guilty pleasures

The bunny doll was much smaller this time, about the size of your open hand. Still white and floppy; now, its button eyes were blue and yellow. It actually resembled the original Satocchi. Yes, it did make you feel fucking guilty all over again.

“What do you mean ‘reborn’?” You asked with hesitance.

Gojo had his usual excited smile, usual uniform, usual bandages covering his eyes. The doll looked even smaller in his hand. 

“It was made with pieces of fabric and stuffing from the deceased Satocchi! So it’s like he’s reborn! Reincarnated, even! Isn’t it magic?”

You still hesitated.

“So… the principal was okay with what happened? He didn’t try to kill you?”

“He did.” Gojo giggled nervously. Made your stomach feel cold. “But Yaga’s also a really cool guy even though he acts tough! All it took was a little bit of talking. Anyway, your training buddy is back and kickin’!”

Satocchi Reborn’s role was the same: to make you produce and expand your cursed energy output until you could do it with barely to no effort. He’d still try to dance if you stopped. Except you wouldn’t train in the comfort of your home – you had to take him everywhere you went.

By “everywhere” he meant the hospital, of course, because you couldn’t go anywhere else.

You had to train in the ER.

The idea was pretty good, actually. You didn’t need to watch movies to go through a rollercoaster of emotions: your day was already filled with it – anytime EMS would storm into the hospital pushing a stretcher with a dying patient to tend. You’d always learned better under pressure as well. During school days, a dangerous deadline would make you learn stuff at the speed of light. So the possibility of Satocchi Reborn jumping out of your reach and breakdancing in front of all of your colleagues was enough pressure to make you learn “faster”.

That being said, you fucking hated it.

You almost never wore a white coat while at work because it felt impractical, given how much you had to move around – but now, to continue training, you had to put the plushie inside the pocket of the coat. You were always hyper aware of the thing there as if it was a steaming hot rock near your body. 

It’ll be okay. Pull the energy. Even flow. You got this.

It, in fact, was not okay.

You had practiced first in a controlled environment. Sitting on a couch, watching a movie that, despite yanking reactions and emotions from you, was still just a movie. It was completely different from feeling real life pressure. Not to mention the fact that you were moving around while pulling cursed energy, and you hadn’t considered it would be difficult, but guess what? It was.

Even flow, you kept repeating in your mind like a mantra. Not too much, not too little. Don’t stop pulling. Keep it going.

Satocchi Reborn hadn’t twitched yet, which should be a good sign.

Until the first emergency happened.

It came out of nowhere, as it always did, in what was otherwise a “calm” night shift. You had even given yourself the luxury of sitting down to sip a bit of coffee. 

“You, wearing a coat?” Watanabe-san asked, quirking one eyebrow. She herself held a cup of coffee. “Now that’s rare.”

You shrugged. “Felt like trying it a bit.”

She snorted. A little truth about doctors is that most like to wear coats to not be mistaken for nurses, even though within the Metropolitan, nurses wore teal scrubs while doctor scrubs were navy blue. Everyone that worked on emergency learned to be a little more humble, however. There wasn’t much time to catwalk around the halls showing off the white coats while you were busy trying to keep patients alive all the time. (Or did it make you all more arrogant compared to doctors whose tasks weren’t so urgent or complex? What a paradox).

The conversation was cut short the second the phone over the table rang.

Coffee was left behind. Satocchi Reborn twitched for the first time that night.

Even flow. Even flow. Even flow. It stopped moving.

Satocchi twitched for the second time the moment you laid eyes on the patient.

There was so much blood. It soaked the sheets underneath him. His body was motionless, skin pale as paper.

“Stab wound in the abdomen!” The paramedic explained quickly. “Found unconscious. Massive blood loss at the scene. Palpable systolic around 60. Heart rate 154. Intubated in the field.”

Stab wound. The paramedics had already cut his shirt, revealing the chest tubes and the awful sight of a deep gash on his stomach. You didn’t have time to ask many questions, but that man had obviously been assaulted. It was rare to tend to a victim of a violent crime like that. 

