a kid, and you’re gonna get attached, and then you’re gonna be all upset when it’s inevitably killed. And I ain’t fuckin’ dealing with it, not when you knew better and went anyway.”

“It’s not your call to make.”

“No, but it’s going to be my fucking problem when this turns out exactly how we both know it’s going to.”

You scoff, looking away. “Fuck off,” you tell him. “You’d rather I sign off on the execution of a kid barely through junior high without even making an informed decision?” 

“Yeah,” Naoya answers immediately, no hesitation. “That’s exactly what I’d rather.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment, and Naoya’s expression is tight in a way that you haven’t seen in a while, with frustration and irritation. He really doesn’t want you to see this kid, you realize, exhaling through your nose.

“I’ve seen curses wear human faces before,” Naoya continues through gritted teeth, and your gaze shifts to the side because you know exactly what he’s talking about, even if he doesn’t know you know. “They cry and beg and pretend, but it always ends the same. You know this. This ain’t fuckin’ you. You’re not this stupid—you’ve never let sentiment get in the way of making the right call like this before. You know I’m right. Don’t go see this kid.”

You tell him quietly. “It’s not your call to make, Naoya.”

Naoya lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Whatever. Go then. Just don’t come cryin’ to me when the kid is axed, yeah?” 

————————

You meet Itadori Yuji the next day, alongside his two classmates: Nobara Kugisaki and Fushiguro Megumi. You’ve met Megumi plenty of times before through Satoru, but you can tell the boy is on edge this time, because you’re not here as someone who is friends with Satoru—you’re here as someone who will have a say in whether his friend lives or dies. His jaw is tight as you make your way over to the small group, and he greets you properly with an incline of his head, but you can see his fists are tight at his side. Nobara watches you like a hawk next to him, scrutinizing you with narrowed eyes and downturned lips. 

Itadori Yuji is nothing like you expect. He’s painfully ordinary at first glance—just a boy, broad-shouldered, tall for age, athletic. You don’t immediately sense Sukuna’s presence within him; only when you really focus do you feel the pressure of him beneath the surface, a predator lying in wait, amused by the illusion of normalcy. Yuji doesn’t look angry or sad or frustrated, like you expect. He looks too alive, too present, grinning easily as if he hasn’t already been condemned by people who have never bothered to learn his name. The contrast is nauseating. A boy who smells of sweat and summer air, housing something that treats blood as an art form, and a world that simply does not care to distinguish them as different.

Your headache returns with a vengeance.

(“Introduce yourself,” you say, arms folded over your chest as you stare at the boy.

Yuji straightens, pressing his fist to his chest. “My name is Itadori Yuji. I like karaoke and watching TV, and all kinds of food, but my favorite is noodles. And rice bowls. I hate science—and before you ask, my hair is naturally this color.”)

He is just a boy.

They are just children. 

(“Why the hell are you dating him?” Kugisaki demands, jutting her thumb in Satoru’s direction. Your eyes widen, partially at the audacity, and partially at the sheer idea. Also, because Naoya would have a fit if he knew Satoru’s students thought you were his girlfriend. “He sucks. You could do better. I hate seeing a woman waste her time.”

Your brain short-circuits for a half second, lips parting, but no words leave them. You lift your hands and wave them in front of you. “I—no—we are not—”

Satoru, naturally, chooses that moment to lean in, grin widening to an infuriating degree. “Wow,” he says, delighted. “Is that how it looks? Because I’m not against the rumor mill, per se—”

You drive your elbow back without looking; it lands solidly in his ribs. You repeat, “We are not dating, and Satoru should not be encouraging any rumors, because he knows I’ll be dealing with a very unhappy dog when I go back to Kyoto.”

Kugisaki tilts her head to the side suspiciously, and Megumi presses his face in his hands.

Yuji, on the other hand, lights up. “Oh! So you’re not dating Gojo-sensei?” he asks. “That’s good, I was worried for a second.”

“Why,” Satoru asks, wounded, “is everyone acting like that would be a tragedy?” 

“Because it would be,” Kugisaki and Megumi say in perfect unison.

Satoru gapes, and Yuji laughs, easy and unburdened, and the sound catches you off guard. A normal kid, you think again—he sounds like a normal kid. A kid who should be arguing about movies or food, not facing a death sentence. 

“So, who’s the unhappy dog?” Kugisaki asks with a grin, leaning forward. “You are dating someone then?”

“If you think I’m bad,” Satoru cuts in again with a snort, “you should see the guy she actually puts up with. Real charmer. Big personality. Loves tradition a little too much. Megumi-chan has met him, actually. Tell them about Zenin Naoya later, would you? Then maybe you’ll all stop acting like I’m the worst catch.”

Kugisaki and Yuji immediately start hounding Megumi for information, and your smile starts to drop once their attention is off you. You feel Satoru’s gaze heavy on you, even behind the blindfold, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.)

They are just children.

He is just a boy.

The thought follows you as you leave, as you let Satoru keep talking, as Kugisaki’s voice fades into the background and Megumi’s wary attention lifts from your back. Yuji calls after you, shouting goodbye when he realizes you’re leaving, and there’s an ache in your chest that you can’t push away. 

He is just a boy. 

They are just children.

When the higher-ups call for a meeting with representatives from all of the major clans, Naobito sends Naoya to attend in his place. It’s on purpose, you bet, because although the man has stopped with the open meddling and trying to ruin your relationship with his son, he’ll still take any chance to drive a wedge between the two of you. When the higher-ups ask to hear opinions from the sorcerer families, the Zenins—Naoya—is the first to speak, expression bored, voice a low drawl: 

Just kill it and be done with it. This shouldn’t even be a conversation. You’re wasting my time. 

The meeting goes exactly how you and Satoru expect it to go. You stay silent for most of it, letting Satoru do the dirty work of essentially telling the rest of Jujutsu society to fuck off and try him, if they think they can take him in a fight. Still, you make your position clear, because although your eyes are closed and you’re leaning back against the wall, silent, face turned down, you’re still standing next to Satoru, and not Naoya.

Naoya doesn’t come back to your estate after the meeting. You don’t really expect him to, because he scoffs at you and raises his chin as he leaves the room, hardly sparing you more than a glance. Satoru grimaces and makes a comment about a lover’s spat, but you only roll your eyes and keep your gaze lowered, a heavy feeling in your heart because—

Because Naoya is right. 

You know how this is going to end, but you went ahead and did this anyway. You’ve lived long enough in this world to understand its patterns, to recognize when fate has already chosen its shape and is simply waiting for everyone else to catch up. Children who carry curses do not get happy endings, not in a society built on blood and duty—you don’t need Naoya to tell you this. And you think, maybe, if it were anyone other than Satoru who asked you to meet him, to see the boy walking up the thirteen steps to the gallows before the knot is tied, you would’ve turned your back and let it happen, because why the hell would you put yourself through that?

But it wasn’t anyone else; it was Satoru, who stood before the higher-ups and argued on your behalf, similarly to how he does for Yuji now. Satoru, who didn’t let you sink when you lost Naoya for three years after the engagement fell apart ten years ago. Satoru, who stayed with you in the aftermath of you losing your family, forcibly kept you afloat when Naoya was sent away, and you were trying to drown. Satoru knows just how awful this world is, and he still chooses to defy it anyway—and you know he doesn’t expect anyone to stand with him, not even you, not really, but you also know what it costs him to stand alone in rooms like that, and how are you supposed to do that when he’s only ever stood at your side when you needed it?

You think that’s what pisses off Naoya the most.

You don’t mean for it to come across that way—that you’re choosing Satoru over him, because you’re not. When it comes down to it, it is Naoya, who you will always come home to. Naoya, who you always seek out. Naoya, who you see a future with and cannot see a future without. Naoya, who you need if you want to keep walking forward in this shitty world. 

It is Naoya—it’s always Naoya, it has always been Naoya and it always will be him—and you think he knows that, deep down, but he is terribly prone to anger and jealousy, so he doesn’t take this slight well. 

He doesn’t avoid you for too long. By the time Saturday comes along, he finally decides to answer your messages, quite crudely telling you to come over because “he’s sick of fucking his own fist.” You don’t dignify his text with a response, but you do make your way to the Zenin estate. You don’t apologize, and he doesn’t either—you don’t need to, you both understand what the other doesn’t say the moment your eyes meet.

(“Y’know you’re makin’ a mistake,” he murmurs, one arm draped around you as you settle into his lap. For all of his vulgarity, the only thing he seems intent on doing once you arrive at the Zenin estate is keeping you close, so you sink into him, eyes sliding shut as you rest your head against his shoulder. “Y’don’t need me tellin’ ya this.”

“I know,” you reply quietly. “So don’t.”

Naoya exhales hard through his nose, fingers tightening on your hip. “Whatever,” he mutters. “I don’t even know why I try, ya stubborn bitch. You piss me off so bad.” You smile, ghosting your lips against his jaw, down his neck. He clicks his tongue sharply, disapproving, even as he tilts his head to the side to give you better access. “Actin’ like a cockwhore when I’m pissed at ya as if it’s gonna change anything. I’m not in the mood. So fuckin’ irritating, don’t know why I put up with this shit.”

“You’re hard.”

“Shut the hell up!”)

Itadori Yuji dies, and despite Naoya’s insistence about how you better not come to him crying when he inevitably does, he lets you spend the night tucked under his arm, and doesn’t gloat or make any snide comments about how he told you this was going to happen. You don’t mourn, and you don’t cry—not really—you only knew him for a few weeks, the several Fridays you came down to Tokyo to train the new first years. But he was kind, and he was only a boy, and Satoru cared about him, so there’s a heaviness in your chest that you can’t easily push away.

Then he resurrects, and Naoya loses his mind. You think it’s less because he wanted the kid dead, and more because death would’ve ended it. Death would’ve been final, a wound that could scar over. He was there for you when you thought it was done, even though he told you he wouldn’t be, and now, it’s going to happen all over again. 

And then, as though things can’t get worse, hell breaks loose at the Kyoto Sister School Goodwill event when a curtain drops over Tokyo High, and special grade spirit and a bunch of curse users attack the students. 

You don’t like it—you don’t like any of it, and as the days pass, and Halloween approaches, the pit in your stomach only seems to get deeper.

————————

“You been actin’ weird for almost a month,” Naoya murmurs, and your eyes slide shut as he presses his lips to yours again, a long, lingering kiss that makes your chest warm. “What’s up your ass, hm?”

“It never fails to astound me how eloquent you are, Naoya,” you sigh, lashes fluttering as he rolls your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down slightly at the veiled insult. When he pulls back, you lean up to kiss him again, humming into his mouth when one arm slides beneath your back to pull your body closer to him. “I just have a bad feeling, that’s all.”

“Still?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, pulling back slightly to look at you. “How many times do I gotta tell you we’re gonna be fine? You’re gonna give yourself grays—what’s it you said back then? How ya don’t want me graying for our wedding portrait? Well—”

Naoya lets out an oof when you use your leg as leverage to flip the two of you over. He looks far too smug, leaning up on his elbows as he stares up at you, gaze dragging down your body. He lifts his hand to trail his fingers from your jaw to your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts, down your abdomen, before they linger on your pelvis.

“Like seein’ ya all marked up like this,” he says, too satisfied with himself. “I should take a picture, make it my background on my phone.” 

“No,” you say, before his gaze can even flick over to where his phone is lying haphazardly on the tatami mats a few feet away. He scowls. “You leave your phone around too much. You really want to chance Ogi getting a glimpse of it?”

He frowns at the thought. “Old fuck. Can’t get his wife to spread her legs for him anymore, probably’d get off to seeing ya,” he mutters disdainfully. Then he compromises, “I’ll make it my home screen, not lock screen.”

“Everyone and their mother knows your passcode is your birthday, Naoya,” you say dryly, leaning down to ghost your lips against his before he can get annoyed. He lets out a pleased hum against your lips, hands settling on your waist, thumbs pressing into your sides as you swipe your tongue against his bottom lip. He lets out a low groan when you suck it gently into your mouth, grip tightening on your body.

“Yeah? You go snoopin’ through my phone when I leave it around, ya crazy bitch?” he asks, lip curling up into a too-satisfied smile. Leave it to him to get smug instead of offended at the idea of you snooping through his shit.

You hum in agreement, dragging open-mouthed kisses down his throat, relishing in the way his breath hitches. “Installed a tracking app too. Your Reddit posts are riveting, by the way,” you tell him, smiling against his skin as he immediately tenses. “‘Is it normal to want my girl t—’”

You yelp when you feel him shove his hand over your mouth, effectively shutting you up. He flips the two of you over so that he’s hovering on top of you, face flushed and ears burning. He mutters, “Shut the hell up,” before moving his hand away, hardly looking you in the eye.

“It is, by the way,” you add, because you can’t help yourself. “We can try it, if you—”

“Enough,” he complains.

You laugh loudly, genuinely, despite the terrible feeling that’s been haunting you for months, because it’s always easy to laugh with Naoya. Your hand flies to your mouth to smother your giggles, but you only set yourself off into another fit when you see that Naoya is half-hiding his face in one of his hands. Your vision swims with tears, coughing as you try to calm yourself down.

By the time you settle down, Naoya is looking at you with an unusually mellow expression, gold eyes tracing your face, lips curved up only faintly. You blink up at him and ask, “What is it?”

“I got ya something,” he tells you after a moment, throat bobbing, gaze flicking somewhere off to the side.

“Oh yeah? You keep buying me things unprompted. I feel so special,” you tease, but you’re curious when you see his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. “What did you get me?”

His brows furrow as he reaches beneath his futon for something he must’ve hidden there. He talks as he rifles around. 

“My family don’t really do shit like this,” he starts to say. “I mean, y’know how engagements go. But I know you and your brother spent a couple years in the west, and part of your mom’s family was from out there, too. And ya kept putting on those shitty western romcoms that always ended with one of those gaudy proposals, and I don’t know if that was your way of trying to clue me in or what—” Your brows furrow in confusion, not sure what he’s going on about, but you don’t interrupt because he seems to be on some sort of practiced spiel. “—and I ain’t gonna do somethin’ gaudy and embarrassing like that, but I don’t mind the idea of you walkin’ around with somethin’ on your finger so people know you’re taken.”

Oh, you think, lips parting as you start to realize where his ramblings are going. You hardly breathe as you stare up at him, when you see in his hand a glittering ring. Not overly garish, but pretty enough that it would catch a person’s eye easily. Something you could wear on missions without having to worry about it getting in the way, something very… you.

“So, you want it or not?” Naoya asks brusquely, still hardly looking at you. “It cost a pretty fuckin’ penny, so if ya don’t want it, I’m returning it.”

You snort, but your eyes are a bit misty. “You’re an idiot,” you murmur fondly. “Of course I want it.”

Naoya exhales through his nose, tension easing from his shoulders, and he reaches for your left hand, thumb grazing over your knuckles before he slides the ring onto your fourth finger. He stares down at it for a moment, and you stare up at him, watching the way his lips tighten and his throat bobs. 

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he scoffs after a moment—obligatory. 

“I would never,” you say with an easy smile, and then you lift your hands to cradle his face between your palms. 

His lashes flutter shut as he leans into your touch, and you let out a soft puff of air. You want to say something, but you can’t find the words to articulate how you feel right now, and you think he understands from the way his eyes slide back open to meet yours. 

So instead, you lean up and press your lips against his again, and again, and again, until his body is flush against yours, hips slotted between your thighs, and arms wrapped tight around your body.

Being with him like this—in his arms, his bed, a new weight resting on your finger and a familiar one pressed on top of you, it’s easy to believe him when he says the two of you will be fine. 

————————

OCTOBER 31, 2018

At 7:00 PM on Halloween, a curtain with a four-hundred-meter radius is cast over Shibuya. You are at your clan’s estate in Kyoto when it happens, and Naoya is in Hokkaido meeting with the higher-ups on his father’s behalf. You and Naobito go to Tokyo together when Tokyo High calls for reinforcements, and there is a sick feeling in your stomach the whole trip there. Naobito offers you sake to settle your nerves, and you almost throw it in his face, because neither of you should be drinking when you have no idea what’s happening in Shibuya. 

You call Satoru before he goes into the curtain, and even though he tells you not to bother coming because he’ll have it handled before the two of you even get to the city, you can’t push away the way your stomach churns.

(“Just be careful, Satoru. Don’t let your guard down.”

“Who are you even talking to right now?”)

It doesn’t take long for news to reach Hokkaido. You’re sure that the higher-ups were made aware the moment that the curtain dropped, but Naoya, clearly, was not prioritized, because by the time he’s been told what’s happening, you’re already outside the barrier with Shoko.

(“Do not go anywhere near that barrier,” Naoya says before you’ve even brought your phone to your ears.

You stare at the barrier a few feet in front of you. “It’s a little too late for that.”

Shoko stands at your side, cigarette a nub between her fingers before she flicks it off to the side. She tells you, “I’m going to head back to the expressway. You fine on your own?”

“On your own?” Naoya hisses furiously. “Where is my father? Isn’t he in Shibuya too? Why aren’t you with him?”

You give Shoko a dirty look, but she only winks at you before waving lazily over her shoulder. You exhale, leaning against the wall behind you. “Your father is leading a different team. They’ve already gone in. The Kyoto students are meeting me here, and then we’re going into the veil. The transfigured humans have started butchering civilians, and Satoru hasn’t been in contact, I—”

“You think I give a damn about any of them?” Naoya asks with a scoff. “You only just came back from mandatory leave after what happened in Kyoto last year. You’re not cleared for this. You have no business throwing yourself into another disaster.”

