Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Alright, let’s go over this again,” you mutter, pulling the lollipop out of your mouth with a soft pop. You pause for a second, trying to figure out what the hell it even tasted like. The label hadn’t been much help - all it said was “Nostalgia in a Stick.” You scoffed. Yeah, sure. The taste of your childhood sure as hell wasn’t strawberry. If nostalgia tasted like anything, it’d be bitterness - salted with tears and laced with hate.

…Strawberry? Yeah, definitely strawberry.

Oh, right, you’re not alone. You lift your gaze to the man sitting across from you, stuffed uncomfortably into a suit that’s clearly fighting for its life. How old is he? Well, judging by the wrinkles, the extra weight, the excessive sweating ( thank god for the lollipop masking the biochemical warfare happening in his office ), and the unfortunate bald spots - he’s deep into his midlife crisis.

Poor guy. Probably cries in his car before work.

You twirl the lollipop between your fingers, watching his beady eyes follow the motion like a particularly anxious goldfish. “You want me to retrieve the ‘Crystal of Balance’ for you, which you think is hidden in Kuroda-dera in Kyoto? And, just checking, your expert source for this top-secret intel isn’t, I don’t know, a shady blog with a comic sans header?”

“Yeah,” he says in a squeaky voice, then clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah. My source? Me. I saw the crystal with my own eyes.”

You pause mid-spin of your lollipop. “Excuse me?”

He leans forward, and the chair under him lets out a very wheezy, deathbed creak. “Couple years back, I was in Kyoto, visiting Kuroda-dera. I wandered into a restricted area - purely by accident, of course.”

Yeah. Sure. Totally accidental.

“And there it was. The Crystal of Balance. Glowing, humming with power. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I wanted it. I wanted to have it in my house. I wanted to look at it every day. So, while no one was around, I tried to take it myself.”

Jesus. What a weirdo.

“But the monks - they chased me out!”

You blink. “…The monks?”

“Yes! With brooms!” He shudders like he’s reliving deep trauma. “One of them had a sandal in his hand. He looked ready to use it.”

You stare. “You mean to tell me… you were beaten out of a temple by a squad of elderly monks wielding cleaning supplies? ”

“ Ferocious elderly monks,” he corrects grimly. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what I saw.”

No, but you kind of wish you had been. You rest your elbow on the desk and tilt your head. “Again. You, a fully grown man, tried to commit grand theft relic-”

“Borrow”

Oh, you’d deck him for free.

“ Steal ,” you continue, unfazed. “You really thought this artifact wouldn’t be guarded even without the monks?”

You’d been in this business for a long time. You knew everything about artifacts - their history, origins, and the cursed energy they radiated. You’d seen all kinds of people who hired you to steal them. But none had ever looked as pathetic as the one sitting across from you. This is exactly why Taro didn’t tell you who the client was beforehand. He knew damn well that if he’d mentioned ‘desperate middle-aged man traumatized by monks’ , you wouldn’t have even left your apartment . The 20 year old kid knew you wouldn’t have agreed - unless the money he promised had a lot of zeroes. And unfortunately? It did.

You wait, hoping for even a flicker of understanding on that sweaty face, then sigh when it hits you - you’re gonna have to spell it out yourself. “You’re not the first person who’s tried to snatch an artifact like this, and you sure as hell won’t be the last. But let me make one thing crystal clear-” You pause, lips twitching. “Pun fully intended.”

The man blinks.

You take that as permission to continue. “The Crystal of Balance isn’t just some fancy glowing rock you can pluck off a shelf and toss on your mantelpiece next to your midlife crisis whiskey collection.” You tap the lollipop against the desk for emphasis. “It’s ancient. It’s powerful. And it’s one of the few artifacts directly linked to the Seal of Heaven and Earth. ”

His forehead creases. “The… what now?”

You sigh again. Rich people. So much money, so little awareness of the literal forces holding the universe together.

“ The Seal of Heaven and Earth is the only thing keeping two opposing forces of cursed energy from ripping the world in half.” You gesture vaguely, like this should be common knowledge. “Think of it like… the magical equivalent of duct tape. But instead of keeping your broken chair together, it’s holding back a catastrophic energy surge that would turn half of Japan into a crater.”

“And… the crystal is part of that?”

“Bingo.” You twirl the lollipop between your fingers again. “It acts as a stabilizer. It keeps the balance from tipping too far in either direction. It’s also why you didn’t instantly drop dead when you touched it. ”

Here it goes. Your favorite part of negotiation.

“Drop…excuse me?”

“Oh yeah. Most cursed artifacts? Touch ‘em without cursed energy or the right protections, and boom! Lights out, buddy. But the Crystal of Balance?” You shrug. “It won’t kill you on contact ‘cause it’s built to maintain harmony, not wreck shit. But taking it from its resting place? That’s like yanking a key piece out of a Jenga tower.” You grin. “ Now imagine the Jenga tower is the universal energy field keeping existence from descending into chaos.” You pop the lollipop back into your mouth and flash him a lazy smile seeing his shocked face. “Still wanna keep it in your living room?”

You stare at each other in silence for a couple of minutes.

“I’ll pay you extra to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Victory. You could have stalled, pretending to think it over just to double the stakes - but being the merciful person you are, you just shook his sweaty-ass hand. You resist the urge to wipe your palm on your jacket and instead focus on the important part: the crystal.

The moment you step outside, you suck in a deep breath of fresh air like a prisoner tasting freedom for the first time in years. Sayonara, stale office air. Sayonara, scent of regret, sweat and overpriced cologne. You tug your phone out of your pocket, already feeling your sanity return - until you see two missed calls . One from Taro . One from Kazuki.

Taro [2 Missed Calls]

[1 New Message]: plz tell me u didnt punch the client in the face. again.

His message made you roll your eyes. The audacity. Like you don’t have self-control.

You: didn’t touch him. wanted to. did not. u should be proud of me.

Your phone immediately buzzes with an incoming text.

Taro: so?? u taking the job??

You: yeah.

Taro: oh thank GOD. thought u were gonna bail when u saw his face

You: i almost did. but then he offered a stupid amount of money and i suddenly became a better person

Taro: proud of u :’)

You barely have time to shove your phone back into your pocket before it starts buzzing again. Kazuki. You sigh, mentally shifting gears - from professional artifact thief to loving, totally normal fiancée who absolutely does not break into sacred temples for a living, doesn’t have a Special Grade rank, doesn’t take out curses on her way to pulling off heists, knows absolutely nothing about the jujutsu world and definitely isn’t a walking national security threat . Nope. Not at all.

You answer, smoothing out your tone. “Hey, babe.”

“Hey. Just finished work. Are you still at the office?”