The team scrambled around the gurney quickly. A single look at the patient was enough to set everyone in that absolutely focused state. 

This time, you weren’t nervous because you had to take the lead; you were used to it. You didn’t question yourself for a second. You felt nervous, however, because Satocchi twitched in the pocket of the coat and the main part of your mind – the one that was trying to focus on the patient – had to stop for a second to yell EVEN FLOW.

It stopped twitching. You gulped.

“Activate the massive transfusion protocol now.” Your voice was hardened, firm, steady.

The good news is that Watanabe-san had let go of her coffee, too, and ran with you to tend the patient.

Watanabe-san was a nurse since you were still in your diapers. She was tiny and mean – in other words, she was perfect. That woman could take blood from a goddamned rock. There wasn’t a single person inside that hospital who didn’t respect and fear her. Whenever Watanabe-san joined, you immediately felt more confident. She was like a safe, reliable rock.

The bad news is that Umi was there, too.

She was nowhere as experienced. Nowhere as dependable. And you didn’t like her, either.

Don’t mind her. As long as she does her job right.

Before you had even finished speaking, Watanabe-san was already reaching for the phone, calling the blood bank. Meanwhile, Umi was standing there looking like a fucking idiot–

Satocchi twitched.

Even flow even flow even flow–

“Umi-san, I need two large-bore IVs,” you requested between gritted teeth.

“On it,” she said and finally moved.

Calm down. It’ll be okay. She’s new. Maybe she’s never seen a case like this.

Your mind went fully focused as you proceeded with the FAST ultrasound that only revealed worse news. The hemorrhage was absolutely appalling. Liquid had spread all over his abdomen down to his pelvis.

“Massive intra-abdominal hemorrhage. He’s going straight to the OR.” You didn’t need to look up to know Watanabe-san was once again on the phone, already calling surgery. 

Meanwhile, you noticed Umi struggling with the IV.

Holy fucking shit.

“I– I can’t get the vein.”

Maybe if you weren’t rushing with such a critical case, you would’ve been more patient. You would’ve thought, I guess she really never helped with a case this urgent. But there was no goddamn time. 

You felt Satocchi’s arm move a bit and froze for a second. It stopped.

“Intraosseous,” you ordered without taking your eyes off the ultrasound.

Umi hesitated.

“...I’ve never done one.”

“Then don’t.” You were fully aware that you sounded harsher than you’d usually sound. The other nurse by your side froze.

Can’t do an IO. Can’t pluck your eyebrows. Can’t not be fucking inconvenient. What the hell can you do?!

“Excuse me.”

Watanabe-san was already pushing Umi out of the way. Her excuse me sounded even harsher than what you’d said; that was a unique talent of hers. The lady had even less patience than you did. It took Watanabe-san twenty seconds to get the IO line in place and flowing.

Thank God she’s here, you silently breathed out. 

No one spoke much the following few minutes as the blood unit arrived. The team moved around the patient like clockwork, adjusting lines and taking care of the chest tube that the paramedics did on the way to the hospital. Your eyes went back to the monitor every two seconds. You just needed to keep the patient stable until the surgery team was ready to take him.

Then the monitor beeped loud.

BP: 46/28.

Shit.

Your own heart rate spiked.

“We’re losing him.” It was the first time you raised your voice. It seemed to send slight electric shocks throughout the entire team.

Umi stood there, you noticed, eyes widened and glued on the monitor, and Jesus Christ, you wanted to slap her.

Satocchi twitched. Even flow! Even flow!

“Umi-san.” Watanabe sounded like a mean teacher everyone was afraid of. Umi flinched. “You can panic later. Go get another unit of blood now.”

“Y-Yes!” She nodded and took off running.

You didn’t have time to see her going, however, because there was almost no output from his chest tube. You frowned and listened to the left lung again. Nothing.

“Shit,” you cursed quietly.

There was air stuck in the pleural space. That pressured air would keep squeezing his lungs until he’d go into shock.

He wasn’t breathing already.

Watanabe-san approached as well, already understanding the situation. “Need another chest tube?”

“No.” You grabbed a large-bore needle. “It’s a recurrent tension pneumothorax.”