Your eye twitches. “I’m cleared enough, and I’m already here.”

You hear Naoya let out a sharp breath on the opposite line, riddled with something caught between panic and fear that he’s probably desperately trying to suppress. You can see the way his lips are probably pinched, eyes teeming with frustration as he rubs at his lower face. “If you go in there—” he starts to say and cuts himself off. “If something happens to you—”

You can’t deal with this right now.

“I gotta go, Naoya,” you say when you see the Kyoto second and third year students round the corner—well, all of them except Todo Aoi, apparently. Your lips curve into a slight frown. Why does that boy always have to be so difficult?

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ hang up on me—”

“How about you go be a proper house husband, take the next flight back, so you can have dinner and a bath ready for me after I finish killing all the big, bad curses, yeah?” 

“This isn’t a fucking joke—”

You hang up as the kids come to a stop in front of you. You greet pleasantly, “Mai-chan,” and then less pleasantly, “Kamo.” You don’t remember the rest of their names, so you ask instead, “Where’s Utahime?” 

“She stopped at the expressway to speak to Yaga-san. She’ll be joining as soon as she’s able to,” Noritoshi explains. “We’re prepared to do what we can in the meantime.”

“Alright,” you tell them. Then tell them the same thing you told the Tokyo second years at Kyoto last year: “I’m not going to be babysitting you. Stick together, and stay in this general area if you can. If you get in trouble, run. We’re sorcerers, not heroes.”

You look down at your phone as Naoya calls you again, exhaling before you decline the call and shove your phone into your pocket, stepping into the veil.)

You don’t plan to use your technique the way you did in Kyoto when you enter the veil, because you can’t risk being put out of commission again. The Kyoto students dart off to engage the transfigured humans attacking civilians in the streets, and you’re left staring at the chaos alone. Screams are coming from every direction, the wet cracks of bodies breaking, and the scent of blood is so thick that it makes you nauseous—Satoru would never let it get to this point, not if he were here.

Something happened to him. You know it.

The thought feels sacrilegious almost because Satoru is Satoru. Gojo Satoru, the strongest, self-proclaimed honored one—he’s the last person you would ever expect to get caught up in a bad situation like this. He wouldn’t get himself hurt, or worse, k—you don’t even finish that thought. But you know Satoru, and he’s not some omnipotent god, he’s just a man, and this was clearly a trap for him if what you heard about all of the civilians saying his name and asking for him was true, so if something tricked him—

You send yourself into a spiral, and to put your nerves at ease, you tell yourself that you will only activate your maximum technique for a second, just enough to orient and pinpoint him, just to make sure he’s okay, and to stop you from spooking yourself. You anchor yourself in the center of the street, and you lift your right hand, pointer finger brushing your forehead and thumb resting on your lip, and the world detonates. 

Cursed energy floods your senses all at once, a violent, blinding surge that makes you stagger as Shibuya peels itself open for you. The streets, buildings, and underground flatten into a board all around you, every square is occupied by something—you’ve never felt so much cursed energy in one place before. Your skull is screaming before you even fully extend your technique. 

This isn’t a battlefield so much as it is a slaughterhouse, and you know where the most serious threats are, and you know where civilians are clustering, but you don’t know where Satoru is.  

You don’t know where Satoru is.

Your nose starts bleeding before five minutes have passed, desperately searching even though you know you should’ve pinpointed him by now—he has always been a landmark in chaos, so overwhelming that it’s impossible to miss. But you can’t, he’s not here, and—and you can feel something faint, something familiar coming from the direction of Shibuya Station, but it can’t be him, it’s too weak, too still, too contained, not Satoru as you know him. 

Something happened to him. You don’t—

(A hand on your shoulder draws you out of your technique. Kamo Noritoshi stands above you, lips curved down into a frown; you brush off his hand immediately. You didn’t even realize that you’d dropped to your knees. You wipe away the blood on your face and stand.

His lips part, then press together, and then he asks, “Should we bring you to Shoko-san?”

“No,” you say. “I’m going in further. To Shibuya Station. You’ll be okay watching over them?” 

Noritoshi nods once, brows furrowing slightly. He says firmly, “Be careful.”

You think that there’s some irony that you’re here, standing with a Kamo of all people, as the world falls into chaos around you, and the smile that curls to your lips is bitter as you shake your head. Noritoshi falters slightly when he sees your reaction. He’s a child, you remind yourself—the sin of the parents is not the sin of the child, so all you say is, “You too,” before you make your way to the center of the veil.)

————————

Shibuya is hell. 

Hell doesn’t even do it justice, really. Bodies are everywhere, too many, everywhere you look, twisted in ways that make your stomach churn. You wonder, absently, if this is what your estate looked like before the Zenins got there to clean up, if this is what you would’ve seen of your father, brothers, and the rest of your clan if you’d arrived before them. Civilians lie where they fell, some half melted into the ground, others collapsed in clusters like they tried to shield each other and failed. Sorcerers are scattered among them, bloodied uniforms unmistakable even when their bodies are broken past recognition.

You try not to look too long.

You can’t look too long.

You don’t stop to help. Sometimes, you divert just long enough to pull someone out of a curse’s path, to kill a transfigured human before it finishes tearing someone apart, to shove a screaming civilian toward an escape route that may or may not still exist, but you don’t stop. Because you are selfish, and if you had to choose between innocent civilians and the people you love, you would choose the people you love every time.

So, you leave countless people to die as you run toward Shibuya Station.

By the time you get there, your limbs feel heavy, and there is bile in the back of your throat. You wonder how many screams have silenced since you passed by, how many people died so that you could selfishly figure out what happened to Satoru.

The putrid scent of burnt flesh floods your nostrils before you can figure out where it’s coming from, and you almost don’t even recognize Naobito when you turn a corner and see a charred corpse on the ground. He’s burned so badly that for a second, your brain refuses to name what you’re looking at as a person, let alone someone you’ve known for twenty years. His clothes are fused into charred flesh, and his arm is missing—somehow, he is still breathing. 

You think that you should leave him there.

You stare down at him. His eyes are open, glassy and unfocused, and you don’t know if he’s seeing you, if he knows what’s going on, or if his body just hasn’t realized it’s finished yet. His mouth moves slightly, a wet, broken sound escaping him that might be a breath or might be a word. 

You could do it. You could just walk away.

You remember the way Naoya would stiffen as a kid whenever Naobito’s voice carried through the estate. You remember the bruises and the wounds that would litter his body whenever he came out of the disciplinary pit. You remember how he would mock you when he was drunk, and you were a child, and you had to stand there and smile through it or risk bringing shame to your father. You remember how he humiliated you by trying to arrange for Naoya to marry another woman right in front of you.

You need to find whatever that familiar energy was, anyway. 

You need to figure out what happened to Satoru.

You should just go.

But he is also the man who stepped in when your family was wiped out, and you know that it wasn’t out of kindness, but he opened his doors anyway. He made sure you could fill your father’s shoes without drowning in the politics of a world and future you were never prepared for. He is—probably—the only reason why you’ve made it this far after the massacre. What type of karma would await you if you walk away from him now after everything he did for you?

Fuck. 

Your jaw tightens, bile burning in the back of your throat. 

Fuck.

“Fuck you, you old bastard,” you say through your teeth, and you crouch despite yourself. 

Your hands hover for a second before you force them to move, assessing injuries you already know are catastrophic. The burns are too extensive, and his cursed energy is unstable. He should not be alive, and you don’t know if saving him is possible, but you’re not even sure you want to anyway. 

Either way, you can’t bring yourself to walk away.

Frustrated, you look back in the direction of where you thought you felt something familiar, and your chest tightens as you look back down at Naobito. You don’t have fucking time for him—you don’t know what’s happening, don’t know what the situation is. Maki and Kugisaki are supposed to be with him, too, but you don’t see either of them anywhere. 

Fuck.

“I hope this fucking hurts.”

————————

Satoru is gone. 

The King of Curses was unleashed. 

Shibuya is a crater, and anyone left in the city is likely dead.

You sit at the expressway, back to the wall, as people rush around you, trying to do whatever they can to save whoever they can. Megumi, Kugisaki, and Maki are here too, evidently having been brought before you arrived with Naobito. Megumi is unconscious, but alive. Maki is bandaged and burned almost as badly as Naobito, but she’s breathing, if only barely. Shoko thinks that she’ll pull through—she’s always been stronger and more stubborn than everyone else around her, you think fondly. Kugisaki, on the other hand—well, you don’t know what happened to her, and Shoko isn’t sure if she’s going to make it. She wasn’t breathing when she was brought to her.

Satoru is sealed. Satoru is gone. Satoru is—

You bury your face in your hands. 

Fuck.

“Is it true, girl?” Naobito rasps from next to you. He is dying—there’s nothing more that Shoko can do for him—but he is not dying fast enough for your liking. “Is Gojo Satoru incapacitated? Sealed away?”

You almost bare your teeth at him, because what right does he have to ask about Satoru? What right does he have to say his name in that tone? What right does he have to sound so dismissive over what happened to him? How dare he? How dare he? Rage eats away at grief as you glare at him. 

“Don’t look at me like that, girl. Answer the question.”

Fuck.

Your eyes slide shut as you will yourself the patience not to expedite the man’s imminent death. You mutter, “Fuck off. Why’s it taking you so long to die?”

Naobito barks out a harsh laugh that he certainly shouldn’t have the strength to let out. You roll your eyes. “Almost there, girl,” he tells you, voice rough as he stares up at the ceiling. He’s sprawled beside you on the concrete, chest hitching unevenly, breath rattling, burned to the bone, and he still finds the energy to sneer. “Bet you’re thrilled, aren’t you? I’ll finally be out of your way.”

You don’t answer him, staring down at the concrete, jaw tight, listening to the wet, broken sound of his breathing. 

Satoru is gone. 

Satoru, who you’ve known for fifteen years, since the two of you were stupid kids lounging in the inner courtyard of the Zenin estate. Satoru, who handed you back your future at fifteen when your father was going to marry you off to the next best suitor. Satoru, who grabbed your hand and dragged you along with him during the three years you and Naoya weren’t speaking, refusing to let you drown. Satoru, who collected an exorbitant amount of Tamagotchi and would light up whenever you brought him a new one. Satoru, who let you be yourself when so many people around you wanted to change. Satoru, who found you safe enough to actually be himself with you—not the strongest, not Gojo, just Satoru. 

Satoru is gone. Satoru is—

Naobito keeps speaking, and you just want him to stop.

“No more old man meddling. No more obstacles. Must feel like freedom, hm?” His lips twitch. “You and my son can ruin each other freely, at last.” Naobito chuckles, though it turns into a cough halfway through. He sighs. “I suppose you’ve won. I’ll be dead soon enough.”

“Can’t you die silently?” you ask through gritted teeth. 

All of his stupid Tamagotchi are going to die, you realize numbly. He has so many of them, how the hell are you supposed to take care of all of them? You want to cry. Satoru is—

“Hope you’ll be enough for him now,” he adds, letting out a long, scratchy exhale. “He’s going to need someone.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, stomach dropping as you finally force yourself to look at him. Naobito’s eyes flick sideways, just barely, toward the mat where Megumi is still unconscious. “Why are you looking at Megumi-chan? What are you talking about?” 

“Gojo Satoru is incapacitated,” Naobito says, wetting his lips as his eyes begin to droop again. “The contract I made with that wayward nephew of mine will be upheld. Toji’s boy will become the twenty-seventh Zenin clan head. Funny how things work out, right?” 

What?

Your ears are ringing, lips parted as you stare at Naobito, half in disbelief, half in shock. You’re almost waiting for him to laugh, to tell you it’s some sick joke, another drunken rambling, a cruelty meant to provoke reaction before he laughs and waves it away. But his eyes are slipping, lids heavy, breath uneven and shallow. There’s no room left in him for theatrics.

“What? How—How could you do that to him?” you breathe out, staring at the man as though he’ll answer, even though he’s slipped back into oblivion. “How could you—he’s spent his whole life—he’s—he’ll never—”

You think you’re having a panic attack. 

You haven’t had one in years—not since the aftermath of losing your clan—but everything starts to hit you all at once, and you can’t seem to breathe. Satoru is gone, one of his kids is dead, Satoru is gone, another will have his death sentence reinstated soon, Satoru is gone, and Naoya—you’re going to lose Naoya, too.

You’re going to fucking lose Naoya.

You know it. You know it. You know it the same way you’ve known something bad was coming for months—you feel it in your bones, in your heart, in your soul. You’re going to lose him. You lost Satoru, and you’re going to lose Naoya. You press your hands into your eyes hard, desperately trying to calm yourself down as your breath comes too quickly and too shallow. Naoya—he’s centered everything, his entire existence, around being the next clan head. You’ve known this for years, you’ve known it since the moment you met him—it was the first understanding you ever came to about him, how everything began and now it’s how everything will end.

Because losing it—losing it—it’ll destroy him. It’ll destroy everything. It will hollow him out, leave nothing behind besides rage and denial. He’ll destroy himself, and he’ll destroy you; he’ll drag the entire Zenin clan, the whole world, down with him if that’s what it takes to prove that this was a mistake, to take back what’s rightfully his. He’s sacrificed too much for anything else. This will destroy him.

You’re going to lose him, you think again, you’re really going to fucking lose him. 

Naobito is a cunt—hope you’ll be enough for him, he said, but you’ll never be enough for him, not after losing this. He knows that, you know that. Naoya will never wake up one day and decide it’s okay. He’ll never decide a life with you is enough to make up for what was taken from him. He will never look at you and say, I choose this instead—and if he isn’t able to get back what he was promised, he’ll die trying. He’ll spiral. He’ll find someone to blame. He’ll try to claw the title back through sheer force of will, and when that fails, he’ll turn to violence without hesitation, without mercy. And if he cannot take it back, he will die trying. There is no world where Naoya will survive having something like this taken from him; no future with you will change that. There is no coming back from this.

And Megumi—you can’t just sit back and let Naoya go after Megumi. Not one of Satoru’s kids, especially not now that Satoru is gone. You doubt he even knows—he hates this part of the Jujutsu world, hates the Zenin name. He would never want this anyway, but Naoya will see him as a thief, as the reason why everything was ripped away from him, as proof that everything he worked for was for nothing. He will kill him to take back what’s rightfully his. You know Naoya well enough to know this much.

And if you try to stop him, he will never forgive you for getting in his way.

Naoya will never choose you over his birthright. You’ve known it for a long, long time, but you thought you were past ever needing to worry about this. You just can’t compete with a loss like this. 

Holy fuck, you think. You squeeze your eyes shut harder, vision flashing white. You taste bile in your throat. You’re going to throw up. Fuck you, you think again, cursing Naobito. You should’ve just left him to die there to rot. Only he would use his last few moments of strength to get one final cruelty in. You lost Satoru, and now you’re going to lose Naoya.

How the hell are you supposed to go back to Kyoto and look Naoya in the eye after this? 

What the hell are you supposed to do?

————————

Tokyo is all but destroyed following the events of Halloween. You return to Kyoto the next morning with a dying Naobito, having to spend hours explaining to Ogi, Jinichi, and the Zenin clan elders exactly what happened in Shibuya. You don’t even have the energy to give them attitude about how they have no right ordering you around, dully explaining that Satoru has been sealed, the King of Curses was unleashed in the city, and what wasn’t annihilated during the incident is being destroyed by the millions of cursed spirits that “Geto Suguru” apparently unleashed onto the city.

Luckily, you manage to get away from the Zenin estate before Naoya returns from Hokkaido. 

Unluckily, he decides to come right to you when he realizes you aren’t there.

(“What the hell? I figured you’d be waiting back at the estate. What happened?” Naoya demands as he enters your office. You can’t even lift your gaze to look at him. Naobito’s words echo through your head. You should tell him. He should know before he finds out at the will-reading. You should—Naoya gets fed up with you staring down at your desk, stepping around it to stand next to where you’re sitting, grabbing your chin between his fingers, and forcing you to look at him. “What happened? Those asshole wouldn’t tell me shit when I asked.”

“Your father is dying,” you tell him after a moment instead. “Doesn’t have more than a day or two left in him.”

“Good riddance,” Naoya scoffs, leaning on your desk, but his expression is all twisted as he looks away from you to the ground. He adds quietly, “It’s about fuckin’ time anyway.”

“You should probably be back at the estate,” you tell him after a moment, voice too rough for your liking. Naoya’s gaze snaps over to you, narrowed and suspicious. “You should be there when it happens, you’ll have to—”

“The hell? Are you sending me away?” Naoya asks, offended. “My father's dying, and you’re sending me away?”

“Don’t act like you care about Naobito,” you mutter spitefully.

“I don't give a damn about him, but it’s the principle!" Naoya snaps, glaring at you. “What’s up your ass, huh?”

You should tell him. 

He should hear it from you—not at the will reading, not from a stranger, not in front of Ogi and Jinichi and whoever else is there to listen. Your gaze lifts to look up at him again, lips parting, and you watch as his brows furrow, studying your face when he realizes something is wrong. Just as you’re about to force it out: it’s not going to be you, Naoya, your father screwed you over. 

Naoya bristles when his phone starts buzzing.  He looks down at it, scowling, and you lose your bravado. 

You lost Satoru, and you’re going to lose Naoya. 