You glance up at the dingy alleyway outside the client’s building , where a stray cat is currently ripping apart an old sandwich wrapper like it owes him money.

“Uh-huh,” you lie smoothly. You squat down and scratch him behind the ear. The cat glares at you like he’s considering biting. Fair. “Busy day. Just got out of a meeting.”

“ With who?”

A) Tell him the truth : “Oh, you know, just some rich idiot who tried to steal a magical doomsday rock and got his ass handed to him by monks”

Or.

B) Continue the carefully crafted illusion that you have a totally boring and respectable job in sales ?

You go with B.

“A client,” you say vaguely. “A… uh, perfume company.”

Kazuki hums. “Huh. You don’t usually deal with cosmetics.”

“Well, you know, sales.” You wave a hand, despite the fact that he can’t see you. “Always something new. Gotta be flexible.”

“That’s true. Oh, by the way, don’t forget about the dinner with my parents tomorrow night.”

Dinner. With his very proper, very respectable parents, who already think you’re a walking red flag in human form. Maybe you are.

“Looking forward to it.”

“You sure?” you heard him chuckle. “You don’t sound excited.”

“What? No! I’m thrilled. ” You slap on your most enthusiastic tone. “Just can’t wait to discuss tax benefits and real estate markets with your dad again.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. I’ll save you if he starts another speech about investment portfolios.”

Ah, Kazuki. Pure, kind soul. Too good for this world. Too good for you.

“You’re a good man, Kazuki.”

“And you’re a terrible liar,” he teased.

Shit. You cover quickly. “Hey, I happen to be an excellent salesperson. Lying is half the job.”

“That’s… fair,” he admits. “Alright, I’ll let you go. Love ya.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Another lie. You scroll back to Taro’s texts.

You: book me a train ticket

Taro: u got it. economy or luxury?

You: i just agreed to a job that might kill me.

Taro. say less. luxury it is.

After a quick shower in your ridiculously oversized bathroom ( because if you’re gonna risk your life regularly, you at least deserve good water pressure ), you were out the door and on a train to Kyoto. Fast forward four hours, and you were one with the tourists —camera in hand, blending into the crowd like a seasoned pro.

Click.

A perfectly staged shot of a temple gate.

Click.

A slightly off-center photo of some old man feeding pigeons.

Click.

A dramatic zoom-in of a random rock - because that’s what tourists do, right? Take artistic pictures of meaningless objects?

You lower the camera, scanning the area. Busy but not too packed. Decent number of monks. Good sightlines. Easy exit points. All in all? A solid setup for a heist. A pair of tourists next to you are deep in conversation about the spiritual energy of the site - which, sure, they’re not entirely wrong about, but if they knew what actually radiated from this place, they’d be on the next bullet train out.

Click.

An artsy, unnecessarily dramatic shot of a wooden pillar. Totally not because there’s a security rune carved into it.

Click.

A goofy selfie with your tongue out, casually throwing an arm around a very old, very surprised monk. Why not?

The challenge isn’t getting in. It’s getting in without getting your ass handed to you by an ancient security system and a bunch of holy men with a grudge against thieves.

Your options:

1) Stealth Route: Classic. Quiet. Professional. Slip in after dark, dodge the monks, disable the seals, grab the crystal, ghost out. Minimal chaos. Minimal fun.

2) Speed Run: Get in fast, get out faster. Higher risk, but more efficient. Less time for complications, more chance of needing to sprint for your life.

3) The Distraction Play: Cause a minor disturbance elsewhere, redirect attention, and waltz in while everyone’s busy.

Downside: Requires effort.

Upside: Always entertaining.

4) The Absolute Bullshit Plan: Do something completely unhinged, make it everyone else’s problem, and somehow walk away victorious through sheer audacity.

Downside: Not exactly foolproof.

Upside: This is usually what ends up happening anyway. Works every time.

You sigh, rolling your shoulders. It’s not like breaking into Kuroda-dera is the problem. It’s breaking in without triggering some ancient death trap or making local news.

Yet.

Maybe you should stick to stealth - get in, get out, no theatrics.

…Or maybe you should buy a monk disguise, cause a mystical emergency , and dramatically declare yourself the chosen one.

Nah, stick to traditional one.

Alrighty, we’re done here. Time to head back to the hotel, work out the details on securing the crystal, and head out at night.

You let out a long sigh, puffing out your cheeks. This mask you picked up recently is way too damn hot. But hey, at least it’s cute - framed by a sly little fox grin. Whatever. Not the point.

The security cameras? Deactivated. ( Shoutout to Taro, hacker extraordinaire and pain in your ass. )

The intricate layers of protective magic woven around the artifact? Disarmed. ( You’d pat yourself on the back if you weren’t currently wearing gloves. )

Now, there was just one thing left. You. The Crystal that rests atop an altar, waiting for you like a well-earned prize.. A simple grab-and-go.

Too easy.

You reach out, fingers just grazing the edge of the artifact.

Shff.

A rustling sound behind you (plastic? paper? what the hell? ) made you whip around, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, locking onto the source of the sound. The light landed on a tall, white-haired man dressed in a uniform that was way too familiar—just like the man himself. Thick black fabric wrapped around his eyes, obscuring them completely. The casual slouch, like he has nowhere better to be despite clearly being somewhere he shouldn’t.

Oh, you know that uniform.

And you definitely know the man wearing it. Of all the people in the world to crash your heist, it had to be him.

Satoru Gojo.

Your flashlight stays trained on him, illuminating his completely out-of-place convenience store bag as he rummages through it. He pulls out a pack of jelly candy, and pops one into his mouth and starts chewing. Loudly.

You stare and he stares back. Well, you assume he does—hard to tell with the whole blindfold aesthetic he’s got going on.

Shff.

Another rustle from the plastic bag as he digs around lazily, pulling out another jelly. He pops it into his mouth, chewing with the absolute confidence of a man who has never been punched for being annoying, but really, really should have been at some point.

Your eye twitches beneath the mask. “…Are you seriously eating right now?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

You blink. You glance at the crystal. Then back at him. Then at the very real and very illegal situation unfolding here.

Gojo casually holds out the bag. “Want one?”

“What? No! ”

“You sure? They’re grape-flavored.”

“Oh, well, in that case -” Wait. NO. “That’s not the point! What the hell are you doing here?!”

He gestures vaguely. “Work.”

“And your job is…?” You’d assume it’s to catch you, but let’s be real - that’s mostly been the job of other sorcerers, the ones you already know way too well. But him ? You haven’t seen him in years . The only good thing? He doesn’t know who you are. Yet.

“To get the Crystal of Balance,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world “Gotta take it. Work stuff.”

Okay. Okay. Stay calm.

“ Work stuff,” you repeat, voice flat. “You work at a high school.”