You positioned the needle on his thorax with care after desinthetizing the area. You made a quick measurement of his chest, finding the space between his ribs with your fingertips and, without wasting a second, pierced it. Skin, muscle; a drop of thick blood dripped from the incision you inflicted. The decompression was immediate – you could even hear the sound of air escaping his body. His saturation climbed from 74% to 89%.

You allowed yourself a quick sigh of relief.

Satocchi didn’t move the entire time, a little part of you noticed, which should be a good sign, right? It felt that your emotions were stunted while you did the procedure.

Umi appeared again with a new blood unit. Watanabe didn’t have the patience to watch her struggle with it this time, however, snatching the bag from her hand, breaking the seal, connecting the tubing, priming the line and opening the flow wide – all in less than a minute. That woman was a beast. 

You didn’t even have time to thank God again for her being there, because you checked the patient’s pupils. Then the monitor. Then the bleeding. The cardiac rhythm had slowed.

There was no pulse. 

“He’s in arrest.”

The entire room shifted instantly.

“Start compressions!”

Watanabe rushed. Her palms were on the patient’s chest: deep, steady compressions. Perfect rhythm. 

Shit. Shit shit shit. You have to think. Think of a reversible cause.

Satocchi moved. You felt a twinge of panic and stomped your feet on the floor in an awkward movement because it’d make the coat flow a bit and disguise the critter’s movement inside the pocket, but oh well, there was a dying guy on the gurney, no one paid attention to that. You wanted to yank that fucking doll and throw it out the nearest window. I can’t deal with this! Not right now!!

“Hemorrhagic shock. Keep the blood going,” you ordered.

With the corner of your eye, you saw Umi reaching for a syringe of epinephrine.

“No,” you said firmly, lifting your finger at her, but what you really wanted to say was what the fuck are you doing?!

She looked confused.

“But he’s in cardiac arrest.”

“He’s in arrest because he’s bleeding to death. If we don’t restore his circulating volume, epi won’t fix this.”

Umi gulped and lowered the syringe. How the hell wouldn’t she know about this? It must be her first time, some part of you reasoned, while the other bitter part imagined yourself slapping her, while another part (the most important part, hopefully) was fully focused on the task of checking the chest tubes, eyeing the monitor and controlling the blood flow, as yet another part was sweating to keep the cursed energy output stable because the idea of Satocchi jumping out of the pocket and b-boying over a patient in arrest was way too terrifying to ignore.

Two minutes passed. No rhythm. You quickly took turns with Watanabe — deep, steady compressions. You felt that the ribs underneath your palms were broken; it was always a nasty feeling to do compressions, but it only meant you were doing a good job. You felt as if your own heart was in your throat. Absolute tension made the room heavy, as if each and every one of you carried tons over your shoulders. The transfusion was massive and aggressive. Come on. Come on. Come back to us.

At last, you stopped, barely out of breath.

The monitor showed an organized rhythm. 

You checked the patience’s carotid.

There it was.

“...I’ve got a pulse.”

The entire team took a deep breath – and you were sure it was the first time you all breathed properly in minutes.

Satocchi moved. You punched the pocket of the coat with the side of your fist on instinct. It stopped.

The patient was stabilized. Finally, the surgery team wheeled him to the operating room in a hurry.

You took yet another deep breath while pulling the bloody gloves off and tossing them into the trash. 

“Good job, everyone,” you said in a calm, confident manner, while bowing your head slightly. Your eyes passed quickly by Umi. Not you, bitch, a really mean part of you hissed. You were a nuisance.

“You did great, kid.” Watanabe-san patted your shoulder. She looked tired, cleaning the sweat from her forehead with a tissue.

You smiled. A compliment from that woman had the same weight as receiving an award.

“Thank you so much.”

She sighed heavily and shook her head a bit. “I think I’m getting too old to do these things. Gonna take a painkiller before my arms start to hurt.”

And then you were alone. Kinda.

Discreetly, you looked down and opened the pocket of the coat to look at Satocchi Reborn.

It had twitched a few times – mostly when you wanted to slap Umi – but it didn’t fully dance or call anyone’s attention, which was definitely an achievement.