Maybe you’re wrong; you try to rationalize it because you cannot lose them both. There’s no world where you survive losing them both in one fell swoop. Maybe Naobito only said this to you so you would say something to him. He knows as well as you do that Naoya would lose his mind after hearing this, and maybe he wanted to try to put one last rift between the two of you before he croaked. He’s spiteful enough to use the last of his energy for it.

Fuck.)

Naobito stubbornly clings to life following the Shibuya Incident. Naoya is busy at the Zenin estate during that time, and you’re busy at yours, dealing with the fallout. Satoru is gone, and Jujutsu Headquarters has turned against him. The notice they sent out—the one claiming that Satoru was an accomplice in the Shibuya Incident, forbidding anyone from trying to unseal him with the threat of criminal penalties—sits right on your desk, glaring at you every time you sit down to get some work done.

You consider killing the higher-ups. 

You could do it, probably. They’re all old and slow—most of them haven’t seen combat in decades. You could do it. You should do it. What right do they have to turn on Satoru after everything he’s done? Satoru is why the curses have been held at bay for so long. Satoru is the one who protects everyone. And the moment something happens to him, everyone turns their back on him? It’s sickening. You think that they deserve to die. You think you should kill them.

But you don’t—if only because you’re scared to leave your estate when Naobito is still alive, because any day he could die and everything can go to shit. 

A part of you is glad that Naoya is too busy to come over. 

He’s been blowing up your phone, aggravated as he deals with his cousins and uncles and prepares for succession, and you only respond sporadically, short, clipped replies that say nothing of substance, and you think it probably pisses him off more. He tells you to come over, and you tell him that you can’t. He complains and calls you a bitch, and you can’t respond because you can’t bring yourself to act normally with him, not knowing what you know.

It keeps crossing your mind—that you should tell him, that he should hear it from you, that you shouldn’t let him be blindsided—but every time you start to work up the nerve, you end up talking yourself out of it. 

What if you’re wrong? What if Naobito only said this to drive one last wedge between the two of you? What if, what if, what if—

That’s how it goes for the next several days until Zenin Naobito finally kicks the bucket.

(“Where is she?” you hear Naoya shout from outside of your clan’s estate. Your heart sinks. “Where the hell is she? Bring her out here now!” 

You lost Satoru. You’re about to lose Naoya, too.

Your attendant, standing at the gates with a nervous expression on her face, looks back at you with wide eyes, and you wave her off, telling her to go inside quietly before you pull open the gate to come face-to-face with a raging Naoya. You don’t even get the chance to say something before his fingers are curled around your jacket, and your back is pressed against the wall.

“You knew,” he accuses, voice low and venomous as he glares at you, gold eyes sharp with fury, denial—worse, betrayal. “You fucking knew. That’s why you’ve been acting so weird the last few days. Ya fuckin’ knew my father lined up that snivveling brat Megumi.”

You don’t respond—you can’t. Your throat locks up, words piling uselessly behind your teeth as you stare at him. He’s shaking, not much, not enough that anyone else would notice, but you do. You always do. His grip on your shirt is too tight, his knuckles white, and his teeth grind together terribly.

The silence is answer enough.

Naoya’s breath stutters, half a laugh, half a scoff. You wonder if he was hoping you’d tell him he’s being stupid—of course, you didn’t know, of course, you would’ve told him. “You’re not even gonna fuckin’ deny it. You knew. You fuckin’ knew, and you let me go around thinking—”

“I didn’t know for sure,” you finally force out. You hate that your voice shakes. “He was half delirious when he said it, dying, I thought maybe—”

You’re going to lose Naoya.

“Bullshit,” Naoya roars, fist slamming into the wall by your head. You don’t flinch, but he stares at the hole he made, how close it was to your head, with a twisted expression before he forces himself away from you. “Fuckin’ bullshit. You think I don’t know when you’re lying to me? How are you gonna stand here and lie to my face even now?”

You and Naoya have never apologized to one another before. You always know without having to say a word, just with a single glance, and yet now, you let out a wavering breath, the words on the tip of your tongue, because this is it. You knew it. You knew what would happen when he found out, and it should’ve been from you. It should’ve—

“I didn’t know how to,” you tell him, reaching out to grab his wrist. He tries to break free and turn away from you, but you tug him toward you. “How the fuck was I supposed to say, ‘Hey, Naoya, everything you’ve worked for since you were a kid just got handed to someone who doesn’t even want it?’ I tried, I didn’t—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts, ripping his wrist from your hand. “I don’t fuckin’ care how you were supposed to say it. You should’ve just told me. You let me plan. You let me talk about what I was gonna do once it was official. You let me think—” His voice breaks, just barely, and he swallows hard before forcing it back into something harsh and cutting. “You let me think this was finally it. You should’ve told me. Not them, not at some fuckin’ will-reading where that loser Ogi and Jinichi could see me standing there like an idiot.”

You’re going to lose Naoya.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe out, reaching for him again, but he takes a step away, shaking his head. “Naoya—

“You have no idea what he put me through for this,” he breathes out. “You have no—”

His voice cuts off, and he steps away with another laugh, pressing his hand over his mouth as he tries to calm himself down.

“I do—”

“No, you don’t,” he interrupts, voice loud, echoing through your ears. Your eyes slide shut. “You don’t, because if ya did, you wouldn’t be here lookin’ at me like that—like I already fuckin’ lost.”

“Naoya—” you say, voice wavering, and his expression shifts, tightening, something wounded crossing his eyes, flashing hot and fast behind the anger.

You’re going to lose Naoya.

“So that’s it, huh,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t give a damn. Just expect me to accept it.”

“That’s not—”

“You really think I’m just gonna take it?” he continues over you, voice rising. “That I’m gonna roll over and let that brat walk in and take what’s mine?”

“Naoya, just—”

“I earned it,” he spits. “Every bruise, every time I stood there and let him humiliate me. Every fuckin’ thing he ever did to me, I took it because this was the end of it. This was the point. It was supposed to end with me there, all of ‘em having to admit that it’s me, it’s only ever been me, and you—you let them do it again. You let ‘em line me up and strip it away like I was a fuckin’ joke. Same shit, different room. Same looks, same whispers, and you knew. You knew it was coming and let me walk into it anyway, let ‘em blindside me like this.”

You’re going to lose Naoya.

You feel sick. “That’s not fair,” you breathe out.

“Isn’t it?” he fires back. “You know what it felt like? Standin’ there while Ogi and Jinichi looked at me like they finally got what they wanted, waitin’ years to see me brought down a peg.” His voice cracks, just for a second. He laughs and looks away. “Nah. Nah, it ain’t ending like this.”

He turns to leave without another word, not even a spare glance in your direction. 

You chase after him. “Where are you going?” 

“To Tokyo,” he spits, not even looking back at you. Your heart sinks.

“Why?” you demand. “Naoya, don’t walk away from me.”

“To kill Fushiguro Megumi and Itadori Yuji,” Naoya answers, finally looking at you over his shoulder, like he wants to see your reaction.

The words knock the air out of you. “What?” You knew this was what would happen. You knew it. “Naoya, you can’t—”

“Can’t?” he cuts in, incredulous. “You’ll find that I absolutely can. You gonna get in my way now? Is that how this goes? First, you keep it from me, let me walk into it blind, and now you’re gonna play hero and stop me?”

“They’re kids, Naoya,” you say desperately. “Megumi-chan doesn’t even want this. He—”

“I don’t give a fuck about what he wants,” Naoya shouts. “I give a fuck about what’s mine. So, are you gonna help me take it back, or are you gonna get in my way?”

You stare at him. You don’t answer—can’t answer. You don’t need to. 

He sees everything in your face anyway.

He lets out a harsh laugh, shaking his head, but this one is strained, too forced. “Whatever,” he whispers. “I don’t fuckin’ need ya.”

He turns to leave again. You don’t follow this time.

“Naoya,” you call desperately.

“I never would’ve fuckin’ done this to you,” he tells you quietly as he leaves. “Never.”)

————————

You go to Tokyo anyway, despite your cousins' many protests. 

You don’t know what you plan to do there, because you know there’s no talking him down from this, and if you try to stop him by force, then you’ll make things even worse. The two of you have never had an argument like this before—even a couple of years ago, that argument about labels and what the two of you were, it wasn’t this, wasn’t involving Naoya’s inheritance, the one thing he’ll always choose over you, and you don’t know what this means for the two of you. Don’t know if there’s any coming back from this. 

You can’t lose him. Not him, too. Never him.

It’s not particularly hard to track him down, considering he has his phone with him, but he flits around the city like a goddamn hummingbird, trying to track down Megumi and Yuji. You eventually decide against following him, fed up with always getting somewhere after he’s already gone. A part of you wonders if he’s figured out that you’re following him, but you don’t think he has, partially because he’s probably too tunnel-visioned on finding the two boys to even notice he’s being trailed, but mostly because you guarantee that he would’ve stopped and told you to fuck off by now. 

You’re sitting in a run-down, half-destroyed convenience store, sipping at a soda as you watch Naoya dart around the city. He never stays in one place for longer than a minute or two, and you find yourself gnawing at the inside of your cheek, because he’s been at this all day, no breaks, running himself ragged on rage and adrenaline. You exhale as his location blinks, vanishes, then reappears somewhere else entirely—closer to you this time, he’s in the Ginza area now.

You pause when you realize he’s stopped moving a mile and a half away. A minute passes, then two, then three, five, and you’re on your feet, moving in his direction. It takes you less than five minutes to get there, cutting through alleyways and half-collapsed buildings. You kill a lingering curse that lunges at you from around a corner, splitting it cleanly before it’s even registered what happened. You don’t slow down, gaze flicking down to your phone as you reach his general area, trying to pinpoint where exactly he is. You don’t see him in plain view, so—

The tunnel?

You drop down at the entrance without hesitation, boots skidding slightly as you land. You move fast, slipping through rubble as you make your way deeper into the dimly lit tunnel. There’s blood everywhere, you realize, unnerved—drenching the floor, staining the walls, what the hell happened?

“Sorry, but I can’t understand how you never loved your brothers,” an unfamiliar voice says from farther down the tunnel, and you break into a run. 

You turn a bend, and Naoya is sprawled against concrete, blood pooling beneath him, breath shallow and ragged, barely holding himself up on his hands and knees. Your lips part in shock, a lump forming in your throat. A black-haired man is standing in front of him, left hand extended, posture relaxed. He hears you approach from the right, head snapping to the side, gaze sharpening as he tries to figure out whether or not you’re friend or foe. Naoya’s attention follows his, landing on you, and his eyes widen slightly when he recognizes you standing there.

“Blood manipulation,” Naoya forces out when he sees you, warning you just as the man seems to decide you’re an enemy, the attack he’d been building up for Naoya shooting in your direction instead. 

Shit, you think, activating your technique in the nick of time so you can figure out where to dodge to. Whoever this guy is, he’s faster than you, on you before you even fully finish dodging his first attack, but luckily, you’re used to sparring with Naoya, who is much faster than he is. He comes from your left—low, at your abdomen, it would be an easy dodge right, cutting around him and driving your fist into the side of his neck. Too easy, almost. Your lashes flutter, cursed energy flaring outward as you activate your technique, trying to figure out what his play is. You watch as the blood from the floor spikes upward, piercing through the right side of your body.

You dodge right like he expects you to, so he doesn’t realize that you’ve figured out what he’s doing, and instead of going for a blow, you grab his left hand before he can finish the hand signs, twisting his wrist painfully, bringing your leg up to drive your foot into his forearm. You aren’t able to break it, because he’s more durable than you expect, but he does let out a hiss of pain, expression flashing with frustration as he realizes what happened. You put your other foot into his open side, sending him backward into the wall.

“Damn,” you say. “That would’ve been a good play.”

The black-haired man stands back up, grimacing, tilting his head to the side as he looks over you. “You read ahead,” he realizes, frowning. “That is your cursed technique?”

“Love me a man with a brain. Most people don’t figure it out so quick,” you say with an easy smile, gaze flicking over to Naoya. You need to get to him. “You should just save us both the trouble and give up already. You won’t be able to beat me. I know what moves you’re gonna make before you even know them. It’s checkmate.”

“I cannot,” the man says firmly. “I will not allow you two to go after my little brother.”

“Your little brother?” you ask dryly, tilting your head to the side. “He someone special, or something?” 

“My brother, Itadori Yuji,” he confirms, and your eyes widen.

“You’re Yuji-chan’s brother?” you ask, smiling slightly, gaze flicking over him with renewed interest as your hands fall to your sides. “He didn’t tell me he had an older brother.”

The man blinks, brows furrowing in suspicion, lips curved down. “You are familiar with him?”

“Yeah. He’s one of Satoru’s brats. Annoying, loud, too kind for his own good. I used to come down to Tokyo on Fridays to train them,” you say easily, and the man seems to relax slightly when he realizes you are on good terms with Yuji. “You know—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hear Naoya spit from a few feet away, drawing your attention from the man in front of you. “You—”

Naoya gags suddenly, and your attention snaps to the side when you see how his eyes bulge, blood flying from his mouth as he convulses, coughing hard enough that his hands slip out from under him. He collapses forward with a choked, broken sound, and you instinctively move to rush over to him, but freeze when the man in front of you tenses as though to stop you.

He watches you for a long moment, eyes dark and assessing. Then his gaze flicks over to Naoya again—bloodied and shaking, glaring up at both of you with unrepentant hatred.

“You are protecting him,” he says.

“I am,” you reply, jaw tight.

“Yet, you claim to know my brother,” he adds. “You speak of him fondly. Said you trained him.”

“I do, and I did.”

“This man came after my brother.”

“It’s complicated,” you say through gritted teeth. Your lashes flutter, gaze drawing back over to Naoya, who’s struggling to breathe properly, shoulders hitching as another wet cough wracks his body. Your chest tightens—you need to get him to Shoko, or—

Your gaze shifts to the side when you hear the splashing of footsteps from the left. The black-haired man whirls around, but before he even registers that someone is there, he’s crumpled on the ground. Your eyes flick up, and you only give yourself half a second to register that it’s Okkotsu Yuta standing there before you’re rushing over to Naoya.

You’re at his side in an instant, dropping to your knees in the blood, hands hovering uselessly for a heartbeat before you force them to move. He’s pale, lips tinged wrong, breath coming in short, uneven pulls that make your stomach twist.

“Naoya,” you breathe out, trying to help him up so he’s not lying face down in the blood. Blood slicks his chin and cheeks, smearing warm and sticky across your fingers as you tilt his head just enough so that your eyes meet his, his lashes flutter. He gags again, blood dribbling out of his mouth, weaker, and he takes in a wet, rattling breath that makes panic spike hard and fast in your chest. He tries to pull away from you, but ends up collapsing into you, face buried in the crook of your neck. “Easy. Don’t fight me right now. We can fight later.”

“Shouldn’t be here,” he still manages to force out, you feel blood dribbling down your neck to your collarbone. “Fuckin’ bitch, you always—”

“Senpai,” Yuta says, making his way over to the two of you. You look up, arms tightening slightly around Naoya, even though you’ve known Yuta for two years—the boy isn’t a threat, not to you, but you tense anyway with Naoya as weak as he is. He looks over the two of you with a concerned expression—it twists slightly on Naoya, because you’re sure Maki has told him all about her clan, but softens again when it lands on you. “Do you want me to heal him? My reversed cursed technique can heal other people, too.”

“Yes,” you say, lashes fluttering in relief. You weren’t sure how you were even going to get him to Shoko. Yuta crouches down in front of the two of you, hand extended, and you can feel Naoya bristling, but you pinch his side hard before he can make a snide comment. “Thank you, Yuta-chan.”

“Of course,” he says simply, giving you a kind smile as Naoya’s breathing begins to ease again. “Anything for you, senpai. Would… you and Zenin-san be willing to inform the higher-ups of Itadori-kun’s death, please?”

You stare up at him, confused for a moment, and then your eyes drift back to where Yuta had walked over to you from, and your lips part in shock when you see Yuji limp on the ground next to his brother. Your gaze snaps back to Yuta, eyes wide, heart thudding in your chest. You breathe out, “Yuta-ch—”

Yuta’s gaze flicks down to the ground, away from you. He glances at Naoya, as though making sure he’s still too preoccupied with regaining his bearings after being healed. “Senpai, please,” he insists, voice quiet, just for you. “The higher-ups need to believe that Itadori-kun is dead.”

Believe? Your gaze flicks between Yuta and Yuji, calculating, and then your eyes narrow on Yuta again. There’s a strained expression on his face, like he wants you to understand something he can’t say. Did he not kill Yuji? You can’t imagine that Yuta would kill one of Satoru’s other students; he’s always been too kind, too protective of the people he loves and the people whom the people he loves love. There’s something else going on here, but you can’t press, not with Naoya listening.

“I see,” you say quietly.

Naoya shifts weakly against you, still in a haze, trying to push himself into a sitting position. “The fuck are you two whisperin’ about—”

“You have to report Yuji-chan’s death to the higher-ups,” you tell him, and Naoya’s brows are furrowed. You look back up at Yuta. “We’ll handle it all, Yuta-chan. Don’t worry.”

Yuta exhales, shoulders easing just a fraction. “Thank you, senpai.”

You tighten your hold on Naoya as Yuta turns away, already moving to retrieve Yuji and his brother, disappearing down the tunnel quickly. Naoya finally manages to pull away from you, slumping against the wall beside you.