“Yeah, well, my side gig is babysitting ancient artifacts, apparently.”

You wanted to pinch the bridge of your nose. Nope. Not happening. Not today.

“Alright,” you say, voice carefully even. “Let me get this straight. You - an active-duty, high-ranking sorcerer, the ‘strongest,’ or whatever you’re calling yourself these days - are currently standing here, in the middle of a restricted temple, eating jelly candy, while trying to steal the Crystal of Balance?”

“Not steal,” he corrects, waving a half-eaten jelly at you. “Just… relocate.”

“Relocate” you repeated after him.

“Yeah. With this.” You follow the lazy arc of his hand as he reaches into the plastic bag again—this time pulling out a crystal that looks exactly like the real one. “ Replica. Handmade. High-quality. If you squint, probably passes for the real thing.”

Why the hell is the officially strongest sorcerer trying to steal the crystal? Like, couldn’t he just walk up to the monks, ask nicely, and say it’s for the greater good…?

“I asked them, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Great. Now he could read minds too?

“And?”

“And, well-” he gestured around. “In response, I got a lot of yelling, a shit ton of cursing, a few monks tried to jump me with brooms, and one of them was literally coming at me with a sandal. They told me I’m the second person they’ve had to use that kind of force on.” You see him pause, thinking for a moment. “Wonder who the first one was?”

He was just as much of an asshole as you, you thought.

“ Anyways,” he sighed, stretching before crumpling up the now-empty candy wrapper. “And now here I am, and you, little fox, are wasting my time. I could’ve been done and on my way back by now.”

You laughed. He’s serious about this, isn’t he? “Yeah, not happening.”

The man raises an eyebrow, finally shifting his weight off the wall. “Oh? And why not?”

“Because I am taking the crystal.”

He tilts his head, clearly amused. “Ohhh, you’re taking it?”

“That’s right.”

Gojo Satoru lets out a low whistle, tilting his head. “Well, damn. Guess we have a problem, then.”

“No,” you counter. “We don’t have a problem. You have a problem. Because I was here first.”

“Technically, I was here before you got here,” he muses. “So, if we’re going by kindergarten rules - finders keepers.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Sure it is.”

You called him by his full name, and he called you by your thief alias.

Your eye twitches beneath the mask. “I swear to god , if you don’t…wait. How do you know my-?”

“You just told me,” he says, grinning. “By not denying it. Very smooth, by the way.”

It wasn’t hard to figure out. No one really knew what you looked like - Taro always handled the clients first before passing them off to you - but everyone knew your alias on the black market. Everyone, including Satoru Gojo.

“Just let me have it.” you said. Nope, you demanded.

Gojo hums, considering. “Mmm. Nah.”

You let out a long, suffering sigh. “Okay. Fine. I see what’s happening here. You wanna do this the hard way?”

Gojo grins, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Oh, absolutely. The hard way’s way more fun.”

Alright, seriously, why the hell are you even trying to negotiate with him? You’re standing right there , next to the crystal. Just reach out and take it. Reach. Grab. Fast. Run.  

And the moment you try to move, you see him heading straight for you. Shit. This might be it - something that hasn’t happened to you in years. Does he really not feel it too, like last time?

“Stop!!!”

You realize belatedly that you just shouted at the strongest sorcerer alive like he was an excited golden retriever. The man blinks.

“ Uh,” he starts, eyebrows raising beneath his blindfold. “Wasn’t expecting that reaction.”

“You..just…stay right there! ”

“Nah i need this crystal,” he says making one step again.

Your brain is screaming. You can’t explain the whole if you do, something really bad might happen thing, that would mean unraveling the entire ridiculous history of your cursed energy and its connection to him - which means he’d figure out who you really are. And that? That’s the last thing you want happening. And frankly, you don’t have the time, the patience, or the mental stability to unpack that right now. So you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I have a knife.” you really had.

His grin stretched wider. “Ohhh. Is that supposed to scare me?”

“…yes?” you really hoped.

“That’s adorable” he laughed. Just then takes a tiny, exaggerated step forward. “What happens if I take one more step? ”

“ I throw the knife at your stupid, blindfolded face. ” you really could.

Satoru Gojo, being the absolute menace that he is, takes another step forward - slowly, deliberately, like he’s just begging you to follow through on your threat. And you do. With zero hesitation , you flick your wrist and send the knife hurtling toward his stupid, smug, jelly-eating face. He catches it with two fingers. Mid-air. Like it’s nothing. He clicked his tongue, spinning the blade between his fingers like a fidget toy. “You throw knives at all the guys you meet, or am I just special?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you drop-kick him. Which, okay, maybe not your best idea , but it’s been a long day and he’s really starting to annoy you. Unfortunately, he dodges like it’s a casual inconvenience , taking another lazy step forward.

And that’s when it hits.

Not a kick. Not a punch. You feel it instantly- your cursed energy weakening, like someone just yanked the power cord out of you. And you know - if you try to use it against him now, it’ll probably backfire, fucking both of you up in the process. Same goes for him. At the same time, you see the white-haired man’s shoulders tense, his whole body going unnaturally still.

Oh. Oh, no. Not again.

His hand twitches - then his fingers slip straight through the knife’s handle. The weapon clatters to the ground. And that’s when you see it- the exact moment realization dawns on his face. His infinity? Gone. Just like last time. For a single, terrible second, you make eye contact. And then… he attacks.

Okay, so, rule number 1 of fighting Gojo Satoru: don’t.

Rule number two: seriously, don’t.

Rule number three: If you ignore Rules 1 and 2, at least don’t let him touch you.

You dodge - ducking under his first strike, spinning out of range before he can reach you. The problem? He’s fast. The bigger problem? You can’t let him grab or touch you.

“Oooh, you’re quick,” he muses, shifting into a more serious stance.

Yeah, no shit. You have years of experience avoiding people trying to kill you.

You twist out of the way as he goes for your arm , just barely escaping his grip. Then he fakes a right hook, forcing you to block. Mistake. Your arms cross to guard which means you’re not watching his foot.

A second later, he kicks your legs out from under you. Shit. You twist mid-air, trying to break the fall, but after crash you both go down hard. The impact shakes the entire goddamn temple. At first it starts as a flicker. A strange, rippling distortion in the air around you. And just then shockwave of cursed energy EXPLODES outward , sending dust and loose debris flying. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell topples over. The ground beneath you cracks.

…And you’re on top of him. Knife in one hand at his throat. Other hand gripping his shirt. Legs straddling his waist. His hands are flat against the ground. He didn’t catch himself. Because he couldn’t. He lifts a hand, testing, reaching for his Infinity . Nothing. Ohhhh, he’s catching on fast.

This is bad.

Voices and footsteps of monks echoed in the distance.