You pressed your lips together.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, remembering how you punched it earlier.

Satocchi Reborn twitched his hand. You imagined he was throwing a middle finger at you and telling you to fuck off.

The feeling’s mutual, you thought – and then you realized that you were having an imaginary fight with a doll and went back to your senses.

Just another shift in the ER.

September 29th.

It’d already been over two months since your life turned upside down.

It was shocking, to say the least, because looking back, it felt like ages. So much happened within these two months. 

Your past life was unrecognizable now.

No longer you lived in a tiny yet cozy apartment, only two streets down the subway station. No longer having dinner every Saturday at Aunt Junko’s house. No longer stopping at Luciu’s after work to drink a bit with your colleagues. No longer taking Mayu to buy clothes at the mall or just hanging out with her when you had free time. No more having lunch at that Italian restaurant near the hospital with Remi. No longer posting anything on any social media. 

Now, your life consisted of living confined inside a beautiful house that didn’t really feel like yours, even though you spent almost all of your free time in it. You knew how to use a gun. Two months prior, you’d never even considered owning a gun. You’d been kidnapped once, victim of another kidnap attempt that resulted in a massive car crash; you found out that your late mother – and her entire bloodline – were not what you thought they were. You couldn’t go anywhere without being escorted. Abruptly, you were forced to push away all of your friends, including your own sister to a degree. And you had to walk around with a cursed little doll in your pocket to exercise your supernatural ability that popped up out of no-fucking-where.

Okay.

You avoided summarizing everything in your head like that to not freak out. When things just happened and you dealt with them one at once, the burden felt lighter. 

But yeah. 

It was all kind of insane to look back on.

Truth be told, not everything was that bad. If you said living in this house was bad, you’d straight up be lying. Not having to worry about chores was cool. Sure, you did dishes and overall did your best to not make a mess, but deep cleaning wasn’t a concern anymore, which meant you could just rot in bed on your days off instead of washing bathrooms and dusting furniture (that house was so big. You imagined how much dust it accumulated after a week and shivered).

You didn’t have to worry about rent, either, or gas, which was definitely nice. However, you talked to Gojo about it a week back, because you felt fucking useless for not contributing on the bills, and he literally laughed. “There is nooooo way I’m letting you pay bills, sweetie,” was all he said, not giving you a second to argue before teleporting his way out. 

A side of you thought it was kinda hot.

The other part that used brain cells and not pussy to think had a different opinion. First of all, isn’t it kinda misogynistic? Second – we’re living in the house, using water and electricity, what’s wrong with contributing on the bills? I don’t wanna feel like I owe them something.

It was nice to have more money saved every month, though. You’d been keeping everything untouched on your savings. What if another disaster happened? You had to be prepared in any way.

Of course, there was the fact that made all of this a little less despicable. Or rather, the person.

Gojo was cool.

You liked him. That was the simple truth. He was funny, friendly, treated Mayu well, and pretty dependable. He was hella annoying, too, but annoying in the way a boy is when he’s trying to get your attention, not an unbearable type of annoying. You got along well from the get-go. You wondered how much harder all of this would be if you didn’t get along.

Maybe you were getting too well, which was worrying.

But again – you didn’t like summarizing things all at once in your head, ‘cause it’d make you freak out. One problem at a time. One feeling at a time. 

Right now, you just had to worry about picking new CDs.

Your weekly trips to the shooting club were still up. As usual, Gojo would want to listen to music, but he had already listened to all the 3 CDs you kept in the glove box and started to whine that he wanted to listen to something new.

So there you were, like an absolute fucking fool, into the basement.

The place was packed. It already was before you moved in: boxes of all sizes, old furniture, there was a lot of stuff there. Yours and Mayu’s belongings just crumpled the place even more to a point it was difficult to walk in. You made your way carefully, trying to find free spots on the ground where you could place a foot after the other.

There was really a lot of stuff. And you didn’t remember in which box you put the CD collection. 

This wasn’t going to be quick. But you had nothing else to do, so whatever.

You quickly got distracted from the primal task, though. 