“Why’d ya come?” Naoya asks you quietly, voice bitter. “To stop me?” 

“I don’t know,” you reply honestly, shoulder pressed to his, staring down at your lap. “Maybe. I just—I don’t know, Naoya. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”

Naoya exhales through his nose, looking away. “It doesn’t matter now,” he mutters. “Quit apologizing. It makes me wanna throw up. It’s done. I gotta go be messenger bird for that Okkotsu brat ‘cause of you now anyway.”

Your lips part to say something, but you’re not sure what you want to say. Naoya turns to look at you, gaze meeting yours, and you hate how dull the golds of his eyes are. You ask after a moment, “Are we going to be okay?” 

He lets out a puff of air, gaze flicking down to your hand, and he reaches out for it, thumb brushing over the ring on your fourth finger. His fingers tighten around yours briefly before he lets go. “We’ll always be okay. How many times do I gotta tell you that, hm? You’re gettin’ slow in your old age, ain’t ya?” 

You knock your shoulder against his with a huff of laughter. “Asshole.”

He pushes himself up to his feet, grimacing, hand dropping down to his abdomen. You stand with him, watching him carefully. He tells you, “I’ll get goin’ up to headquarters. You should head back to the estate. Stay away from all this shit, alright? It’s bad news.”

“Will you—” you start to ask, throat tightening, “—come back to mine when you’re done? Don’t go back after the kids, or back to the Zenin estate, come to me. We’ll get you what’s yours back. We’ll figure everything out together, okay? Like we always have.”

Naoya sighs, staring down at the ground instead of you. “We’ll see,” he replies before turning away to leave.

A terrible, terrible feeling settles in your gut. You call after him, “Naoya,” and he pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. “I have a really bad feeling, okay?”

He gives you a wry smile. “Not this shit again,” he says. “You’re startin’ to sound like the girl who cried wolf, y’know?” 

“Girl who cried—I’ve been right every time, Naoya,” you snap. “So, just—just come over, okay? Let’s wait for all this to settle down.”

He lets out a huff. You can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a scoff, but he turns back around briefly, reaching out to slide his hand around the back of your head to pull you close to him. Your hands instinctively come up to grab his kimono, eyes fluttering shut when he presses his lips against your forehead, uncharacteristically tender.

“You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing,” he dismisses, to your frustration. “Relax. Everything always works out for us, doesn’t it? There ain’t nothin’ to worry about. I’m gonna get back what’s mine, we’ll wait out all the bullshit happening, and then we’ll get married in the spring, and you’re gonna be my wife.” He gives you an easy smile and adds, “A proper one, maybe, considering how much you’ve started fussing over me.”

As a last-ditch effort to get him to drop all of this, you say quietly, “We don’t have to wait.”

“Hm?” he asks you, stilling slightly against you.

“We don’t have to wait until spring, or until things settle down. We can just—we can do it. Now. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you get back from headquarters,” you rush out. “We don’t need to wait.”

“You’re the one who wanted to wait for the cherry blossoms,” he accuses, but his throat bobs. “Why—”

“I don’t care about the cherry blossoms,” your voice rises slightly. “Naoya, just come back to mine, and we’ll do it, alright? You’ve wanted it for years, haven’t you? Let’s just do it. No more waiting.”

Naoya exhales. “You’re messed up,” he mutters, “gettin’ all hysterical and sayin’ all this shit.” Your eyes slide shut in frustration as he steps back. “Let me handle everything I need to handle, and then we’ll talk about this. Properly.”

You want to scream at him. Every instinct you have is clawing at you, begging him not to walk away right now. Something bad is coming, worse than the incident on Halloween, worse than what happened at the Goodwill Event, worse than learning Yuji became Sukuna’s vessel—you know it, you know it. 

If you let him walk away right now, you’ll never—

“Go home,” he tells you. “I’ll be fine. I’ll get shit handled, and then I’ll come to you, okay? Don’t I always come back to ya?”

You scoff and look away, closing your eyes when he takes a step closer to brush his lips against your temple. If you fight with him about this now, he’ll only dig his heels in more. You know him. There’s no winning this, not when you’re up against him taking back what he lost.

Please, you think desperately. Let me be wrong, just this once.

“Okay,” you finally say, and the word tastes like poison on your tongue. “Fine.”

“Relax,” he tells you, looking over his shoulder one last time with an easy smile. “Everything’ll be fine. I’ll see ya soon.”

————————

You wait, and you wait, and you wait.

Naoya does not come.

————————

NOVEMBER 12, 2018

You feel it the moment Naoya dies.

“My lady,” one of your attendants says, knocking briefly before stepping into your office. You stare down at your phone, at your last unanswered text message, waiting for Naoya to respond. It’s been three days since he came back from headquarters, and he is hardly answering your texts. When he does, it’s to bitch about Jinichi or Ogi, or to tell you to quit worrying so much because it’s giving him a headache. Every day that passes, you feel worse. “My lady!”

Your gaze snaps up from your phone: You’re seriously pissing me off, you texted him furiously, when he blandly responded to your request to know what’s going on with a nothing. You let out a soft breath when you see the concerned expression on the woman’s face. You lock your phone and give her your full attention. 

“Sorry,” you say quietly. “What is it?”

Irrationally, you hope she’s here to tell you Naoya is waiting for you at the gate, even though you know that if he were here, he wouldn’t have waited to be announced. Your heart sinks—you don’t even know how there’s anywhere left for it to go, it’s been at your feet since you parted ways with him in Tokyo. 

“Your uncle is looking for you. He’s in the inner courtyard,” she tells you, inclining her head respectfully as she speaks.

You exhale, shoulders slumping, disappointed even though you knew it wouldn’t be him. You push yourself to your feet, shoving your phone in your pocket before you make your way out of your office toward where your uncle is waiting for you, your attendant following behind dutifully. 

You turn your head to the side to look at her as you ask, “Is it raining again today?” 

“No, my lady,” she tells you. “It’s actually very nice out today. Warm, clear skies.”

“That’s good,” you say, quietly. “I’m sick of the rain.”

You push open the doors leading to the inner courtyard, raising your eyebrows when you see your uncle and your three older cousins waiting for you out there. Two of them are sitting on a rock, tossing pebbles at one another childishly, and the other is standing with your uncle, talking quietly. You hadn’t even realized they were all back at the estate since you’ve been in your office working for days. 

You say dryly, “Why does this feel like an ambush?” 

“It kind of is,” one of them tells you with an easy smile, hopping down from the rock, barely dodging a pebble, only for another to smack him in the temple. “You’ve been holed up in there for too long. Come spar with us. You’re gonna get rusty if you keep hiding in there.”

“I’m not hiding,” you reply automatically. “I’ve been working. I’m busy.”

Your oldest cousin snorts. “You’ve been brooding. You’re bringing the vibe of the whole estate down with all the storm clouds floating above your head.”

You roll your eyes before you give him a flat look, but your gaze flicks up to the sky. You thought you’d enjoy coming outside since you don’t have to deal with the ever-present rain that’s been coming down over Kyoto for almost a week now, but it feels all wrong. Clear skies should be comforting, but instead, they make the pit in your stomach churn. 

This is all wrong, you think desperately. Everything is wrong.

You itch to pull your phone out of your pocket to see if Naoya responded, but you think that your cousins really will stage an intervention if they catch you looking at it again. You let out another heavy breath, shoulders slumping, because you don’t think they’ll let up until you give them what they want.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “Don’t start crying when I beat the shit out of you.”

You shrug off your jacket and make your way to the center of the inner courtyard, not even bothering to go over to the training grounds. You point at your oldest cousin, who immediately complains because sparring apparently wasn’t even his idea, but he steps forward to meet you, rolling his shoulders.

“Go on,” you say. The words come out flat, even though you mean for them to be taunting. “I’ll give you the first—”

The world shakes.

You barely steady yourself, eyes widening, and one of your cousins topples right off the rock he was still sitting on. You think, for a second, that it’s an earthquake—another foreboding omen—but you hesitate when you see your uncle staring behind you, eyes wide. You whip around, following his line of vision. For a second, you fear the worst: that maybe another cursed spirit got through the barrier around your estate, and you pull out your tanto knife, bracing yourself for a fight. 

Instead, you find something much, much worse.

“Is that… Chojuro’s technique?” you breathe out, staring at the massive stone arms touching the distant sky. Miles to the west—the same direction as the Zenin estate. Something is… “That’s Chojuro’s technique. Why would he…”

Your uncle tells your cousin to get the car. You hear him vaguely as he snaps at him to get moving when he doesn’t immediately move, but he sounds like he’s underwater, distant, not a few feet away from you. Your ears are muffled and ringing. You blink twice, trying to understand what you’re looking at, because why would Chojuro use his technique like that? Why would—why is Jinichi using his technique? Your lips part when you see fists raining down from the sky above Chojuro’s stone arms, lungs burning, because you are not breathing. 

What is happening at the Zenin estate? Something—something is—

You are running. You don’t even register that your legs are moving, or that you’re using your cursed energy to propel yourself forward—over the estate wall, through trees, you’re running. You won’t wait for the car; there’s no time. It’ll take half an hour to get there, the roads are windy and gravelly, and the fastest way is just straight through the forest. And you need to get there, because something—

Something is seriously wrong. 

You distantly hear your uncle and cousins following, clearly not wanting you to rush off onto your own into a potentially dangerous situation—one of them calls for you, tells you to wait, not to be rash, but you ignore him. You knew something was up, you knew something bad was going to happen, and you knew—

There’s a sharp pain in your chest. You stumble, nearly tripping over a root that you missed as you gasp for air, hand flying to your heart, fingers digging into your shirt as if you can hold your heart in place by sheer force. You force yourself to keep moving forward, breath coming shallow, panicked pulls. You feel entirely destabilized, just for a split second, and the sensation is nauseating—like vertigo, like your soul slipping half a step out of alignment within your body, and not properly slipping back into place. You swallow hard, and you keep running, ignoring the calls of your name.

You get another couple of steps before a sharp pulse spears through your chest, worse this time. You choke on a breath, vision blurring at the edges, and you know—you know—with a clarity so vicious it borders on cruelty that something has happened to Naoya.

The world tilts violently, and you have to skid to a stop, boots dragging through the dirt as you brace yourself against a tree trunk, bark biting into your palm. 

Keep moving, you tell yourself, biting back bile. It’s fear—stress. You’ve been wound up for days, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and now that something is actually happening, you’re spiraling. Naoya is fine. Naoya isn’t stupid. He’s one of the strongest sorcerers you’ve ever met—you don’t know anyone who can actually take him in a fight besides you and Satoru, and Satoru is—

You can’t think about that right now. Just keep moving. 

You break into a run again, teeth clenched, cursed energy flaring hard enough that the ground cracks beneath your feet. Branches tear at your sleeves as you barrel through the forest, ignoring the sharp sting where bark scrapes skin, ignoring the way your lungs burn, ignoring the empty ache in your chest that suddenly will not go away. Naoya is—he’s annoying, and reckless, an asshole, but he’s never been weak, and he’s too fucking stubborn to—

Cursed energy? A cursed spirit? Coming straight at you?

You skid to a stop again, heels digging into the dirt as you sense something coming your way, bracing yourself for impact. It’s fast, too fast—you shout at your cousins and your uncle to stay back, activating your technique. You watch as the trees collapse inward from the rush of cursed energy coming in your direction, dirt flying, it slams into you and blood flies, and you won’t be able to move in time, it’s too fast, even seeing it happen, you won’t be able to get out of the way, and then—

The path you’re tracing dissolves, the straight line toward you snaps sideways, jerking violently to the southwest, away from you, before you can even catch sight of what it was. 

What the hell? 

You dart forward into the clearing where it should’ve emerged. The trees lie torn open in front of you, trunks slit through, bark shredded, several uprooted entirely from the force of the speed at which the cursed spirit was moving. The ground is gouged deep where it pivoted, carved straight toward the direction you were coming from until it abruptly veers, path cutting hard to the southwest, unnaturally sharp, like it slammed on a break and wrenched itself sideways at the last possible second. The trees there are obliterated, reduced to splinters and debris scattered in a wide arc. The air still thrums with residual cursed energy, dense enough that it prickles your skin.

Your pulse roars in your ears as you stare in the direction it turned, the destruction left in its wake as it cuts through the forest. 

“What the hell was that?” one of your cousins demands, catching up to you finally. “It came from the direction of the Zenin estate. Should we go after it?”

It would’ve killed you, you think. Why the hell would it veer off like that? Why—

Your uncle says your name, voice rough. You shake your head, casting one last lingering look off in the direction it fled, and you say, “No. Our priority is the estate.” You don’t wait for any of them to respond before you’re moving again, pushing all lingering thoughts of the cursed spirit from your mind—Naoya is your priority. You need to get to the Zenin estate, you need to make sure that he’s—

That he’s okay. 

Because he has to be—he promised. He promised you that everything would be okay, and you cannot lose Naoya. You’ve lost everything—your father, your brothers, Satoru, you can’t lose Naoya too. You won’t survive losing him and Satoru both. You won’t survive losing him. You run until your lungs burn and your legs feel like they’re filled with lead, until the forest thins and the world opens up in a way that makes your stomach drop. 

The Zenin estate is in ruins. 

You smell death before you see it.

You come to a stop so suddenly that one of your cousins almost slams right into your back.

“What the fuck?” he breathes out, staring at the destruction with the same horrified expression that must be on your face. “What the hell did this? How—”

You don’t think your brain fully makes sense of what you’re seeing. 

For a second, you are not twenty-five, and you are not at the Zenin estate. You are twenty again, standing in the wreckage of your estate in the immediate aftermath of the massacre. Except this time, the Zenins did not arrive before you, and there is no one here to put together the bodies and place sheets over them, no one to lie to you about how bad it really is. They are not Zenin men butchered before you, but your father, your brothers, your clan. 

Your cousin gags next to you, having the same visceral reaction that you are. 

“We need—” you try to say. You blink once. Twice. You swallow bile, and you take in a deep breath. This is—this isn’t your clan, this isn’t your estate, this is the Zenins, and this is on you to handle this time. Just as Naobito did for you back then. “Cover the bodies, and—” You see a corpse with no head, but you would recognize Jinichi’s body anywhere. “—try to put them back together. For funerary rites. We—”

Naoya, your breath catches, losing your train of thought mid-sentence, tongue darting out to wet your lips. You taste the iron in the air, the copper-sweet tang of blood so thick it coats the back of your throat. Focus. Focus. You need to—you need to find Naoya. If he’s not out here, then he’s probably hurt, and you need to find him. 

What could’ve done this?

You force yourself forward, forgetting you were even giving orders out, feet dragging against the leveled stone as you look for Naoya. The inner courtyard has been demolished, the garden is gone, and there are bodies as far as the eye can see. Most of the buildings are in shambles—roof shingles litter the ground, crunching underfoot with every step you take, and the immaculate symmetry the Zenins prized has been reduced to rubble. Walls that once stood straight and oppressive are split open, beams snapped clean through like matchsticks. Limbs stick out from splintered wood, and the stream that cuts through the estate runs red. 

“Naoya,” you call.

You wonder, briefly, how a place that caused you so much stress and anxiety as a child could look so fucking small now. Just like anywhere else in the world—stone and wood and cooling corpses. 

Just buildings. Just men. 

A part of you that you bury beneath muted panic and disgust is almost satisfied.

“Naoya,” you repeat, louder this time.

Your gaze flicks over to where the main building used to stand, the engawa where you first met Naotaka. You remember his fingers brushing your cheek, the way he tilted up your head, how you could only stand there and hope that Naoya noticed. To the training grounds, where you would watch Naoya spar with his cousins and uncles, longing to join them, only to be dragged off to lessons in tea ceremony or homemaking. To the garden—what’s left of it—where you and Naoya would disappear to when you were sick of being watched and judged and insulted, treated like an object or livestock rather than a human.

“Naoya!”

This wasn’t a cursed spirit, you realize, as your gaze drags over a familiar corpse—one of Naoya’s older brothers, Naohiro, who has had his throat slashed cleanly. A blade, not claws. Jinichi’s headless corpse. Execution, not slaughter. All of the destruction and no residuals of cursed energy besides the Zenins themselves, all of the precise wounds on their bodies instead of carnage. Sorcerer killer, not curse. 

But if it wasn’t a curse, then what was that thing that fled from the estate? Why did it turn away the way it did?

“Naoya!” 

Your feet have brought you to one of the few buildings that are still standing, and your gaze drops to the step leading up to the engawa. There is blood dripping down it, smeared on the wood, like someone had dragged themselves into the building as they bled out. You blink once, gaze lingering on it for a moment before you step around it, following the bloody trail down the hall. You see handprints on the screens, a familiar shape, a familiar size—you blink again, eyes tracing along the hall, down to where one of the sliding doors has fallen inward. 

You blink a third time. This time, your heart is in your throat as you say quietly, “Naoya?”

Your body doesn’t cooperate at first when you try to move forward. Your feet are rooted to the ground. The empty feeling in your chest, the one that hit you while you were running to the estate, returns with a vengeance. You are filled with dread in a way that’s hard to articulate—your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and your limbs are prickling, there is a pit in your stomach, wide and gaping.

You don’t want to go near that room.

You’ve known the truth since you were in the forest—since before that even, for days, since you parted ways with him in that tunnel. You’ve known, but you let him leave anyway. You let yourself believe that you were wrong, let yourself believe in his promise always to come back to you. You know what is waiting for you at that sliding door. 