“Ah, shit,” you said in unison. You did just blow up part of a temple.

He then, still flat on his back with you straddling him, clicks his tongue. “You know, if you wanted to be on top, you could’ve just asked.”

You don’t even hesitate. You slap a hand over his mouth. “Shut up,” you hiss, glancing over your shoulder as the monks’ voices grow louder. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

He licks your palm. You recoil in horror, aggressively wiping your hand on your pants as you scramble off him. Jesus, what an idiot. You don’t want to even comment that. You resist the urge to strangle him on the spot. Not because you’re merciful, but because you need him alive to get the hell out of here before the monks arrive and beat both of you to death with their sacred broomsticks.

The white haired man, for his part, is completely unbothered , still flat on his back like this is the most comfortable place in the world. He stretches lazily, flexing his fingers like he’s testing his muscles. “Huh. Weird.”

“You mean besides the fact that we just set off a mystical bomb and probably pissed off every monk in a five-mile radius?” you snap, ears straining to track the approaching footsteps.

“No, no,” he waves a hand, looking vaguely entertained. “I mean the whole ‘you instantly cancel out my Infinity thing.’ That’s new. Well, not new-new , but y’know. New again .”

You do not have time for this.

“You’re stronger than last time,” he muses, finally sitting up. His blindfold shifts slightly as he tilts his head, like he’s studying you. “I wonder if-”

“Nope. Not the time, not the place.”

“I mean, I could just ask you later-”

“No, you could not. ”

“Aw, but what if I wanna get to know you better?”

You glare. “What if I wanna bash your skull in with a holy artifact?”

“That’s a little violent.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m feeling a little murderous .”

The monks’ voices get closer. Shit. Okay. Focus.

Gojo stands up, dusting off his uniform. “So, what’s the plan? We fight them? I take left, you take right?”

You give him a look. “We are not fighting an entire temple full of holy men.”

“But it’d be fun.”

“I really can’t stand you.”

“You say that, but you also just straddled me, so I’m getting mixed signals here.”

You ignore him. You don’t have time for this - don’t have time for him. By now, you should’ve already been back at your hotel, the damn crystal in hand, waiting for tomorrow. Hand it off to poor bastard, get rest of the payment, and start figuring out what the hell to spend the money on.

You grit your teeth. “Give me the fake one.”

Without waiting for his answer you snatch the fake crystal from his fingers and shove it onto the altar, adjusting it just enough to match the original’s position. Good enough. If they don’t touch it, don’t move it, and don’t have any particularly suspicious monks with x-ray vision , you should be golden.  With any luck, the monks won’t check too closely before you’re both long gone. You finish adjusting the fake crystal just as the sound of monks storming toward the altar grows louder.

“I give that a six out of ten,” he muses, tilting his head toward your handiwork.

“You wanna die?” you mutter, stepping back.

“Just saying, you could’ve at least smudged the dust pattern a little more. Some monk’s gonna look at it and immediately know someone touched it.”

“Then maybe,” you hiss, “if a certain idiot hadn’t triggered an energy explosion , we wouldn’t have to rush this.”

He gasps. “Oh, I triggered it?”

“You tackled me!”

“You drop-kicked me first!”

And okay, fair point , but you are not about to let him win this argument. Wait, you actually don’t have time for that.

A loud clang echoes from the other end of the hall and some poor monk just tripped over his own robes in a panicked sprint. Others are shouting now, voices overlapping in confusion.

Now, the real question is: how the hell do you get out of here without running into the monks with broomsticks… and especially that one monk with the damn sandal?

You look at the man in uniform and can already tell he’s probably got some kind of escape plan. But since you don’t trust him at all and sure as hell aren’t about to just go along with whatever bullshit he’s about to say - you raise your hand. “Whatever you’re about to say-“

“Teleportation.”

“Absolutely not. We don’t even know if that shit will work, or, given the circumstances, if it’ll just crush us into a paste the second we try.”

He shrugged. “We can try.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can even get a word out Gojo raises his hand and rips off your mask. Your new mask. Your favorite mask. The one with the grinning fox.

He let out a chuckle. “Knew it.”

Alright, that’s enough. You’re about to deck him right in the face, but he catches your fist mid-swing. Another surge of cursed energy crackles between you, and yep, there it is, you hear what’s probably the same monk slipping on his robe and eating shit again.

You blink. There’s nothing in front of you. Just emptiness. For a second.

And a second after you land face-first into the dirt. A muffled oof sounds somewhere to your left. For a moment, you just lie there. Motionless. Processing. Then you push yourself up, spitting out dirt and grass. Your head snaps toward Gojo, who is lying on his back, blinking up at the sky.

“…What,” you say slowly, “the fuck just happened?”

Gojo props himself up on his elbows, looking around. “Well. That was new.”

New. New. You teleported. Uncontrollably. With him. No, because of him. Because your combined cursed energy decided to fuck reality itself for the second time tonight.

You inhale deeply, exhaling through your nose. “Where,” you say, as calmly as possible, “did we just end up?”

Gojo sits up fully, tilting his head as he surveys the surroundings.

There are trees. Somewhere in the distance, there’s running water. It’s… a forest?

Then.

“Baaaa.”

You freeze.

Gojo turns his head.

“…Was that-”

“ Baaa. ”

A goat waddles into view.

A single. Fucking. Goat.

The two of you stare at it.

It stares back.

You exhale. “…Are we in the middle of nowhere?”

He scratches the back of his head. “Looks like it.”

A muscle twitches in your jaw. “And why are we in the middle of nowhere?”

“Well,” he hums, tapping his chin. “I might’ve tried to teleport us away.”

“Might have.”

“Yeah. Y’know, just a little hop-skip in space-time.”

“And?”

“Well,” he says cheerfully, pointing to you , “ you were touching me at the exact same time. So, instead of a nice, clean, controlled teleport-”

“We got yeeted into the unknown.”

He beams. “ Exactly! ”

You looked at him. Then at the goat, who is still watching. Then at the absolutely empty stretch of wilderness surrounding you. Then back at him. Slowly, carefully, you rise to your feet, dusting off your clothes. The goat bleats again. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots. You close your eyes.

Breathe.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Count to ten.

Then you swing your leg out, aiming a very well-earned kick at Gojo Satoru’s shin.

Chapter Text

“Market stability, tax benefits, and of course, if you invest smartly—”

You swirl the glass of deep red cherry juice in your hand. The last 24 hours had been some of the hardest in your life—but nothing compared to sitting through dinner with Kazuki’s parents. You tune out. Again. Meanwhile, his father—for the fifth time tonight—is going on about the importance of investing in real estate like he’s unlocking the secrets of the universe, clearly having the time of his life.