It’s that type of situation when you’re cleaning your room and find an old notebook and is oh, I hadn’t seen this in a while. Then you find a photo album that you thought had disappeared. Then you find a book, and another, and another–

And then you were sitting on the floor, completely surrounded by boxes, reading a letter you had written to a school crush and cringing hard. 

There were so many books. Dad considered throwing books away a crime and you kind of got the same principle. All of your school books from middle school to college were still there, not to mention Mayu’s and dad’s. Hardback medical textbooks from when he was in college; stuff that was invaluable, really, not only because they were testament of a time in the past, but because dad liked to write little notes in the corner of pages.

His handwriting was awful. You always struggled to read anything he wrote.

There was a lump in your throat, so you let go of the books.

It didn’t take long to find old notebooks and journals. You spent an awful long time reading stuff and laughing. You found Mayu’s first birthday photo album, your high school graduation album, an album from a trip to Hokkaido when mom and dad were still dating. They were in their early twenties there.

You stopped at a particular photo where they were posing side by side in front of a gorgeous flower field. Mom wore a pretty long yellow dress and a straw hat. Dad wore a matching hat, a blue shirt you knew mom had picked for him, and his usual glasses.

They were both so young. So beautiful.

Was mom still a sorcerer in this photo?

Was she already fighting her way out of the Hosokawa family?

Did dad know about her true background? If so, then why did he never talk about it with you? Did they agree to hide everything from their children? Or perhaps– perhaps dad never knew about anything as well, accepting whatever excuse mom gave him as to why she was estranged with the rest of her family?

There were so many questions to be asked. Yet, the only two other people who could answer them stared back at you in that photo, thirty years in the past, smiling innocently.

There were moments in which you felt particularly alone.

In a way, you knew you were never alone. You had Mayu. As young as she was, you knew she’d always have your back. You had Aunt Junko who had been there in the darkest moments of your life. You had good friends – friends from overseas, who still texted regularly to check on you, who made it so difficult to leave everything and come back to Japan.

You weren’t alone. Not really. 

But at the same time, you were. In ways that couldn’t really be helped.

The lump in your throat was back and worse.

Something twitched in the pocket of your pants. You flinched.

Satocchi Reborn was trying to dance.

You huffed and carefully took the doll off, using the sleeve of your shirt for coverage so your skin wouldn’t touch it. You dropped Satocchi on the floor. It immediately started a very detailed choreography. 

That thing was goofy as hell.

It grounded you back in the present.

You gulped the lump in your throat and slammed the photo album hard.

“I came here to pick CDs,” you reminded yourself out loud, putting the album back in the box you found it and standing up.

You had to wander deeper in the basement, once again, balancing yourself in small gaps on the floor to walk. At last, a familiar box appeared, hidden behind a larger one. It was packed with trinkets… and a bunch of CDs and vinyls.

You crouched down. 

The collection included both original CDs and some in clear cases identified with sharpie (though dad was a correct man, he was always pretty okay with piracy). The collection was very wild, to say the least. It ranged from Celine Dion’s Let’s Talk About Love to Metallica’s Black Album. Dad listened to whatever, to be honest, and mom was pretty eclectic as well. There were a couple of CDs you listened to a lot back then and Mayu’s: you shivered upon seeing the infamous copy of Inai Inai Baa! in the bottom of the box. She used to listen to that CD everyday, all the time as a toddler and would throw tantrums when it stopped playing. 

You didn’t really know Gojo’s musical taste, but the point here wasn’t to please him. He joked about how old the CDs you had were. You thought keeping the tradition would be fun. Four CDs from the large collection were chosen. You smiled, imagining what his reaction would be, and finally stood up.

You were at the very back of the basement. It occurred to you for a second that spiders could be hiding – not that the place was super dusty or abandoned, but there was so much stuff there that it could very well become home to a spider civilization. The idea was awful. You were ready to turn around and leave.

Then you noticed the treadmill. 

You didn’t remember it being there. 

The equipment was close to the wall, almost hidden behind a steel cabinet that stored dozens of more boxes, covered in dust. Abandoned. 