“Naoya?” you call anyway, soft. Your legs feel clunky and awkward as you force yourself step after step. The tip of your foot catches on wood, and you stumble. Five steps. Four. Three. Two. “Nao…”

You don’t recognize it as him at first. Can’t recognize it as him—crumpled on the ground, bloody, still. That’s not Naoya. Not your Naoya. You stand in front of the room, and you breathe. In, out, in, out, in—

“Naoya,” you say again like he’ll answer. “Get up. What are you doing?”

You don’t cross the threshold into the room. 

You notice, distantly, that the back of the room is destroyed, leading out of the building; the wall surrounding the estate is split and crumbling, as if something had fled from this room, out of the estate, to the east, where you had come from. 

Your gaze flits down to the woman half-slumped on Naoya’s back, her hand still loosely curled around the knife in his back. Ogi’s wife, you recognize her after a second, Maki and Mai’s mother. Why is she here? You haven’t seen any other women killed, you realize, staring down at her. Only men—the Kukuru, the Hei—but her throat is slit, one still hand pressed to the wound as though trying to stop the bleeding, even in death. Someone sought her out specifically.

But why would someone go after her? Who would go after her?

You finally step into the room. Another step. A third. A fourth. You blink, and you’re bending down without really knowing what you’re doing. You numbly drag Maki and Mai’s mother off of Naoya, numbly lay her down on the far side of the room, numbly grab a nearby tablecloth to set it over her cooling corpse to give her a modicum of decency, numb, numb, numb. 

You return to Naoya’s side, standing over him for a moment. He is not sprawled the way he usually is, not careless or arrogant or loose. He is folded in on himself, one arm pinned beneath his body, face pressed into the floor, the other stretched uselessly forward, reaching for something. Not your Naoya. His face is turned slightly toward you, lashes long against his cheeks, mouth parted just enough that you can see red staining his teeth, pooling from the corner of his mouth. One eye is half-open, unfocused, gold dulled to something lifeless and wrong, the other hidden against the floor.

Your next breath is deeper, more ragged. 

Your knees hit the tatami with a dull thud you barely register, and your hand hovers above him, shaking badly enough that you curl it into a fist just to steady it. You touch his shoulder first, tentative, and then you jostle him—just once—like it’s Sunday morning, and you’re bored because he’s sleeping in and you have nothing to do. The fabric beneath your palm is soaked through.

(“The fuck is the matter with you,?” he mutters, sleepy and aggravated, toppling you right over the side of your bed. You hit the ground with an ungraceful yelp, scowling. “Let me sleep, ya irritating bitch.”)

He doesn’t budge. When you let go of his shoulder, his body slides back to how it was, limp on the ground. Your cheeks are wet. Your lungs are burning.

“Naoya,” you repeat. “Naoya.”

You’re more frantic now as your hand slides to his neck, fingers trembling as you place them to his pulse point, where you’ve rested them countless times before without thinking, as though there’s still a chance you might find it thrumming beneath your touch. His skin is still warm, how you’ve always known it to be, and your heartbeat thuds terribly in your ears. 

(“What’re ya doin’?” he asks with a yawn, shooting you a frown, and you tilt your head to the side curiously, unsure what he’s talking about. 

He’s only been back from Tohoku for two weeks, your clan has only been dead for four months—you still don’t sleep well, so you tend to stay up and read while he sleeps in bed next to you. He looks pointedly down at your hand, where your fingers rest over his pulse, and you draw your hand back, a bit surprised with yourself. You hadn’t even noticed you’d reached out to touch him. Immediately, you’re unsettled, fingers twitching to press against the steady thrum, proof that there is someone left in this world you still have to count on. 

He rolls his eyes and reaches out for your wrist, placing your fingers back to where they were. You are at ease again instantly. His lashes flutter shut as he starts to doze back off. “Go the hell to sleep, don’t want to deal with you bitchin’ in the morning that you’re tired.”)

Nothing.

Your chest tightens so hard that it hurts to breathe. You try again, pressing harder, as if pressure might fix this, like his heart might remember how to beat if you convince it that you’re here with him. Your own pulse thunders, frantic and mocking. 

Nothing.

You gag, hand flying to your mouth as you retch over air, turning away from him. Fuck, you gasp—nothing comes up, you’ve hardly eaten in days because you’ve been so wound with anxiety. You double over, palms against the wood, still slick with his blood, and a sound crawls up your chest, small and broken. You choke it down hard, biting the inside of your cheek until you taste blood just to keep it contained. You squeeze your eyes shut, forehead dropping until it nearly touches the tatami, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls that scrape your throat raw. 

This isn’t happening. 

Not him—not him too. Your mind is crashing. Please, you think over and over and over again, please, anyone but him. You don’t know who you’re begging, what you’re begging, nothing has ever listened, but you beg still.

“This isn’t fucking funny,” you rasp, angry suddenly. “This isn’t fucking funny, Naoya. This isn’t—”

Your voice breaks. You force your eyes back open. Your cheeks are wet. Your vision swims as you turn back to him, crawling the short distance on numb legs. You reach for him again, hesitant, like your body has learned something your mind is still rejecting. Your hands move to his jaw and shoulder, gently turning him so that he’s on his back, half in your lap, and you can’t bite back the wounded noise that builds in your chest, slipping from your lips when see that the right side of his face is shattered, eye swollen shut beneath blood and ruin, jaw broken, cheek caved in.

“Oh,” you finally whisper, thoughts coming to an abrupt halt, anger draining in an instant. It comes out small and stupid, but you don’t know what else to say. You brush his hair back from his forehead, avoiding the ruined side of his face, and then you slide your hand down to his cheek, thumb pressing slightly beneath his good eye, it is gold and dull and so lifeless and so wrong. “Oh, I—”

Your lashes flutter as you sink into the floor, into his blood. You pull him closer now, hand drifting down to his chest, palm flattening there instinctively, like you’ve done a hundred times when he’s pinned you beneath him, smug and irritating and alive. Your breath comes apart again, a strangled sound that you can’t swallow back, and then you’re crying in earnest, silent and wrecked, tears dropping onto his face, onto his collar, into blood that’s already drying.

Naoya is—

“Liar,” you sob, “you fucking liar. You promised me. You promised—”

Someone else is crying too—wailing, really, a terrible, wounded, broken sound that makes your ears bleed. You wonder if your cousins happened upon a survivor. You want to tell whoever it is to shut the fuck up. Irrationally, you think that they have no right to cry when you’ve just lost half of yourself. 

It’s only when your cousin comes flying down the hall, panicked, looking for you, skidding to a stop in front of the broken sliding door that you realize it is you who is wailing.

You don’t lift your head to look at him, forehead dropping to Naoya’s shoulder—he’s cooler than he was a few moments ago. Your arms tighten around him, clinging to him desperately. You’re shaking violently now, sobs tearing out of you in harsh, broken sounds you don’t recognize as your own. Your throat burns. Your chest feels like it’s splitting open with every breath you drag in. You’ve never cried like this before—never—you’ve always just kept moving forward when bad things happened. 

You got used to it, that’s what you did. That’s what you always did because you could never afford to stop moving; you shoved it all deep down so it could never resurface. Forward is survival. Forward is the only option. When everything around you kept changing, you moved forward and refused to let it make you stumble. When your clan died, you moved forward so that others could mourn. When the world demanded more of you than it had any right to, you moved forward because everyone else was relying on you to hold everything together. You locked away the grief, shouldered the weight, and you kept walking because there was no other option. 

But you can’t move now. 

There is nowhere to go. No direction that doesn’t feel wrong. No step forward that doesn’t feel like a betrayal to what’s lying cold and heavy in your arms. There is no tomorrow where Naoya doesn’t take up space in your life, doesn’t irritate you, doesn’t argue with you, doesn’t come back, no matter how badly everything goes wrong. There is no future without him. There is no world where you keep moving forward after half of your soul has been torn away. 

Your cousin reaches out to touch your shoulder, and you slap his hand away hard. You breathe. In and out. Naoya’s skin is cold. In and out. The blood is drying. In and out. You can’t fucking do this. You can’t—

Focus on something else.

“We need to report this to the higher-ups,” you hear yourself say, breathing out shakily, lifting your head to stare blankly at the opposite side of the room, the splintered wood and the crumbling wall, the trees that have been barreled down by something large and fast. You can’t feel Naoya’s cursed energy—not even any residue. “I want you to listen to me very carefully.”

Your cousin says your name, quiet and wary, like he’s afraid speaking might set you off again. You don’t look at him. Naoya is—your gaze shifts over to Maki and Mai’s mother, onto the white cloth you draped over her. You can’t feel any of Naoya’s cursed energy. Not even residue. Naoya is—your fingers press against the cool hilt of the kitchen knife in his back. A kitchen knife, not a cursed tool, driven in by a non-sorcerer, with no cursed energy. There is no residue even around the wound to his face—sheer strength caved it in, no technique, no cursed energy. Naoya is—your gaze flicks over to the back of the room, the demolished walls, the path carved through the forest in the direction of your clan’s estate. 

If he was not killed with jujutsu, then—

“A cursed spirit did this,” you say after a moment, voice empty to your own ears. Before your cousin can protest, you continue. “Report to the higher-ups that a cursed spirit did this. An unregistered special grade wiped out the Zenin clan, and I will be the one to hunt it down and exorcise it.”

He says your name louder this time, panicked. “You can’t—and that’s—there’s no way that cursed spirit was the one that did all of this. There’s no cursed energy residue anywhere, I mean, if I didn’t know any better—”

“Shut up,” you snap, voice sharp, because you know. 

You know that cursed spirit wasn’t the one who did this. The person who did this used a cursed tool because they have no access to cursed energy, otherwise there would be more residue than just the Hei and the Kukuru. The person who did this did not mindlessly slaughter everyone; there are no children amongst the dead, only one woman, so they specifically targeted the Hei and the Kukuru. The person who did this specifically sought out Maki and Mai’s mother, indicaitng a personal vendetta. 

There is only one person who fits that description.

(“I thought maybe you would understand,” Maki once said quietly, when she came to you about her desire to leave the Zenins and become a sorcerer, her dreams of one day returning as clan head. “And help me, maybe.”)

And you do—you do fucking understand. You bite back another sob that threatens to rip from you. You do. You understand what it means to grow up inside a cage that calls itself tradition; you were born luckier than most with an extraordinary technique and brothers who defied tradition, but you tasted what could’ve been every Sunday at the Zenin estate for ten fucking years. To be watched and weighed and assessed—perfect smile, perfect poise, perfect temperament, perfect, perfect, perfect. One misstep, and you’re cast aside and replaced, because you were born a woman and not a man. You don’t know what drove her to these lengths, but you understand. The Zenin clan has always been the epitome of everything wrong with Jujutsu society. You’ve known that from a very young age.

(The nail that sticks out gets hammered down. 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.)

And you just—you can’t turn her over to the higher-ups. Not a girl you’ve known since she was ten years old. A girl who would sneak away from her duties to watch you spar with Naoya, wide-eyed and wondrous at the sight of a female sorcerer. A girl who idolized you—looking up to you as a woman meant to become a Zenin-perfect wife for their prodigal son, and instead shattered the shackles, entering the ranks of the very men who tried to keep her down, first as a sorcerer, a grade that has traditionally only ever been given to Zenin men nonetheless, and then as a clan head. 

You can’t do it.

This is just your fate, you realize—every loss you’ve ever experienced, you’ve never been able to avenge a single one because you’re too fucking weak. No closure, no revenge, just an aching, gaping hole where love once kept you warm.

You lean down to brush your lips against the crown of Naoya’s head. 

His skin is cold.

(“I would’ve killed whatever did it,” he told you, “and everyone involved. Happy now? Are ya gonna let me fuckin’ sleep or d’ya have more dumb questions?”)

I’m sorry, you tell him, teeth grinding together. I’m sorry. I know you never would’ve done this to me.

Fuck, you almost choke over another sob, but you catch yourself before you can. You understand, you really do, you know the Zenins are awful, you know they’re everything wrong with traditional society, but you just—you hate that he had to go with it. 

He’s just another Zenin to everyone else—the worst of them, even. The face of the clan, the heir, the embodiment of the Zenin name and the one who benefited most from this corrupted system, the loudest reminder of everything the Zenins valued and everything they cast aside. He wasn’t the man who argued with you over nothing, who stole your skincare and hair products, no matter how many times you told him to quit it, who promised you a future that you desperately needed if you wanted to keep moving forward. He was never the boy who grew up bruised and angry and desperate to prove he was worth something in a world that loved him only conditionally. He wasn’t just a Zenin to you. He was Naoya. Your Naoya. Shitty, insufferable Naoya, who you don’t know how to live without. 

You want him back. 

You want him back so bad that it makes you sick.

“I’m telling you what happened, and that is what you’re going to report to the higher-ups,” you finally say, pushing everything down for just a little longer. “A special grade cursed spirit massacred the Zenin clan, and I will be the one to hunt and exorcise it. Are we clear?”

“… Yeah,” your cousin finally says, voice quiet. “We’re clear, but—you’re not actually going to… go after that thing, are you?”

Your arms tighten around Naoya slightly. His skin is cold. His body is limp. Your lashes flutter slightly before you look back in the direction where the cursed spirit fled to, and your heart is heavy because you know. No one in the world knows Naoya like you do, and you know for a fact that if he was not killed with jujutsu, then he is spiteful and angry enough to come back, and if he has come back, then you have to be the one to exorcise the curse born from him so that he can rest.

You exhale, laying his body down, head in your lap. You cradle his face carefully between your hands, one palm cupping the unbroken side of his jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath his good eye; the other hovers uselessly for a moment before you carefully settle it on the opposite cheek, fingers grazing the ruined skin. Your gaze slips away, back to the familiar line of his mouth, the arch of his brow, the face you know, the one that still looks like him if you don’t stare too hard. 

You sigh softly as you lean down, pressing your lips against his forehead, gentle in the way the two of you so rarely were with one another. His skin is cold. His lashes don’t flutter at your touch. He does not give you a mocking smile or make a snide comment about how you’re getting sentimental with old age. A tear splashes against his cheek. You trail your lips down the slope of his nose, then lower still, to brush your mouth against his. His lips are cold too. They taste of blood and salt and a future that was taken away. Habit makes you pause, makes you expect the way his lips curve up into yours, makes you wait for the familiar pressure of his lips moving against yours and the way his hand slips around the back of your head.

“You’re so dramatic,” he would tell you, far too smug. “Lookit ya—cryin’ for me like this. I’d say it’s almost cute, but you’re an ugly crier.” 

“Fuck you, asshole,” you would snap back.

Nothing happens.

Your breath shudders, tears rolling over your cheeks more steadily now. You linger a second longer than you should. Just long enough to memorize the feel of him one last time, and then you pull back, just enough.

You tell him quietly, “I would’ve chosen you. Every time. Even knowing how it ends.”

Your thumbs brush once more along his jaw, and then you look away. You ease back slowly, carefully laying him down against the ground, and then you rise to your feet, looking back out in the direction the cursed spirit fled to.

“I want him buried at our estate,” you tell your cousin quietly. “Not here. There’s nothing left for him here.”

Your cousin says your name quietly, and you look at him over your shoulder with a small smile.

“Relax,” you say. “Everything will be fine. I’ll see you soon.”

————————

You are six, and he is eight, and you have just met. 

You have no idea how your life will change.

(You track the cursed spirit all the way down to the Kagoshima prefecture. 

You stare up at the black curtain that has dropped over the area, and you think it’s deeply ironic that it fled here of all places. You exhale, eyes sliding shut as you turn your head away. You wonder what it means—does it remember what this place meant to you and him? That this is the place where you reunited so many years ago? Or is it just a coincidence? 

You don’t know what to think, because if it remembers and it was drawn here, then it must have some semblance of Naoya’s consciousness, and you don’t know how to kill something that has Naoya’s consciousness, even if only a modicum of it.

You press your hands to your face, tired. You’ve been moving nonstop since you left the Zenin estate, haven't let yourself stop for a minute. If you stop, you will crash, and if you crash, you will never be able to come back from it, and you can’t let this thing born of Naoya’s cursed energy roam freely. Your chest aches, and you have to force yourself even to keep breathing—in, out, in, out. 

He never makes anything easy for you, even now. 

Only a little more, you tell yourself, then you can rest.)

You are seven, and he is nine, and you watch how he tenses when his father’s voice carries through the halls of the estate, slurred and loud. Something strange twists up your chest, and when he catches you frowning at him, he snaps at you to look away. You tell him that you don’t want to go to the kitchen anymore, you want to go to the garden, and he calls you annoying, but the two of you turn around and go in the opposite direction of where his father is floundering around drunk. 

You never bring it up, and neither does he. Some understandings don’t need words, especially between the two of you—that’s how it’s always been, even as children. 

(“Hi! I’m a Kogane! Inside this barrier, a lethal contest called the Culling Game has begun! Step inside, and you too become a player! Are you willing to enter?”

You stare at the floating shikigami, lips curved down, gaze flicking between it and the veil behind it. You ask, “What is the Culling Game?”

“A lethal contest,” the Kogane replies to your annoyance. “Would you like to consult the rules?”

You don’t have time for this, you think bitterly, glancing at the barrier again. “Sure. Tell me the rules.”

The Shikigami appears closer to you, its body shifting to reveal some sort of screen. 