“ And did you know,” he continues, adjusting his glasses, “Tokyo’s property values are expected to rise significantly within the next decade? Now is the best time to invest, really.”

You nod. Smile. Sip your juice. Nod. Smile. Sip your juice.

You take a sniff. Shit—you still smell like that damn goat. Even after scrubbing yourself raw in the shower the second you got home, you swear the scent has embedded itself into your soul . Not that you’re into animal cruelty or anything, but at some point, that horned menace must’ve decided you were trying to eat it, and from there, the fight was inevitable. You can still hear it.

Baaa.

The haunting sound echoes in the back of your mind. The goat had hated you. Which, okay, fine, mutual feelings, but still—how the hell did a single goat manage to terrorize two fully trained sorcerers?

It had taken three hours of wandering through the unknown wilderness before you figured out where the hell Gojo’s half-baked teleportation attempt had landed you. By hour one, you had developed a personal vendetta against a single goat. By hour two, Satoru Gojo had named it ‘Captain’ and declared it part of your survival team. By hour three, you had nearly strangled Gojo, nearly gotten kicked in the ribs by Captain, and then realized you were actually only a short hike away from a rural train station. He had tried to convince you to teleport again. You had, very politely, told him to shut the fuck up. After that, it was just a matter of hitching a ride, buying train tickets with the emergency cash you always kept hidden in your boot.

But there was still one problem. The Crystal of Balance. Because as much as you wanted to pretend last night was just a weird fever dream featuring Gojo Satoru, a teleportation mishap, and one particularly homicidal goat , you were still stuck with one extremely real, extremely powerful, extremely not-yours artifact. Which he was currently holding. All the way back to Tokyo. Like some kind of self-satisfied watchdog. The train ride had been hell. You sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder (still avoiding touching), crammed into economy class . Every now and then, he’d idly spin the crystal between his fingers, giving you a smirk.

“ Don’t even think about it,” he had murmured without looking up.

“I’m not thinking about anything,” you had replied innocently, absolutely thinking about how to steal it from him. Because you needed that crystal. Your client needed that crystal. And if Gojo had it, that meant the Jujutsu higher-ups would have it next. Which meant it would be locked away forever. Unacceptable. So, you had done what any rational, responsible, level-headed individual would do. You had spent the entire ride plotting. By the time you reached Tokyo, you had exactly three plans.

1 Steal it from him while he’s distracted.

2 Trick him into handing it over.

3 Get him to willingly give it to you.

The first plan? Too risky. His reflexes were too sharp. The second plan? Also risky. He wasn’t stupid —just annoying. The third plan? Not gonna happen. Which left you with… The Bullshit Plan.

Back in Tokyo, you had one goal. Get the crystal. And you knew exactly how to do it.

Step One: Act Normal.

So when Gojo had suggested stopping for coffee , you had pretended to hesitate, but he insisted because you paid for his train ticket.

Step Two: Get Him Comfortable.

You had let him rant. About the higher-ups, his students, his life. About how he’s literally the strongest sorcerer alive but still has to deal with paperwork.

“So unfair,” you had murmured, pretending to care.

Step Three: Wait.

Wait until he lets his guard down. Wait until he gets distracted. Wait until the right moment. And then.

Step Four:

You faked a sneeze. A very dramatic, very sudden, very suspiciously convenient sneeze. One that sent your entire drink toppling onto his lap.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you had gasped, grabbing a handful of napkins, shoving them into his hands. “Here, here, wipe it off before it stains.”

He immediately started dabbing at his clothes—completely missing the way you had swiped the crystal right out of his pocket. Smooth. Seamless. Beautiful. By the time he realized what had happened, you were long gone.

Kazuki’s father is still talking. His mother is still politely nodding along. Kazuki himself is throwing you occasional glances , probably wondering why you’re completely zoned out. You snap back into reality just in time to nod, smile, sip your juice.

Kazuki’s father beams, clearly thinking he’s imparted the wisdom of the gods upon you.

“Fascinating,” you say.

“Right?” he says, chest puffed with the pride of a man who believes he has just changed your entire financial future.

Kazuki nudges you under the table, shooting you a look that says, Behave. You give him a What? I’m behaving look in return.

Your phone buzzes in the pocket of your jacket. You ignore it. It buzzes again. You ignore it again. It buzzes a third time. Okay. Now it’s personal. You apologize, making some excuse about work, and pull your phone out of your pocket.

3 unread messages.

[Unknown Number]: Bold move. Risky. Reckless. Kinda hot.

[Unknown Number]: Return the crystal.

[Taro]: OMG OMG OMG GUESS WHO JUST ASKED ME FOR YOUR NUMBER?!

You tap on Taro’s chat because, obviously, Gojo Satoru can wait—or better yet, not get a reply at all.

You: IM GOING TO KILL YOU, TARO!!!

Not that Taro usually acted like this—but the little bastard knew a lot (way too much, honestly) about the Jujutsu world, and, of course, was a total fanboy for the blue-eyed menace. Taro knew about curses because he could see them, but, unfortunately, his own cursed energy never really manifested. How you met him? That’s a whole other story. Point is, at some point—out of sheer stupidity—you promised once to introduce him to Gojo Satoru.( Yeah. That was definitely a dumbass move. )

You take a deep breath. Count to ten. Buzz.

Taro: BUT WHY???? HE TOLD ME HE SAW YOU YESTERDAY IN KYOTO AND HE THINKS YOU’RE ACTUALLY HOT AND HE LOST YOUR CONTACT INFO SO HE HAD TO REACH OUT TO ME TO FIND YOU—ISN’T THAT ROMANTIC??? ITS GOJO FUCKING SATORU!!!

You: Taro.

Taro: Yes? 🙄

You: I need you to listen to me carefully.

Taro: I’m listening. 👂🏼

You: If I die tonight, it’s all your damn fault. I’ll haunt your ass till the end. He doesn’t wanna meet me! He’s trying to find me because I literally snatched the crystal right out of his hands!!

Taro: …Why the hell didn’t you tell me?

You: Oh, I’m so sorry—maybe because I just got back from Kyoto FIVE HOURS AGO, and spent TWO of those scrubbing GOAT SMELL off my body?!

Taro: lol, what the hell were you even doing with a goat?

“Hey.” You feel Kazuki’s gentle hand brush against your leg as he leans in closer. “You good? Something wrong?”

You shove your phone back into your pocket so fast you nearly dislocate your wrist.

“Nope!” you say, flashing him your most convincing smile. “All good! Just… work stuff. You know how it is.”

Kazuki gives you the look. The one that says I have known you long enough to know you are full of absolute bullshit. But, bless his heart, he doesn’t press it.

His father, oblivious to the literal crisis unfolding in your pocket, keeps droning on. “Now, if you’re really thinking about securing a future, I’d suggest looking into stocks—”

Your phone buzzes again. You pretend not to hear it. It buzzes again.