An idea popped in your head.

Due to your circumstances, you couldn’t exercise anymore – and your chosen exercise was always jogging. You used to run around your block when you had time at least twice a week. After two months of the new routine, you could already feel that your endurance was worse and sleep felt heavier and difficult. 

That treadmill could be the solution to your problem.

Was it broken? If so, could it be fixed? 

You stepped closer to the equipment to see it better. The space between boxes was barely enough for your foot.

You tripped.

“Shit–” you yelped, gripping the steel cabinet for balance.

The thing swayed a bit – and for a split second, your entire life passed before your eyes.

But it stopped with a thud.

You sighed in relief.

The movement dropped a box from the very top shelf, though.

You crouched to take it. It was a small black shoe box you didn’t recognize as yours or Mayu’s. The thing fell with the lid facing down. You turned it around to close it again and put it back where it was.

But then your eyes landed on the contents of the box and you froze.

It was a photo.

You blinked, mouth slightly open. Slowly, you took the photo, hesitating as if the paper would burn your fingertips.

Gojo was in the picture.

A much younger Gojo, wearing a football uniform: red shirt, white shorts. It was taken the exact moment he grabbed a ball, so the picture had a bit of motion blur. Two other guys stood nearby in the field, but you barely paid attention to them.

At the very bottom of the paper, the date when it was taken was printed. 21 MAY 2006.

Ooooooh.

Oh fuck.

Gojo’s school days pictures?!

You felt your spine freeze. You dropped the picture back in the box and closed the lid in a hurry.

Would it be wrong to look?, you asked yourself, already feeling as if you were doing something forbidden. Instinctively, you looked towards the stairs; it was as if Gojo would appear there any moment and ask what the hell are you doing?

Well. But it’s just pictures. How bad could it be?

Very bad.

You knew that.

Pictures are overall a very private thing. But at the same time… Gojo was so obnoxiously private. He simply didn’t talk about his life. This was a golden opportunity.

You bit your lower lip and eyed Satocchi Reborn for a moment, battling with yourself. The doll was popping and locking on the floor. Yeah. Goofy as hell.

You huffed.

Fuck it.

You opened the lid again.

There were many photos stacked inside the box, most of them turned around. You took them and sat on the floor, once again squeezed in between bigger boxes.

A thrill of excitement spread through your system.

One by one, you started to turn the pictures around.

Your eyes widened a bit again.

In this picture, Gojo was sitting in the stool of a diner with two other teenagers. One short haired girl and a black haired boy. Gojo grinned happily to the camera, holding a thumbs up. He wore round sunglasses that were pushed up his forehead. 

A small smile appeared on your own lips on instinct.

Next picture. This time, he was posing with a group of people in a classroom. Four guys and only one girl; all of them wore black uniforms that looked very similar to the one Fushiguro had, except their uniforms had a golden button on the left side of the chest. Gojo had the smuggest expression you’d ever seen; his arm was draped around that same black haired boy from before. Meanwhile, said guy had his arm around another shorter boy with a bowl cut; a blonde emo guy peeked awkwardly from the door, and the girl smiled–

Wait– that’s Ieiri-san, isn’t it?!

Your eyes widened a bit again as you brought the photo closer. Gosh, she had changed a lot, but it was definitely her – except her cheeks were chubbier and there were no dark circles under her eyes. So Gojo and her were classmates?

You looked at the next picture, and the next, and the next.

They were all pretty candid. Classrooms were the recurrent scenery, though you recognized a bit of Jujutsu High’s campus in some of them. The same people appeared over and over again: Gojo, Ieiri, that black haired boy, the bowl cut kid, and the blonde emo. You saw a younger Masamichi in some of them.

Gojo looked incredibly goofy in almost everything.

He made funny faces, awkward grins, widened eyes and all. You stopped at a specific picture and smiled. He was clearly taken off guard while studying: holding a pen, hunched over the table with two open notebooks, using earphones. He side eyed whoever took that photo and pouted. That goddamn pout. He really is the same guy.