You inhale sharply before leaning in, eyes skimming across the rules of this Culling Game: awaken cursed technique… declare participation… technique removal… score points by ending the lives of other people, sorcerers worth five points, non-sorcerers worth one… new rule at one hundred points… score remains the same for nineteen days, subject to technique removal… access to information about other players. Your gaze lingers on that last one.

“I’m looking for someone,” you say after a moment. “Can you tell me if this person is in the Culling Game?”

“I cannot!” Your eye twitches. “You are not a player yet!” 

You press your tongue to the back of your teeth, teeming with frustration. You look back at the barrier. The cursed spirit is in there. You know it is. You could try to use your maximum technique to confirm it, but you don’t know how this barrier will affect your technique if you use it from the outside, and you can’t risk draining yourself so quickly. 

It’s in there.

You know it.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll become a player. Let me in.”)

You are eight, and he is ten, and you remind him—mutually assured destruction—when he threatens to tell your father how awful you are. He scowls, sulks, kicks the back of your knees when you turn away, and you launch yourself at him without thinking, fists tangling in his hair as the two of you go down in the dirt, flattening a bed of flowers beneath you. 

You’ll deny it later, but you’re laughing—helpless, breathless laughter that you cannot contain, the kind that only ever happens when the two of you are alone. You shove his face into the soil, and he grabs a fistful to smear across your mouth, trying to get you off of him. He’s laughing too, and he will deny it just as fiercely as you will, because the moment the two of you step out of the garden and back under the assessing gaze of his family, everything will have to return to how it should be, because you are not friends, cannot be friends, he is a boy, the Zenin heir, and you are just a girl.

(“Five points rewarded!” the kogane chirps next to where you’re crouched on the ground, hovering around your head like an irritating fly. You try to swat at it, but it only disappears and reappears on the opposite side of your head. “Five points rewarded!” 

“I know,” you say. “Be quiet.”

You can’t track down the cursed spirit. It’s in here—you know it is. As soon as you entered the barrier, you consulted the Kogane’s list of players and activated your maximum technique to pinpoint where it might be, casting your cursed energy thinly across the whole arena. There are hundreds of cursed energy signatures—well, two less now—but only one that you are intimately familiar with. You hate how similar it is. Not him—not quite—but close enough that it makes your chest seize when you first recognize it in the arena. An echo warped by death and hatred, but him in a way that’s impossible to deny. 

A few hours ago, it was lingering in the same area as that abandoned building the two of you were sent to a few years ago to exorcise that special grade curse. You hate that too, because you hate what it means—that it might remember, might be drawn there because it vaguely recalls Naoya’s history with you, or, at the very least, knows enough to know it was an important place. 

By the time you got there, it was gone—halfway across Kagoshima, moving quickly in the opposite direction—leaving you to deal with two sorcerers who had clearly sensed its presence and were looking to score some points for themselves. And you hate the idea of something born of Naoya’s cursed energy being hunted and exorcised by some garbage sorcerers, so when they turn their attention on you, you don’t hesitate.

You flip Naoya’s tanto knife casually in your hand, wiping the blood off on your sleeve, staring down at the engraving along its hilt. You run your thumb over the ridges before sighing, rising to your feet, and lifting your right hand, pointer finger brushing your forehead, thumb brushing your lip.

Time to try again.)

You are nine, and he is eleven, and you hate his brothers. You hate how they look down on him, you hate how they treat him, and you hate the way they make him feel uncomfortable. You tell yourself that it’s because they have no right to do so since they are weaker than him, but that doesn’t explain why you are frustrated to tears when you can only stand and watch as they needle him into something small and unrecognizable. It also doesn’t explain the glee you feel when Naotaka’s expression shifts in surprise when you take Naoya’s side after finally being given the opportunity to speak—they want him alone and vulnerable, you realize, more prone to making mistakes. 

You decide—out of spite, of course—that you will make sure he never is, even if you do hate him. The two of you are enemies, but you’re attached to him as his betrothed, so if he loses standing, then so do you. But it was never spite, and it was never hatred; he was never your enemy, no matter how much you insisted otherwise. He was always just yours, and you would be damned before you let his useless brothers—or anyone—hurt him the way they were trying.

He is eleven, and you are nine, and Naoya falls in love with you for the first, but certainly not the last, time. You do not know this—you will never know this—but he does, and it is this that he thinks of when he is trying to claw his way back to the estate, trying to get to his phone, get to you before it’s too late. He has loved you for longer than he’s ever been willing to admit, he has loved you through years of distance and terrible fights, he has loved you since you were an annoying girl who didn’t know her place and he was a bratty boy who thought himself better than everyone. He has always loved you, he thinks as the knife plunges through his back, always, always, always, but always was not long enough—not for him.

(You think the cursed spirit is hiding from you. Every time you track it down to where it should be lurking, it disappears halfway across the city. It’s like an awful game of cat and mouse, and you realize that if that cursed spirit retained Naoya’s technique, you’ll never catch up to it while it’s playing with you like this. You can’t keep using your technique to track it down either—every time you use it, it puts more strain on your body, and there are too many sorcerers in this arena to put yourself at risk like that. 

You also don’t know what that means about the cursed spirit, either. You don’t think it’s actively avoiding all sorcerers, because you’ve stumbled upon areas it was in after it left and found the corpses it left behind. It specifically seems to be avoiding you, and it’s eating you alive. 

Could the cursed spirit have really retained Naoya’s consciousness? It came here to Kagoshima and went specifically to the building where the two of you reunited, and it seems to be actively avoiding you and no one else. Is it just primal instincts? Lingering remnants of Naoya influencing it to go where places that he might’ve gone, warning it that you might be a danger to it because of your technique? Or is it something else?

You don’t have time to think about it.

“Kogane,” you bark, waiting for it to manifest. “How many points do I have?” 

“Twenty-five points!” the Kogane tells you. 

“If I kill a player with more than five points, will I obtain their points?” you ask.

“You will not!”

Your lip curls up in frustration, looking out over the city from the rooftop you’re perched on. You can’t sustain your technique long enough to hunt it down without killing yourself, so the only option left is to try to get a rule implemented that allows you to track down other players. 

Which means you have to start hunting.

How tiresome, you think. Why does he always have to make things so difficult for you?)

You are ten, and he is twelve, and you miss him. For the first time in four years, Sunday comes and goes without an invitation to the Zenin estate. Your father is angry at you, and your brothers find it all too funny, but there is a lump in your throat that you can’t explain, and an inexplicable emptiness in your chest where there should only be happiness, because you hate going to the Zenin estate. You convince yourself that you are only annoyed that this is all falling on you when it wasn’t your fault. 

You are lying—you are always lying. You wonder now why you lied to yourself so much back then, and you wonder, maybe, if the two of you might’ve had more time together if you didn’t.

He is twelve, and you are ten, and Naoya hurts in a way that’s hard to explain—he is embarrassed, he is frustrated, and he is in pain from many nights in the disciplinary pit, because it is his fault that you’ve gone to Gojo Satoru. More than that, he is inexplicably sad, and he cannot bring himself to walk anywhere near the garden anymore, and he refuses to try to understand why that is.

He is twelve, and you are ten, and Naoya thinks for the first time that he might love you. It is a fleeting thought, but he’s unsure what else the tightness in his chest might be when you stand in his bedroom after sneaking out of your clan’s estate, hiking fifteen miles through the forest to get to the Zenin estate, just so you can stand in front of him and ask him if the two of you are still engaged.

He is twelve, and you are ten, and Naoya realizes you are the first, and only, person who has ever wanted him—chosen him—without him having to prove he earned it first.

(“Five points rewarded! Five points rewarded! You are now at fifty-five points!” 

“Wait, wait, wait!” the sorcerer gasps as he scrambles away from you, nails scraping against the concrete, leaving bloody tracks. You stare down at him, head tilted to the side, waiting for him to speak. “I only just came back, I don’t want to die again, I—”

“Again?” you ask, brows furrowing. “What are you talking about?”

The man’s eyes widen, and yours narrow. 

Does it have something to do with this Culling Game? Came back? Die again? Is the Culling Game bringing people back to life? Irrationally, hope begins to bloom in your chest—could you bring Naoya back? If a cursed spirit born of his energy is darting around the arena, is there a way you could bring him back as he was? You shouldn’t get your hopes up—you shouldn’t, you know that—but you want him back so bad that it makes you physically ill. 

“I’ll explain, if you promise not to kill me,” the sorcerer nods, eyes wide and searching as he stares up at you.

You don’t have the time or energy to play these games. 

“Sure,” you agree. “Explain.”

The man swallows hard, hands shaking as he props himself up on one elbow, blood slicking the concrete beneath him. “I’m—” he pants, eyes darting like you might change your mind any second. “I’m not from this era. Not originally. I died hundreds of years ago.” Your heart thuds in your ears. “The—the one who started this, he made contracts with us before we died. Our souls were preserved and sealed into cursed objects, and when this game began, we were incarnated into modern bodies.”

Contracts before death. Souls preserved. The words ring through your head painfully loud. You knew this was going to be the case—there is no bringing someone back from the dead, not really—but you are still flooded with such a bitter feeling that it makes you sick. Why do these people get a second chance? And why does their second chance come at the cost of so much to you? Satoru, Naoya—everything that’s happened the past two weeks, is it really all to bring back some dead sorcerers? Why? Why? You don’t understand. You don’t fucking understand. What did they do to deserve a second chance? Why did they take Satoru and Naoya? You miss them, you miss him, you miss him so bad that you can’t breathe, that—

“So, you’re telling me that this all began because a bunch of washed up sorcerers who couldn’t survive in their eras think they have some right to the modern one?” you ask, lips trembling. Rage, grief, indignation at the sheer unfairness of it all. Fuck, you think furiously, what the fuck? “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“We—it’s not like that,” he disagrees. “We were strong in our era, and—”

“Five points rewarded!” 

You stare down at the sorcerer as blood pools around his head, seeping from his cut throat.

“Kogane. Show me the information of all of the reincarnated sorcerers in this arena.”)

You are eleven, and he is thirteen, and you learn that he can’t hold your gaze when he tells a lie. You learn a lot of things about him that year—the way his eyes shift the moment he goes from feeling angry to cornered, the difference in how he holds himself when he’s in a good mood versus a bad mood, how when he thinks people aren’t looking, his shoulders slump a little, uncertainty slipping into the curve of his lips as he observes the men around him, trying to figure out how he should act—but this is your favorite, even as silly as it is. You don’t use it against him, not usually at least. You keep it to yourself, something small and private that belongs only to you. 

Once, you ask him, do you think I’m pretty, Nao-chan? and he snaps at you, tells you to stop calling him that stupid nickname, and then calls you hideous. His gaze flits away as he says it, and you find yourself smiling, which only makes him even more annoyed, but there is a skip in your step as you follow him to the garden.

(You miss him.

You choke on air as something warm and wet splatters across your face. Your vision is blurry, and there is a terrible ache in your chest that won’t go away. Not now, you tell yourself again, not now, you can’t crash now.

“Five points rewarded! You are now at seventy points!” 

Your eyes slide shut as you force away the tears that suddenly prick at your eyes. You can see the sun breaching the horizon, and you are angry, you are grieving, because how dare the dawn always insist on coming when your world ends. How dare it be warm, how dare it be bright, how dare it pretend that anything is still moving forward when you are standing in knee-deep blood that isn’t his. The corpse at your feet twitches once before going still, eyes glassy and unfocused, mouth slack.

For a second, you blink, and you are back at the Zenin estate, and it is Naoya at your feet, his blood on your blade, his death on your hands. Bile burns the back of your throat, and you stumble away before you double to your hands and knees and hurl the small meal your cousins forced you to eat before you left. 

How long has it been? You’re not sure. Everything bleeds together. You haven’t slept at all. It feels like an eternity since you held Naoya in your arms, and it feels like five seconds ago, all the same.

You miss him. 

You miss him.

You just want him back.)

You are twelve, and he is fourteen, and he acts strange around you in a way that’s hard to articulate. It makes you angry, and even now, you’re not sure why it did, because he was being good to you. You suppose even as a kid, you hated the idea of things changing. 

You don’t know that he covers for you whenever you slip up in front of the wrong people. You don’t know that he scoffs at his uncles when they mention off-handedly that you might not be fit to be a Zenin wife. You don’t know that whenever you’re not paying attention, he catches himself staring at you, a tight feeling in his chest that he smothers deep beneath pride and derision.

You don’t know a lot of things, and you will never know a lot of things. Maybe in the next life things will be different.

(Distantly, you understand that they do not deserve to die.

You are angry and grieving, and you cannot avenge Naoya the way you should, so you are unleashing your rage onto these sorcerers, who made the mistake of making a contract with the wrong person. They are not the ones who took him from you. They are not the ones who shattered your future and left you standing in the ruins with blood on your hands and nothing left to hold onto.

You cut them down all the same anyway.

“Five points rewarded! You are now at eighty-five points.”)

You are thirteen, and he is fifteen, and he is angry at you all the time now. You don’t understand why he’s angry because you only told him that he should do what you both want, and get his father to end the engagement. Now you know that was something he never wanted—I always wanted you, he tells you in the rain years later, even back when we were kids—and you realize that he had been under the mistaken belief that you had begun to want him back. But— 

But he had no right to be angry, you think with tears in your eyes—he should’ve said something sooner. Then maybe—then maybe you wouldn’t have lost three years, then maybe you might be married, then maybe, then maybe, then maybe.

(Maybe you can bind it to you in the same way Orimoto Rika was bound to Okkotsu Yuta. 

The thought bounces in your head, taunting, dangerous, entirely irrational, but you cannot push it away. If this cursed spirit has partially retained Naoya’s consciousness… If it understands enough to know who you are, if it understands enough to know the importance of Kagoshima and that abandoned building, then perhaps, it has retained enough of Naoya for you to cling to it. For you to convince yourself that he’s not gone.

The thought is reckless, you know that. And you know how dangerous it is. You have seen what that kind of attachment does. You know the cost. Orimoto Rika was not saved by love, she was damned by it, twisted into something monstrous because a boy couldn’t bear to let her go. 

And yet. 

If there is even a fragment of him left in it—if there is something there that remembers your voice, then maybe you can give it a shape that isn’t hatred incarnate. Maybe you can keep it from hurting anyone else. Maybe you can keep it from becoming something that would have disgusted him if he were alive to see it. Maybe you can keep him.

You would carry him with you always. You would feel him everywhere. You would never be alone again. You would not have to suffer to live through a world without him.

Maybe.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.)

You are fourteen, and he is sixteen, and you find yourself staring at him all too often—at the way his shoulders have started to broaden, at how his voice drops when he’s annoyed, at the sharpness of his profile when he watches you from the corner of his eye to see if you’re looking. You tell yourself that it’s nothing, that you’re only noticing the changes because you’ve known him forever, but your chest does something uncomfortable when he catches you looking and tosses you a smug smirk and a wink instead of getting mad. 

You start to look away first, eyes wide and face hot, heart beating way too fast for no reason you’re willing to name, and he starts to watch you when you aren’t paying attention, gaze soft and lingering, and a tightness in his chest that he has long stopped denying—to himself, at least. You wish you had stopped denying it sooner, too.

(You trick yourself into thinking that you have already forgotten his face. 

It is ridiculous, because it has not even been two days and you have known him your entire life, but you are exhausted, running on fumes and grief, and you haven’t slept because you are scared to see him waiting for you in your dreams, angry and accusing, demanding to know why you won’t avenge him. When your lashes flutter, and you cannot immediately picture his face before you found him that morning on the floor, without the blood and gore, partially caved in, you double over and throw up again, even though there is nothing left in you to give anymore. 

You heave and sob, clutching at your chest, your mouth, nails digging into the palm of your hands so deep that blood drips between your knuckles to the concrete. Why can’t you picture him? Why can you only see him like that? Why do you see the golds of his eyes dull and lifeless, instead of dancing with amusement? Why is his expression slack and empty, instead of smug and infuriating?

Naoya, you sob, forehead pressed against the cold concrete—you miss him, you want him back, there is no place for you in this world anymore, not without him.)

You are fifteen, and he is seventeen, and you have lost him for the first, but not the last time. You don’t know at the time that it is only temporary, and you don’t know why it feels like the end of the world. You cannot explain to your brothers why you’re crying when they come to find you the first Sunday after the engagement is called off. 

He is yours, you understand now that you knew it even back then. There’s no future for you without him in it, and that is why the end of your engagement—the most permanent type of loss in your innocent, childish mind—felt so wrong. You just couldn’t—wouldn’t—put it into words. He is yours, he is yours. He has always been yours, and you have always been his. The two of you are bonded in a way that no one can ever understand, and there is no world where you can lose him and move on with your life.

(“You are now at one hundred points! Do you want to spend them to add a new rule to the Culling Game?” 

“Yes. I want to add an extension to Rule Nine. I want the real-time locations of all players to be disclosed, not just what colonies they’re a part of.”

“This is acceptable! The rule will be announced to all players immediately!” 

You stare at the ground, heart thudding in your ears. You press your hands against your thighs, eyes sliding shut. It’s time now, you realize—you can go after the cursed spirit without having to use your technique. It will have to run out of cursed energy eventually, will have to stop running, and you will just keep hunting it down until it does. You don’t have to worry about frying your own brain with your technique now that you can just track it through the Kogane.

It’s time. 

And yet—

“How many more reincarnated sorcerers are in this arena?” you ask the Kogane tightly.

“There are fifteen reincarnated sorcerers currently in the Sakurajima Colony!” 