Kazuki squints at you. “Your jacket is vibrating.”

“No, it’s not.”

“…It absolutely is.”

Buzz.

Kazuki’s mother smiles sweetly. “Oh, dear, you should check that. It might be important.”

No, ma’am. It is not. It is Gojo Satoru being a little bitch.

You clear your throat. “Ah, nothing major. Just some annoying client demanding a refund ‘cause he wasn’t satisfied with the product.”

You shut off your phone.

All in all, aside from Kazuki’s dad’s long-ass speech and your phone being off, the evening wasn’t too bad. Kazuki offered to drive you home—since you two still hadn’t decided to live together before the wedding. It just felt more comfortable that way for both of you.

“So,” he says, hands steady on the wheel, voice casual. Too casual. “My mom’s been asking about the wedding again.”

Peace? Yeah, keep dreaming.

You turn your head away from the window to look at Kazuki and place your hand over his, which is resting on the gear shift. You give his hand a little squeeze, the universal sign for I acknowledge what you just said, but I’m absolutely about to deflect the shit out of this conversation. Kazuki doesn’t fall for it. Damn it.

“She just wants to know if we’ve settled on a date yet,” he continues. “And where. And, you know… the guest list. The venue. The general existence of the wedding.”

“So basically… every single thing about the wedding?”

You see him sigh as he runs a hand through your hair. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“You do realize planning a wedding is a huge commitment, right?”

Kazuki gives you a look. A long, slow blink of absolute disbelief. “…Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”

You tap your fingers against his hand, still resting over his. “I just mean, you know… it’s a big decision. Huge. Monumental. Life-altering. Kind of like buying real estate, actually.”

Kazuki groans, already catching on. “Don’t—”

“So, if you think about it, your dad’s whole real estate speech was actually a metaphor for our relationship,” you say solemnly. “Investing in a future. Choosing the right location. Market stability. Tax benefits.”

Kazuki actually groans this time. “For the love of—no. We are not turning this into an investment analogy.”

“Listen, I’m just saying. A wedding is like an expensive mortgage. The venue is the house, the guest list is the neighborhood, and the vows are the legal contract you can’t escape without financial ruin.”

Kazuki stares at you, unimpressed. “…I hate that this makes sense.”

“Right? And if we’re talking in real estate terms, we should consider renting before buying, you know?”

“We’ve been dating for three years. How much longer do you need to ‘rent’ before you decide if you wanna own?”

You clear your throat. “Well. You can never be too sure.”

He sighs again, but you see a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I knew you were gonna dodge this conversation.”

“Not dodging,” you correct. “Strategically postponing.”

Kazuki shakes his head with a chuckle, squeezing your hand before letting go to focus on the road. “Fine. Postpone all you want. Just know my mom is gonna corner you at some point, and I will be conveniently unavailable when it happens.”

You scowl. “Wow. Betrayal.”

“It’s called strategy,” he says smugly. “Like investing. You should appreciate it.”

You shove his arm, and he laughs, the warm, familiar sound filling the car. For a moment, the world feels… normal. No cursed artifacts, no teleportation mishaps, no goat-induced trauma. Just you and Kazuki, bickering about wedding plans like a regular engaged couple. He pulls up in front of your apartment complex, shifting the car into park. “You know I don’t care if we do a big wedding or not,” he says, resting an arm over the steering wheel. “It’s just… I want us to make a decision together.”

Alright. Deep breath in. Exhale. Kazuki at least deserves some truth. Hell, Kazuki deserves more than that. You shake your head, pushing those thoughts aside.

“Look, Kazuki, I do want a wedding.” Maybe? “But the idea of it being this huge, over-the-top thing freaks me out. The crowd, the attention—all eyes on me for hours… it scares the shit out of me. I just… I just want something small. Quiet. Just us.”

You see him nodding and giving a small,understanding smile.

“That’s fair,” he said. “You know, I always figured you weren’t the big, extravagant wedding type.”

You blink. “Wait. Then why did we just have a whole discussion about this?”

“Because,” Kazuki shrugs, “I still want to hear what you want. Even if it’s just an excuse to avoid setting a date.”

Damn it. You hate when he does that. The whole mature, emotionally intelligent, incredibly patient fiancé thing. It makes it way harder to argue with him when he’s right.

You sigh, slumping back in your seat. “Alright, fine. You got me. I’m a coward.”

Kazuki chuckles, reaching over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re not a coward. You’re just… complicated.”

“That sounds like a fancy way of saying I’m a pain in the ass.”

“That too.” he grinned.

You should feel bad for pushing this conversation off. For being vague. But the reality is, you don’t even know what yourfuture looks like right now. One minute you were stealing cursed artifacts for cash, the next you were dodging a sorcerer with a god complex and a questionable taste in snacks. And somewhere in between, you apparently agreed to get married. It’s a lot.

Kazuki reached for your hand again, giving it a light squeeze. “Whenever you’re ready to set a date, just let me know. No pressure.”

“Thanks,” and for once, you actually mean it.

You lean in, pressing closer, your lips just a breath away from his. “Wanna come upstairs with me?” you whisper, your voice low and teasing.

Kazuki’s eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, his expression unreadable. There’s a brief pause. A heartbeat of silence. Then.

“…Nah.”

You blink. “Nah?”

He grins, leaning back slightly. “Nah. You’re trying to distract me.”

Your lips part in mock outrage. “ Excuse me? ”

“You think I don’t know you?” Kazuki laughs, squeezing your hand. “That’s classic you. Sweet talk me into going upstairs, get me all flustered, and then—boom—subject change. Next thing I know, we’re eating takeout and watching some terrible movie instead of having an actual discussion about our future.”

You gasp, clutching your chest. “How dare you imply I would manipulate you with my feminine wiles?”

He raises an eyebrow. Okay. Fair point.

You sigh, dramatically resting your head against the car seat. “Fine. You got me. Again. You’re so damn perceptive, it’s honestly rude.”

Kazuki smirks, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s almost like I know you.”

“Well, since I can’t seduce my way out of this conversation, can I at least tempt you with takeout and a terrible movie?”

His smirk softens into a fond smile. “Tempting. But I have an early shift tomorrow.” He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles before releasing it. “Rain check?”

“Fine,” you grumble. “But just so you know, I’m picking the worst movie possible next time. Full three-hour runtime. No plot. Just vibes.”

Kazuki chuckles, shaking his head as he unlocks the doors. “I look forward to it.”

You step out of the car, adjusting your jacket as the cool night air hits you. Turning back, you lean against the open door, tilting your head. “Drive safe.”

He gives you a two-finger salute. “Always.”