You remembered a cocky comment Gojo made a while ago while you watched Mayu’s stupid vampire show, after you claimed no teenager was attractive. Talk for yourself. I was always this hot.

Unfortunately, he was correct.

It almost angered you. 

Gojo’s hair was fluffier. He didn’t have an undercut back then and would rather use the same round sunglasses. He hadn’t changed much since then except for a few differences. Gojo’s face looked a bit skinnier in the pictures; his eyes appeared bigger and he overall wasn’t as muscular. Today’s Gojo was more masculine in a way. Nevertheless – yes, he was very handsome. 

But there was the other guy who appeared in almost every picture.

That guy would be a problem to the teenager version of you.

It looked like he was as tall as Gojo. His skin wasn’t as pale; his long black hair was almost always tied in a bun. A stylish bang adorned the left side of his face. He had cat-like eyes, plump lips and black ear gauges. His uniform was slightly different from the others, choosing to wear baggy pants. There was a laid-back, cool aura about him.

He was sooooo your type.

God. You could imagine yourself squirming anytime he’d walk by. He was the type of guy you would send a friend request on mixi and pray to God that he’d accept, and you’d run laps around your room if he did; then you’d keep hoping he someday would message you or like one of your pictures. That stylish way of his was what would make you melt as a teenager.

This guy and Gojo were attached by the hip, by the way. They were always around each other in every photo. It earned yet another smile from you. If he got along with Gojo, you could imagine how insufferable they should’ve been. 

(You didn’t know what that said about yourself, as you got along with Gojo).

You paused in a photo that was straight up adorable.

Gojo, Ieiri and their other friend were sitting in what looked like a hotel bed. They wore matching shirts and their hairs collectively looked a mess. Gojo in particular looked like a dandelion with the way light from outside touched the back of his head. 

This one had something written on the back.

☆ SA-SHI-SU!! ☆

OKINAWA - 2007

(,,>ヮ<,,)

Hand drawn emoji.

That was Gojo’s doing for sure.

You giggled.

This was all very nice.

It didn’t quite match the impression you had of Gojo. Knowing how wealthy he was, you imagined he was one of those obnoxiously sheltered kids… but what you’d seen proved otherwise. It all looked so normal. By seeing these pictures, you’d never assume they were attending a school that taught them how to kill supernatural creatures.

And then came the next photo.

Gojo and Ieiri stood side by side by the school’s gates. On their left side, a board said “Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School – Graduation Ceremony, 2008”.

They looked awkward.

Ieiri had an empty small smile on her lips. But not quite as empty as Gojo’s. He lifted his red certificate tube without any excitement.

You frowned.

Where was the other friend? You had the impression the three of them were classmates.

The mood had changed.

Next picture. A selfie this time with Ieiri, Gojo, Masamichi, and a pretty girl with bangs you hadn’t seen before. Ieiri’s smile was, once again, empty. Gojo held a V sign and an awkward smirk – but not the goofy one you’d seen before. He looked done. His eyes were hidden behind the round sunglasses. It created a distance between you and him that traveled through time; you imagined how much more distant it felt to the ones around him.

The certificate was in his hand. It was a picture from the same day.

The two other guys – the one with the bowl cut and the blonde one – were nowhere to be seen.

…Oh.

Things started to make sense.

You don’t keep precious pictures inside a dusty shoe box, hidden in some corner of your basement. It’s just not something people do.

Unless you don’t want to look at them. 

A weird feeling settled in your stomach.

What must have happened?

Why didn’t their friend graduate? Why did Gojo never even mention a friend? Sure– he was very private and never even talked about other friends, but this felt different. Did they simply lose contact? Did he drop out? What happened to the two other guys?

You weren’t so excited anymore.

You felt like an intruder, in fact.

You closed the lid. Tiptoed and put the box where it was – at the very top of the steel cabinet, once again under the impression that it burned. 

There was so much you wanted to know about him. You wanted him to talk about himself. Talk to you.

You wanted to understand Gojo better – and those pictures just picked even more of your interest.

You took the CDs and Satocchi Reborn, interrupting his impeccable performance, and finally exited the basement, leaving behind decades worth of bittersweet memories – both yours and his.