“Show me the location of the closest one.”)

You are sixteen, and he is eighteen now. Today is his birthday, and you are lying in bed alone, staring at your phone and a message that doesn’t go through: Happy birthday, asshole. Wanna go do something? Your throat swells with frustration as you look at it for a moment before you throw your phone at the wall, bitter and angry and lonely. You think, maybe, that you should take it as a sign, and you call up Satoru to see if he wants to go to a movie instead.

You tell yourself it’s fine, that you’ll get used to his absence in your life, but it was as impossible then as it is now.

He is eighteen, and you are sixteen, and it is his birthday. He sits in the garden alone, watching the naked branches of the cherry blossoms sway back and forth in the wind. His father comes looking for him, drunk, and he laughs as he slaps Naoya on the shoulder. Nearly dying because of that girl, only for her to run off with the Gojo boy. Stupid boy, this is what you get for attaching yourself to a woman. I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Naoya’s lips tighten into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and he wonders why he is never enough as is. 

(It’s your fault.

“Five points rewarded!”

It’s your fault that he is dead. 

“Five points rewarded!” 

You knew this was going to happen. You knew something bad was coming. You knew that if he walked away from you in that tunnel, you would never see him again, and you let him walk away anyway. It’s your fault. 

“Five points rewarded!”)

You are seventeen, and he is nineteen, and it’s been almost two years, but you still don’t go a day without him crossing your mind. Satoru tries to keep you distracted with training, and missions, and even helping you get promoted to Special Grade One as a slap in the face to the Zenin, whose men were traditionally the only ones allowed to bear that title, but your mind always goes back to him. 

Everything always goes back to him.

He is nineteen, and you are seventeen, and all he ever hears about is you and Satoru. He has always vowed to keep far away from alcohol, having grown up with his father the way he did, but when whispers reach him about how it seems likely that you and Satoru will be married within the year, he cracks open a bottle of sake and drowns himself in his sorrows. He types up long, hateful, accusatory messages, blaming you for screwing everything up when things were good, for giving him hope when you always intended on turning your back on him, for convincing him that there was someone out there who wanted him for him and not his technique or his title, but he never sends them. 

The line between love and hatred had always been terribly thin for the two of you, from the day you met him to the day you lost him, but he knows that this is real, deep-seated hatred. He can feel it in his blood, his bones, his soul. He has been humiliated so many times before, but never like this, never by you. He never wants to see you again, he decides, and he thinks he hates most of all that he knows he’s only lying to himself. 

I wouldn’t have done this to you, he almost sends while drunk one night. I never would’ve fucking done this to you. 

(“Next.”

“There are no more reincarnated sorcerers currently in the Sakurajima Colony!” the Kogane chirps.

“None?” you exhale, throat swelling immediately. If there are none left, then… “But—”

“That is correct! There are none left!”

Fuck, you think, letting out a shaky breath. What the hell are you supposed to do now?)

You are eighteen, and he is twenty, and for the first time in three years, you can breathe. You laugh freely, and it startles you how easily it comes, how natural it feels to be standing at his side again after so long apart. You fall into sync as though no time has passed at all, and you realize, distantly, that the tightness you’ve carried for years has vanished. You had been pushing through each passing day with Satoru at your side, dragging you along with him, but there was an inexplicable emptiness in you that could never be filled. You understand now that living—really living—only feels possible with him at your side.

(You are putting off what needs to be done. 

You stumble off to a nearby convenience store, grabbing a bottle of liquor before curling up in the corner of the store. You try not to drink too much when you’re around Naoya, so it feels wrong having the bottle in your hands like this, the ring he gave you pressed against its neck, but Naoya is gone. Naoya is gone. Naoya is gone. The thought rings through your head over and over again. Naoya is gone, and you are alone. Naoya is gone, and he is a liar. Naoya is gone, and you could have stopped him. Naoya is gone, and it’s because of you. 

You throw the bottle at the wall, and you scream.)

You are nineteen, and he is twenty-one, and everything is okay again.

It is enough. He is enough. 

As long as you have him, it will always be enough.

(You wonder if you’ll be able to do it—exorcise a cursed spirit born of Naoya’s energy. 

You lie in the middle of a roundabout at a park near a primary school, staring up at the sky. You flip Naoya’s tanto knife into the air above you, watching it spin and spin and spin until it begins to drop back down toward you. You catch the hilt as the tip grazes between your eyes. 

It’s not Naoya, not really, you know that, no matter how much that thought of trying to bind it to you lingers. It wouldn’t be him. Not your Naoya. It wouldn’t laugh the way he did. It wouldn’t argue with you over nothing. It wouldn’t sulk when you won. It wouldn’t curl around you in its sleep and then get embarassed in the morning. It wouldn’t kiss you, wouldn’t hold you, wouldn’t smile smugly against your neck when you shiver. 

It wouldn’t be him. 

It wouldn’t be enough.)

You are twenty, and he is twenty-two, and you have lost everything, but never him, and that will always be enough for you to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even as the world tries to take more than it has any right to.

(You felt it the moment he died, you realize later. 

In the forest, before you noticed the cursed spirit coming toward you. You stumbled, and your hand flew to your chest, an empty feeling spreading through you. You convinced yourself that it was nothing, just you spiraling from fear and stress after days of being wound up, but that must have been it. That was the moment he died, that was when the knife was plunged into his back, when he couldn’t muster enough cursed energy to protect himself. 

He didn’t leave quietly—he never did anything quietly, you think, almost fondly. He tore a piece of you loose and dragged it with him, because the two of you had been too intertwined for any ending to be clean. This was always going to happen one way or another. There is no world where he dies, and you can just…

Your eyes slide shut.

Not yet—you can’t fall apart yet.)

You are twenty-one, and he is twenty-three, and you think that you’re losing him again. You’re choking on air as you leave the Zenin estate, desperately trying to hold yourself together. You cannot let yourself fall apart, not yet, but then he comes running, and he wants you, he’s always wanted you, he tells you, voice ragged, desperate for you to believe him. He is yours, and you are his—you have always been each other’s, and looking at him in front of you now, you wonder why you waited so long to admit this to one another.

He is twenty-three, and you are twenty-one, and he knows that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. He does, but not as long as he had hoped for.

(You blame him. 

He should’ve just come with you. 

He should’ve listened to you.

He should’ve trusted you.

He should’ve, he should’ve, he should’ve. 

“Five points rewarded!”)

You are twenty-two, and he is twenty-four, and things are easy, and you are happy. 

You wish that this would last forever.

(You hate him.

A thick, purple substance splatters across your cheek as you kill a cursed spirit.

“Five points rewarded!” 

You hate him.

You pull your knife out of another’s throat.

“Five points rewarded!”

You hate him.)

You are twenty-three, and he is twenty-five, and you are balanced on the edge of a life that almost makes sense, one hand in his as he pulls you forward and the other still brushing the past, loosened at last, finally starting to let go.

(“I don’t know how you did it,” you gasp to someone who isn’t listening, teeth grinding together. You press your fists to your eyes, fighting another sob. You want to scream again, but you can barely breathe. “I don’t know how you did it, Satoru. I’ll never be able to move on from this. You were right. It really is the most fucked up curse of all.”)

You are twenty-four, and he is twenty-six, and he wants to marry you, and you think that you want to marry him too. You have never liked the idea of you two being defined by words, so you test him, poking at his boundaries, trying to see just how far he’ll go to woo you into marriage. You learn quickly that there are no lengths he wouldn’t go to for you, no unreasonable request he wouldn’t fulfill, no pride he wouldn’t swallow if it meant keeping you happy. It is unwavering—he is unwavering—so when he brings you to watch the sunrise by the cherry blossoms, and he finally asks you what he’s been hinting at for months, you say yes without hesitation, and you never second-guess yourself once. 

He is twenty-six, and you are twenty-four, and he almost lost you. He hides the fear behind anger, as he always tends to do, but he never forgets the way his stomach dropped when you hit the ground or how his fingers shook as he pulled you into his arms. He spits at you for being stupid and reckless, throws your own words right back in your face—you’re a sorcerer, not a hero—and makes cruel comments about how you’re not fit for combat just to get under your skin. 

The two of you fight a lot during the month you’re bedridden, and Naoya only lets the anger drain to exhaustion when he’s sure you won’t see it. He sleeps curled around you like a guard dog, arm locked tight around your waist, breath shallow and uneven like he’s afraid that if he lets himself relax, you’ll disappear. When you stir, even just a little, his hold tightens instinctively, fingers pressing into your body. He wakes at every sound, every shift in your breathing, and you catch him more than once staring at you in the dark, eyes wide and unblinking, watching the rise and fall of your chest just to reassure himself that you’re still here. 

He does not want to know a life without you, and luckily, he will never have to.

(“Show me the location of the cursed spirit created from the cursed energy of Zenin Naoya.”)

You are twenty-five, and he is twenty-seven, and he is dead. One day, you will be twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and he will still be twenty-seven, and you think that is not something that you can live with. 

You are twenty-five, and he will always be twenty-seven, and you realize that there is no world where Naoya dies and you remain alive.

————————

NOVEMBER 14, 2018

It’s wearing his face.

It’s wearing his face.

Your breath is labored as you stare at the cursed spirit from across the street. You’d thought, maybe, that the sorcerers killed it—you weren’t sure whether to be relieved or furious, grateful or bloodthirsty. You’ve been battling yourself since you got to Kagoshima, because you don’t know if you’ll be able to kill something born of Naoya’s cursed energy, something that potentially retained fragments of his consciousness, but you also know that it can only be you. You won’t let some random sorcerer put it down like a rabid dog—it is not Naoya, and it’s certainly not Naoya enough, but it’s still—

It’s wearing his face.

It hasn’t noticed you yet, thrown into a blind rage by the sorcerers who are attacking it. You don’t recognize two of them—older men who don’t seem to belong to this era. You have half a mind to spit at the Kogane for lying to you and saying there were no other reincarnated sorcerers, but you realize that they probably entered the colony after your hunt, and you have more pressing issues right now anyway. 

You do recognize the other two—Zenin Maki and Kamo Noritoshi.

How fucking ironic. 

You watch Maki push herself to her feet after taking a blow from the cursed spirit. You can’t muster the anger you want to feel, not toward her, not toward Noritoshi, not toward the two reincarnated sorcerers, not even toward the thing wearing Naoya’s face—you are just tired. The exhaustion sinks into your bones, heavier than fear, heavier than rage. You are tired; you just want to rest. 

It moves wrong. Too feral. Too loose. Naoya’s movements were always sharp and precise when he was fighting, even when he was furious. This thing thrashes, overcommits, howls without words. It’s disgusting, and it has no right to wear his face the way it is. This is not Naoya, not enough, not even nearly.  

You step off the curb before you fully realize you’ve come to a decision. Asphalt crunches under your boots, and the cursed spirit falters just as it brings its hands up to use a hand sign, head snapping in your direction, gold eyes locking onto yours with something like confusion. Recognition, maybe. Its hands falter mid-motion, fingers twitching as though it forgot what it was doing. It makes you sick. This is not Naoya, and it should not look at you like Naoya would.

“Yo,” you say, voice bland, empty to even your own ears. “I’ve been looking for you, asshole. Why do you keep running from me, hm?”

It doesn’t respond to you. It blinks once. Twice. The same way Naoya always would when he was trying not to have a visible reaction to something that caught him off guard. You hate it—that thing is not Naoya, and it should not be acting like Naoya would. The ring on your fourth finger weighs impossibly heavy. You are so tired. 

Maki says your name, trying to get your attention, and you look at her over your shoulder. Whatever she sees in your face makes her falter. You say, “Stay out of this, Maki-chan. You and Kamo have done enough.”

Maki disagrees, shaking her head, “But—”

“Stay out of this,” you repeat, voice colder this time. “I won’t repeat myself again.” Maki’s nostrils flare as she inhales, preparing to disagree again, but Noritoshi grabs her arm, shaking his head. “Kogane, transfer all of my remaining points to Zenin Maki.”

“I cannot! There is no player called Zenin Maki participating in this game!”

Your eyes slide shut. You exhale and cast another dull look back at Noritoshi. “Kogane, transfer all of my remaining points to Kamo Noritoshi.”

How sick, you think. The words taste bitter on your tongue—giving everything you have left to a Kamo. How much more shame are you going to bring to the people you’ve lost?

The sins of the parent are not the sins of the child, you tell yourself again as the Kogane confirms the point transfer. You turn your attention back to the cursed spirit, and you hate that it’s still standing there. You hate that it’s frowning. You hate that its gaze is dragging between you and the other sorcerers like it's trying to understand what’s happening. Where did the rage go? The blind fury? The animal-like brutality? The hatred? The lust for vengeance? Why is it almost… docile right now? Why is it looking at you like this? Why is it looking at you like—

“I know you can speak,” you say. “Say something already.”

Its throat works once. Twice. When it finally speaks, the sound is wrong—rough and layered in a way that Naoya’s smooth timbre never was—but the cadence makes your stomach drop.

“... Took ya long enough.”

It shouldn’t sound like him. It doesn’t sound like him, but also—it does. It shouldn’t know how to give you that smug half-smile that drives you crazy, shouldn’t know how to drag the words out in the same way he always did when he was trying to piss you off. Your nails bite into your palms hard enough to hurt. You are so fucking tired.

“Hah?” you ask, swallowing down the lump that forms in your throat. “You were the one running from me like a little bitch. If anything, took you long enough to actually face me.”

You don’t even know why you’re indulging it in conversation. This is not Naoya. It does not matter if it’s wearing Naoya’s face. It does not matter if it has some strange mimicry of his voice. It does not matter that it has some of his mannerisms. 

It is not Naoya. Not your Naoya.

But—

What if it really is Naoya enough?

No, it isn’t. It can’t be.

It tilts its head again, the same wrong imitation of a familiar gesture. Gold eyes flick over you, lingering in the same places Naoya’s would—your eyes, your lips, the wound on your left side. Its lips curl down at that last one. 

“Still runnin’ around gettin’ yourself hurt,” it mutters, voice rough. “Thought I told you to stay away from all this shit. Lookit ya now, got yourself all hurt, all wound up. Was gonna come to you once I was ready. Shoulda just waited. Always so impatient.”

This is not Naoya.

This is a cursed spirit.

​​You hate that you're having to convince yourself of this. You shouldn't have given it the opportunity to talk. What were you thinking? Naoya told you this himself—curses that wear human faces lie and trick and beg and pretend. You grit your teeth, jaw aching from the effort to keep from reacting. You miss him. You want him back. But this isn’t him. It’s not him. It’ll never be enough. Not the way he was.

“Come to me?” you ask with a scoff, as though your heart isn’t in your throat, “And what did you expect, huh? That I would just accept some cheap imitation of Naoya with open arms? You’re not him. You’re just some half-baked cursed spirit wearing his face. Quit pretending you know me. Quit pretending to be him. You’re gonna make me hurl.”

You just want to rest. Why does he have to put you through this? Why couldn’t he just—

“... Pretend?” it echoes, and there’s something strange in its voice. You ignore it. “You think I’m fuckin’ pretending? It’s me. You know it’s me. You know it, y’fuckin’ bitch. Don’t stand there acting like you don’t recognize me. Are you serious right now?”

You don’t answer it this time. You keep Naoya’s tanto knife strapped to your forearm, hidden beneath your sleeve, and you pull out your own instead, leaning back on your heels before turning your attention back up to it. Naoya’s face stares back at you, something close to confusion slipping onto it when you pull out the knife—it’s not him, you know it’s not him, but how—how are you supposed to kill something that wears his face? When his face will be the one that twists in pain, shock, anger when you sink the knife in? How are you supposed to do that?

You’re so fucking tired. You’re so tired. You’re so tired.

You’ll have to use your technique, you force yourself to push down all of your treacherous thoughts. You only have to keep pushing a little more, then you can rest. With your technique activated, you’ll be able to see its movements without having to actually see it at all. All you’ll have to do is follow its cursed energy paths. You exhale through your nose deeply, lifting your hand up, and you watch as its eyes widen, and its face twists—fury, disbelief, worse, betrayal—as it realizes what exactly you’re here for. 

“You traitor bitch,” it shrieks at you. It doesn’t sound like Naoya this time, not at all. Too inhuman, twisted with rage and hatred. Naoya has been angry with you millions of times before, but he’s never sounded like this, never so hateful. “I came back for you! I came back for you! And you’re going to side with them? You’re choosing them?! I’m gonna kill you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you—”

Your lips curl up into a small smile as your eyes slide shut. His rage lights up the paths ahead of you in jagged, violent arcs, fast and amateurish, all force and no restraint. Not Naoya. Your Naoya was never so sloppy.

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

He lunges, and you are already moving.

The first strike tears through the space where your head was going to be a breath ago. You pivot on your heel, slipping inside the gap your technique showed you, blade flashing up in a clean strike that cuts through its arm. It makes a noise as the blade clips it, more surprised than angry or wounded, as though it didn’t actually expect you to try to hurt it. You can picture the wide-eyed, betrayed expression Naoya would direct toward you, and it makes your stomach churn.

Focus.

You slip past the next blow just as easily, feet moving on instinct, body remembering a rhythm that you learned a long, long time ago. It’s not Naoya, not really, but it favors its left side, the same way Naoya always used to, and it strikes with its right hand first, just like he would. You can almost imagine that the two of you are back at your estate, sparring in the training grounds while your brothers watched, can almost imagine laughing as you dodge another quick blow, gaze catching his as you toss a smile at his scowl, can almost imagine that this is all just for fun, that you’ll end this sprawled on the ground, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing the way you always do. You have to swallow back the lump that forms in your throat, ducking under a swing and driving your blade into its side. 