You’re sniffing yourself again. Fucking Captain.

After making your way home and finally shutting the door behind you, you flick on the lights and check your phone at the same time. Wait. Something feels off. You look around. You already knew. No— felt who it was. And you could already hear that someone shamelessly devouring all your hidden sweets. With the silent precision of a seasoned thief, you slide your knife from its hidden sheath. The sound of crinkling plastic and disgustingly happy munching continues, completely oblivious to the fact that death is approaching. You take slow, measured steps, avoiding the floorboards you know creak. Past the couch. Past the living room. Around the corner. The glow of the fridge light spills into the room, illuminating a very familiar , very unwanted intruder. Currently elbow-deep in your snack drawer, stuffing his face with your emergency stash of mochi. Your favorite mochi. The sacred, hidden-away, I’ve-had-a-rough-week-and-deserve-this mochi. Unforgivable. Without a second thought, you press the blade against his neck. Gojo Satoru, meanwhile, freezes mid-bite—half a piece of mochi sticking out of his mouth like an oversized hamster. Slowly. So slowly, he turns his head toward you.

“Thish ish good.” he says.

You press the knife just a little harder against his throat, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs with his very audacious attempt to swallow the stolen mochi. He lifts his hands in mock surrender, cheeks still stuffed like a chipmunk. “Lishen,” he says, still chewing, “I can exshplain.”

“Oh? You can explain why you’re in my house, raiding my snacks like a giant raccoon in human form?”

He finally swallows. Clears his throat.

“You stole the crystal.”

“What makes you think I stole the crystal?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Oh, come oooon,” he waves his hands dramatically. “That sneeze? Top-tier move.”

“ Then why didn’t you stop me ?” you lower the knife just enough to let him talk properly.

He stretches, completely unbothered, like he isn’t currently being held at knifepoint in your kitchen. “Because I was curious,” he says, lounging back against your counter. “How exactly were you planning on getting it out of my pocket? Classic pickpocketing? Slight-of-hand? Or my personal favorite—the ‘Oops, I tripped and fell directly into your lap’ technique?”

Silence.

“That last one sounds suspiciously personal,” you deadpan.

“Oh, it is,” he winks at you. “You’d be surprised how many people have tried it.”

Nope. You are absolutely not gonna talk to him, let alone let him into your damn house. What the hell?!

You stepped back. “Get out.”

“Not until i get the crystal. Just give it to me and I’ll be on my merry way.”

“Nope.” You turn away from him and head to the living room. How the hell do you get rid of him?

He sprawls out on your couch, stretching his arms over his head like he’s settling in for a long stay. His bunny slippers—nah, your bunny slippers —tap against your coffee table like he’s making himself at home.

“Nope,” you repeat, crossing your arms. “Not happening.“

“You see, the Seal of Heaven and Earth is breaking apart.”

Shit. You chew the inside of your cheek. You know that. You’ve felt it. The unstable flickers of cursed energy, the weird way your own technique has been acting lately—like it’s struggling against something unseen. You felt it at the temple. You felt it on the train back to Tokyo. Hell, you feel it right now, just standing near him.

…But also, not your problem! Right?

You clear your throat. “Sounds rough. Anyway, good luck with that.”

“Are you serious?”

You nod . “Very.”

H leans back, incredulous. “You cannot be this reckless.”

“Oh, but I can.”

“Okay, listen,” he starts, slowly, like he’s trying to explain calculus to a particularly stubborn cat. “The Seal of Heaven and Earth isn’t just any set of artifacts. It’s the only thing keeping cursed energy from—oh, I don’t know— ripping reality apart. It was originally created to—”

You groan, cutting him off. “I know what it is.”

“…You do?”

“Yes, obviously. Who do you think I am? Some amateur artifact thief who just takes on random jobs without researching first?”

A pause. He opens his mouth.

You point a threatening finger at him. “ If you say yes, I will throw you out my window. ”

He shuts his mouth.

You exhale sharply. “The Seal of Heaven and Earth was crafted centuries ago by two opposing sorcerers—Amegiri Seizan and Tsukuyo Hakuren.” You start pacing. “They were so powerful that their combined cursed energy could, theoretically, unmake the natural order. So, to stop themselves from accidentally obliterating existence, they split their power into a series of artifacts—creating the Seal.” You shoot him a look. “There. Lecture over. I don’t need a history lesson.”

“Well, damn. I was gonna say ‘smart is sexy,’ but now I feel like you might actually murder me.”

You ignore him because you really thought that you actually might murder him at this point.

“Look,” he says, pushing himself up from your couch, “you’re smart—annoyingly so—but that doesn’t change the fact that the Seal is falling apart. I need to gather all the artifacts before shit hits the fan. And the crystal is the first one so i really need it back.”

You tap your fingers against your crossed arms, weighing your options. On one hand, you don’t particularly enjoy the idea of reality collapsing because of some ancient magical artifact mess. On the other hand…

“I can’t give it back.”

You feel him blinking under his blindfold.  “What?”

You sigh. “I can’t give it back.”

“You can’t or you won’t ?”

“I can’t,” you repeat, rubbing your temples. “It’s not mine anymore. It’s with my client.”

You can see him barely holding back from cursing. “Okay. Fine. But i still need it so you have to somehow take it from him.”

You shouldn’t care. You really shouldn’t . You should just pretend you don’t feel the weird energy fluctuations, ignore the creeping feeling in your gut, and go back to your normal, artifact-stealing, chaos-avoiding life.

But.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? You do feel it. You feel the cracks in the balance, the way the air and time shifts around you. The way the world feels… unstable. Wrong. And the only other person who also feels it—who also truly understands what’s happening—is currently lying across your couch , eating your snacks in your bunny slippers , and ruining your life. Fantastic.

You hate that if you agree to help him it means you’re going to have to deal with him for longer than the past 48 hours you’ve already suffered through.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “ Fine. But I have conditions.”

He smirked, stretching his arms behind his head. “Oh, I love conditions. Hit me.”

“First of all, I am not stealing it back. That’s not how this works.”

He blinks. “That’s literally how you work.”

You ignore that. “Second, if I do get you the crystal, you’re going to make another fake one for me to swap out—”

“Wait—”

“And third, after this? You leave me alone. ” You point a finger at him. “No more showing up uninvited. No more eating my snacks. You leave me alone and we never meet again.”

The man squints at you, chewing over your words. (And also still chewing on your mochi. Unbelievable. )

“Lemme get this straight,” he says, waving a half-eaten piece of rice cake for emphasis. “You want me to forge another fake crystal— again —so you can swap it out, again , and in return, I get the real one… but after that, you never wanna see me again?”

“Correct.” you nodded.

He stares at you for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully. You can practically see the gears turning in his infuriatingly overpowered head.