The cursed spirit is faster than Naoya was, and you can hear it laughing as it moves away, a shrill sound that scrapes at your ears. “Lookit me!” it demands, voice pitching high and low all at once. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, refusing. “I said, look at me! I’m stronger than I ever was—I’m better! Don’t get tired, don’t bleed, don’t need anyone, not even you, not even you!”

You pivot before the next strike even exists, something hot and wet tracks down your cheeks—you don’t know if it’s blood or tears, and you don’t want to know. Every second this fight drags on, the cursed spirit gets faster and faster, and you have to compensate by pushing your technique further, three steps to five, five to seven, seven to ten—you’ve never pushed past ten, and your head is pounding as you force yourself to. 

“Why won’t you fucking look at me?” it snarls, furious, swinging again, wild and overextended, desperate for you to look at it—really look—like it’s waiting for praise, recognition, for you to tell it that it’s enough for you. Naoya would do this too, would linger around and wait for you to acknowledge him, but he was never so open about it. “Look at me, y’fucking bitch. I don’t need you! I never did, I never needed you, fucking look at me!”

You need to get it to stop moving—to cut off the stacks of Projection Sorcery before it ramps up the speed to something you can’t physically react to in time. It doesn’t matter how far you see ahead if it keeps accelerating beyond what your body can handle. You grit your teeth as it flees again, backing away to pick up momentum, and you watch a path start to form behind you, cutting through buildings, tearing up the street, and your jaw tightens. You drop down right as it speeds past the stop sign at the end of the street, grabbing a fistful of crushed asphalt and swinging it upward, flinging it into where his face will be in a few moments.

“Fuck—” it gasps, and you can’t help the way your eyes flutter open as it stumbles back, getting caught in one of its own frames for a split second. Shock flickers across its face before rage swallows it whole. “Cheap fuckin’ trick.”

“Same trick,” you correct quietly. “Naoya never would’ve fallen for it.”

You hesitate for a second too long, gaze lingering on its face—Naoya’s face, his stolen face—and suddenly you’re looking up at the sky, vision white for half a heartbeat. Pain blooms along your spine, and before you can roll away, a familiar shadow looms over you

“Knew I’d get ya back where ya belong,” it says with an ugly sneer. “Always preferred you like this—flat on your fuckin’ back, spread out, lookin’ up at me with that helpless look in your eyes.”

It bends over you, grabbing your face between its fingers, and you glare up at it hatefully. Its skin is cold. You blink, and for a second, the face above you is half-caved in, blood and gore, and you’re back in the Zenin estate, holding him in your arms, begging the world not to take him from you too. 

Focus, you think, and you pray that the wetness on your cheeks is blood and not tears.

You grab the wrist of the hand holding your face as leverage, and you reach up, grabbing a fistful of its hair to yank it down to the ground with you. If you can keep it on the floor, it can’t dart around and regain momentum. It hits the pavement hard with a hiss of surprise, bodies colliding in an ugly sprawl. The impact rattles your teeth, and it snarls, flailing, trying to kick free, cursed energy spiking in erratic bursts as it tries to use Projection Sorcery to get off the ground, but you refuse to let go, pushing its face into the muddy asphalt like the two of you are eight and ten again, rolling around in the garden.

“Get off!” it shrieks, clawing at you, trying to buck you off, and you jab your knee hard into its side. It lets out a sharp and startled yelp, and for a split second, you remember the way he would let out obnoxious squeaks when the two of you were children and you got a good hit in, face flaming red as you make fun of him. You almost let a laugh slip out, but catch yourself. You think you are crying. “Get off!”

You can’t kill it with your bare hands, you know that, but your hands find its throat anyway. Your fingers tighten around it, nails digging in as if you can choke the rage out of it. Its blood isn’t even red—murky purple, disgusting beneath your nails. Not Naoya, not your Naoya. You shut your eyes again, you can’t look at it. It thrashes beneath you, clawing at your arms, dragging red lines through your biceps, but you stay there, knees planted around its waist, grip on its neck tightening, tears and blood alike spilling over your cheeks in hot, uncontrollable streams.

“Why—” you choke out, voice breaking as your grip tightens. “Why couldn’t you have just come over? Why couldn’t you have just listened? Just this once?”

“Get off!” it continues to shriek. You think that it could probably force you off if it really wanted to, but it doesn’t. It claws and screams and tries to roll you off of it to get the upperhand, and you wonder if whatever is left of Naoya in there has fallen back into memory, just like you: knees in the dirt, hands everywhere, neither of you willing to give an inch, breathless and furious and laughing despite yourselves, limbs tangled in the garden mud because neither of you ever knew how to stop. It’s all the same—nothing’s ever changed. You think it was always going to end this way, one way or another. “Get off, get off, get off!”

“Shut up!” you scream, the sound tearing out of you raw and ugly. You hold his throat tighter and shake furiously. “Shut up! Tell me why! Tell me why you had to run off like that! Why did you have to be so fucking stupid? Why did you have to leave? You were always enough for me, why wasn’t I ever enough for you, you fucking asshole?” 

The cursed spirit bucks beneath you again, rage flaring, but there’s something else there too now—confusion, fury tangled with something like pain. It spits again, “I was gonna fix it. I was gonna come back. I did come back. I always fuckin’ come back, don’t I? I’m here—with you. I did it. I fuckin’ did it,” You can’t look at it, eyes still squeezed tight, “and I’m stronger now, faster, can’t you see? Why won’t you look at me? Look at me! Just fuckin’ look at me! Fuck!” 

You do, finally, and Naoya stares up at you, gold eyes wild and unfocused, too bright, too sharp, burning with something that is not life. The face is his and it isn’t all at once. For a second—just a split second—you see it: the boy who kicked dirt at your ankles, the man who always came back to you, the idiot who loved you so fiercely that it curdled into something ugly when he didn’t know how to deal with it. Your chest aches, a shuddering breath spilling from your lips, and then—

Then it’s gone, swallowed by something feral and wrong. 

It knocks you off of it in your moment of hesitation, and your back hits the asphalt hard, pain jolting up your spine as the breath punches out of your lungs. You skid across the street, shirt tearing, skin burning, ears ringing. You’re in so much pain, you are so tired, and you push yourself back up to your feet anyway. It’s gone already, back to using its technique, trying to pick up speed again. Your head feels heavy and tired as you lift your hand back to activate yours, brain throbbing as his path becomes visible again.

You won't be able to keep outmaneuvering it, you realize. You're running out of energy. Everything hurts. You are tired—so tired. You need to end this—you're the only one who can end this, because you won't let Naoya—this thing born of his energy—die by anyone else's hands, not again. You owe him that much, since you didn't properly avenge him.

You see it all before it happens—before you even come to the decision yourself—you see the angle of its approach, the way it comes at you head-on, the moment it expects you to dodge. It always expects you to dodge, so did Naoya, because you always do.

Except this time, you don’t—can’t—don’t. You don’t know for sure. Don’t know if it matters. Don’t care if it matters. You are tired—physically, mentally, and your limbs won’t cooperate with you either way. You need to end this, need to get close enough to reach the cursed spirit's core.

Its hand spears toward your chest, powered by its cursed energy—Naoya’s warped cursed energy—and pain detonates through you, blinding. The impact knocks the air from your lungs in a broken gasp as its hand drives clean through muscle and bone. Warmth floods your chest, and your knees almost buckle.

It freezes, like it’s unsure what just happened.

“What—” it breathes out. “You—why didn’t you—”

You grab its wrist for leverage and force yourself forward, deeper on its arm, before you sling your arms around its shoulders, a twisted mimicry of a hug. You flatten your palm against its upper back, right over the stab wound that killed your Naoya. Your face drops into the crook of its neck, and you say softly, “It’s here, isn’t it? The core?”

It doesn’t seem to register what you said. “Why didn’t you dodge?” it demands again. “Why didn’t you dodge, y’bitch? Why didn’t you dodge?!”

You exhale, blood bubbling at your lips, and you free Naoya’s tanto knife from where it’s hidden beneath your sleeve, and you muster all that’s left of your cursed energy to infuse it into the blade before you drive it into him. 

It gasps—raw and startled and terribly familiar—the blade sinks in with sickening ease, plunging right into the cursed spirit’s core. It goes rigid in your arms, the hand buried in your chest trembles once, before it pulls it out, but it doesn’t push you away like you expect. Its breath tears out in a sound that is too close to your name, and it staggers, leaning into you, and for a moment, you’re pressed together in some grotesque parody of an embrace—blood slicking your clothes, face, hands, pooling beneath the two of you and staining the asphalt. 

“Can’t believe the most romantic thing we’re ever gonna do is die together,” you murmur hoarsely, choking on what you think is a laugh. All of the anger and grief that has been plaguing you for days shifts into something closer to acceptance, eyes sliding shut briefly. This was always how it was going to happen, you think again—you and him dying together like this. One way or another, you always find your way back to each other, even now, even for this. Especially for this. You think, maybe, you wouldn’t have had it any other way. “Asshole, we could’ve gotten married if you weren’t so fucking stubborn.”

“You’re the fuckin’ stubborn one,” he rasps, and like you, all of the rage and malice that caused him to be reborn drains away into something far more human, forehead dropping against your shoulder. “Makin’ me wait for years, then finally agreein’ and wanting to wait even longer for the damn cherry blossoms.”

“All seems so dumb now,” you sigh, propping your chin on his shoulder, gaze lifting to the clear skies. “Could’ve had so much more time together.”

“I woulda waited longer,” he tells you quietly. “However long it took.”

Your knees finally buckle, and he eases you down to the ground before collapsing next to you. His body is disappearing slowly, the lower half first, creeping upward—a cursed spirit, not your Naoya, you remind yourself, but you don’t have it in you to keep making the distinction anymore. Naoya enough, just for a little bit. He’s so fucking stubborn, you think, almost fondly. Even as a cursed spirit, he’s clinging on to his form when most would’ve dissolved the moment the blade pierced its core. 

“Let me go first this time, okay?” you breathe out, head dropping to rest on his shoulder, vision blurring a bit at the edges. You think you feel him reach for your hand, but your limbs are numb, and you don’t have the strength to look down and check. “It’s only fair.”

“Talkin’ about fairness when ya stabbed me in the back,” he mutters. “Y’got some nerve, y’know that?”

You laugh at that, blood bubbling slightly at your lips, eyes sliding shut. He laughs too. You can feel his shoulders shaking beneath your head

There’s a pause, and then you feel pressure on your fingers. You’re right, you realize, he is holding your hand, fingers entwined with yours, thumb brushing over the ring on your fourth finger. You try to squeeze, but the movement is small and clumsy, everything you have left. 

After a moment, he tells you quietly, “I’m sorry. I thought—I didn’t—”

“Quit apologizing,” you mutter. “You’re gonna make me sick. I’m already dying, don’t make it more painful.”

He lets out a huff of air—a laugh, you think—and then asks, “Are we… okay?”

You smile, faint and tired, mind starting to slip. “Idiot, we’ll always be okay.”

“Next time, let’s not fuck around so much, yeah?” he exhales, long and shaky. “Let’s do it right.”

“Yeah, that… that sounds really nice.”

————————

NOVEMBER 25TH, 2018

Satoru asks about you a few days after he’s unsealed. 

(“If she’s not here, then…” Maki grimaces and looks away at his words. Satoru lets out a sigh, an unreadable expression crossing his face as he stares ahead. “How did it happen?”

“It didn’t have to happen,” Maki replies, jaw tight and lips pinched. “If she had just let Kamo-kun and I handle Naoya—”

Satoru’s eyes widen. “Naoya killed her?” he asks, voice riddled with shock. “I was only sealed for three weeks, right?” 

“Naoya came back as a cursed spirit after he died,” Maki says after a moment, and something close to understanding flashes through Satoru’s eyes as soon as he hears it, already having figured out where this is going. “She insisted on exorcising him herself. Wouldn’t accept help. She—I think she purposely—”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Satoru lets out a huff of air, gaze solemn as he turns it up toward the sky. “She was always stubborn as hell. Man, she picked the worst possible time to pull something like this, didn’t she? Her technique would’ve been game-changing for this fight.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” Maki murmurs quietly. “I know you two were really close, sensei. You should know, it was—”

He lifts a hand, stopping her without looking at her. “Don’t. I don’t need the details.” His gaze drops back down to the ground. “She made her choice, and I won’t disrespect her by pretending I don’t understand it.” He tosses Maki an easy, familiar smile, mask slipping back into place. “I did warn her. Guess I get to tell her ‘I told you so’ one day. C’mon. Let’s get back to work. No rest for the wicked, right?”)

————————

I actually contemplated so many different endings for this fic, but I feel as though this one was the most fitting for them. If you’re curious, my two big options were: 1) what I’m going to do for the alternate ending, where the Naoya still got caught up in the Zenin Massacre but he was alive when she got there, he was in a coma for a few months before he wakes up again, and 2) Naoya goes to her instead of going back to the Zenin estate. This was my initial idea for the ending, he would go to her, they would end up showing up to help for the Shinjuku showdown arc, and then they would die during the Sukuna fight instead. But then I figured if I was going to kill them anyway, I think it would be best leaving it for canon, and then I got the lovely idea of her having to exorcise curse!naoya and I just had to go with it.

I think the part I struggled most with this part of the fic was balancing her dislike of the Zenins. I think its pretty apparent through the first three parts of the fic that she really does not like the Zenins as a whole (lends to the huge part of our girl being a major hypocrite). She was miserable being there as a kid, even when she started looking forward to seeing Naoya, because they treated her so poorly compared to how she was treated at her own clan's estate. I think I probably could have done a better job of displaying that back in part 1, because it mostly came off in implications (the interactions with Naotaka, how she was always very tense when people other than naoya were around, etc) but I was just more focused on her developing relationship with Naoya. Even when she returns at 19 at Naoya's invite, they literally isolate her and pretend she's not there, AND EVEN AFTER HER CLAN IS KILLED AND SHE BCOMES CLAN HEAD, they are very cold to her. She HATED the Zenins, and that's partially why she couldn't hold what Maki did against her, even without knowing Mai's death was the immediate cause of the massacre. But I was struggling very hard with balancing that & her reasoning as to why she couldn't bring herself to go after Maki when Naoya is literally her whole world, but eventually I just decided that it just would not feel right of her to do that because 1) she literally watched Maki grow up idolizing her as being everything the Zenins hated and THRIVING while being it, and 2) she's still a kid, one of Satoru's kids, one of HER kids really, because she was the one who helped her by talking to Satoru, and I just could not see her going for revenge with all of that taken into consideration alongside how she feels about the Zenins.

I also think it added on to her complicated treatment of Noritoshi and how she felt as if she never got revenge and dishonored her family. Like every time she's lost someone, she's never been able to properly avenge them, and it just adds into the tragedy of it all.

So dfjhusuhfasfd I wasn’t actually sure how to go about handling vengeful cursed spirit Naoya. I think it was pretty obvious in the manga that he retained A LOT of his previous personality whe he was reborn as a curse, and I wasn’t sure how far to extend it with our girl. Hatred/resentment is easy to retain when being reborn as a curse since its a negative emotion, but we see with Rika that love is twisted into something awful, so I thought it would be more fitting if it was partially displayed in resentment toward his dependency on her + his insatiable need for validation from her. So he retained most of his love for her, but it was seriously twisted + he was more aggressive/erratic as a curse. I lowkey probably screwed up a lot of cursed spirit lore with this HDFAIUFHSD especially that ending bit, but I don’t care because it fits the narrative I was trying to create. Their last conversation at the end was meant to reflect the conversation Rika had with Yuta after the curse was severed. 

Also probably screwed up the rest of the culling games by having her introduce a rule of her own, I don't even really know if the kogane would allow that rule, but you already know what I'm going to say: don't care since it builds the narrative I was trying to create KDAFHAIUHDFUASUHDF

Also to get one thing straight before I have people in my inbox annoyed: curse!naoya would have curb stomped her if he was actually taking it seriously. She can use her technique to read into future actions, so she would’ve lasted longer than most, but he eventually just would’ve been going too fast that it wouldn’t have mattered she could see ahead, because she just physically wouldn’t be able to react fast enough. That’s partially why she chose to just take the blow at the end, but I purposely left her reasonings up to interpretation so you could decide for yourself if she 1) let him kill her, 2) was too exhausted to keep fighting, or 3) did it for strategic purposes. Either way, curse!naoya was not taking the fight as seriously, because when he was reborn as a curse, it was partially in attachment to her, so he didn't want to intentionally hurt her, just like rika wouldn't want to intentially hurt yuta, even if it was very aggressive/angry at her. That’s also why it was so shocked at the end when she didn’t dodge.

I also think it’s so funny and we’re going to see this in the alternate ending I’m going to write, but I genuinely think if she’d been around for the Shinjuku showdown, things would’ve gone very differently SDKFJSIHFSUDFH I do need to reread it soon, and I have gojo mention it at the end, but her being able to trace paths however far ahead would have been game changing for the sole reason that she would’ve seen Sukuna’s world slash before it killed gojo when everyone assumed he won. All this to say, I’m a bit excited for the alternate ending because we’re going to get a cute (almost) everyone lives au