“Oh. Yeah, no. That’s not happening. ”

He cannot be serious.

“Excuse me?!” you scowl.

“You heard me.” He tosses the now-empty mochi wrapper onto your coffee table like some kind of feral gremlin . “The deal’s not good enough.”

You don’t trust him when he speaks, you don’t trust him when he’s silent, and you especially don’t trust him when he’s thinking.

“ Okay, fine ,” you grit out, arms crossed. “What exactly do you want?”

You know he already has an answer. The bastard just wants to make you suffer. And then—he says it.

“I want a date.”

You blink at him. He blinks back.

“…A what.”

“A date,” he repeats cheerfully, stretching out across your couch even more , like he’s trying to merge with it. “A totally real, 100% legitimate, not-a-trick, no-bullshit, good old-fashioned date.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“ Absolutely not. ”

“It’s just one date.”

“One too many. ” You fold your arms tightly across your chest, glaring at him like he’s some particularly resilient cockroach that refuses to die. “I’m engaged.”

He raises an eyebrow, utterly unimpressed. “Yeah, and?”

You gawk at him. “What do you mean, and?! That’s a whole-ass person I’m committed to!”

You see him shrugging. “Meh.”

The audacity.

Okay, let’s think this through. You give him the crystal. You go on a date. Just one date. A couple hours tops. He’s not even gonna be able to touch you. A couple hours of his endless blabbering, and then he’ll leave you to enjoy your life again. Forever. But you don’t want to go on a date with him. But he’s not gonna leave you alone. But when he gives his word, he sticks to it. But you still don’t want to go on a date with him. But then he might actually back out of the deal and take the crystal from the client. That’s gonna be a problem for you, because only you, the client, and Taro know where the crystal is. So, when the client realizes it’s gone, all fingers will point straight at you. And you don’t need that kind of shit. But you’re still gonna have to deal with it anyway. ARRRGGHHH!

“Fine!” you shouted, feeling unreasonably nervous. “Jesus, fine! I’ll go on a date with you!”

He finally gets up from your couch, grinning from ear to ear. “Alrighty, I’ll let you know when the fake’s ready.”

“No need.” You walk over to the door, making it very clear it’s time for him to fuck off. “Hit up Taro when the crystal’s ready.”

“Oh, Taro? Great guy. I promised him a selfie.” He heads for the door ready to start blabbering again.

As if you cared.

“Yeah, ok, whatever,” you mumble and open the door for him. “Now get out.”

The second you literally shoved him out of your apartment, you finally took a deep breath. Now, all that was left was figuring out how to swap the crystal AGAIN. One good thing? Pulling this con on a guy going through a midlife crisis was gonna be a hell of a lot easier than running from monks with brooms.

Chapter Text

The first few days without hearing from Satoru Gojo had been blissful. You spent those days like a normal person—whatever that means—without the constant undercurrent of chaos that seemed to follow him around like a bad smell. You had no distractions. No teleportation mishaps. No creepy goats. Just… normal. Whatever normal was in your life.

You spent an entire day watching reruns of a show you’d swear had been cancelled five years ago but somehow kept coming back for more. You didn’t even have to think about cursed artifacts or ancient seals falling apart, and the best part? No random, smug, blindfolded sorcerer showing up uninvited, eating your snacks, and making you question your life. Kazuki stayed over last night, and the two of you spent the entire day glued to your comfy, overpriced couch. But he left early in the morning for work so now you had a whole new day for yourself.

It was like a vacation. And it lasted for a glorious three days.

Three. Days.

Then, your phone buzzed. Of course it did. You let it ring for a while, hoping it was a spam call. It wasn’t. It was Taro.

“Hello?” you said, trying to sound casual as you shoved your phone into your ear, lying on the couch with a blanket pulled up to your chin, still in your pajamas at 2 p.m. It was a good day.

“Soooo,” you hear Taro’s voice on the other end. “Guess who stopped by? Satoru fucking Gojo!” There’s a special kind of excitement and pure joy in his tone. “He dropped off the fake crystal—and even took that promised selfie with me!”

You barely held back a loud groan of frustration. Not hearing from him for a few days had almost made you hope he was handling this shit on his own—without dragging you into it. But nope. Looks like you were dead wrong.

“Did you check the fake? Does it look just like the original?” You got out of bed and padded barefoot to the kitchen, ready to make yourself some coffee.

“Yup, I checked it! It looks perfect, like… really perfect. Couldn’t even tell the difference. Honestly, I think he might have put a little too much effort into it. Like, does he have a thing for fake artifacts or something?” Taro’s voice held that familiar tone of disbelief you’d learned to associate with any Gojo-related encounter. “You figured out how you’re gonna swap the crystal for a fake yet?”

Oh, you’d thought about it. A lot. At least when you weren’t busy pretending your life was just as normal as everyone else’s. At the end of the day, what did you even know about this client?

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, the rich, dark liquid offering you at least some semblance of control in this situation. You take a slow sip, and as the bitter warmth settles in, you lean against the counter, your thoughts running wild. Okay, let’s break this down.

You have a fake crystal. Check. That’s step one out of the way. Now, the problem is how to swap it without your client noticing. The man’s a walking alarm bell. He sweats more than a sauna, and he’s got the instincts of a paranoid squirrel—if squirrels were obsessed with shiny rocks. You’ve seen how he handles his “precious” artifacts, treating them like they’re somehow more important than the life of a regular human being. You can already imagine him, clutching that crystal like it’s the holy grail.

But you’re a professional, right? You’ve got this. Oh yeah. You could do this. 

Option One:

The plan’s simple—walk in, all smiles, pretend to be the perfect little angel, and in the midst of all that sweet and innocent charm, accidentally swap the crystals. The moment your client catches a whiff of your “innocent charm,” he’ll forget he even had a crystal. He’ll probably hand over the real one himself, just to be nice. The catch? You’d have to play this perfectly.

Yeah, no. This plan would have worked… if you weren’t a trained professional who can’t even pretend to be innocent without bursting out laughing. Let’s be real. There’s no way you’d be able to pull this off without some sort of eye twitch or a snide remark slipping out. Scratch that .

Option Two:

Alright, let’s get this straight—you’re not about to do anything too dramatic . But, if you’re going to be stuck in a situation where you need to sweet-talk someone out of their most valuable possession, you might as well use all the tools at your disposal. You’ve got the looks, the confidence, and, well, let’s be honest—you’ve done worse. So, you decide to employ a bit of classic “feminine wiles” and charm the client into handing over the crystal—while, of course, swapping it with the fake at the perfect moment. You could lean in just enough to make him a little uncomfortable, laugh at his lame jokes, flutter your lashes like you’re the best thing and voilà! He’d be so enamored by your charm that he wouldn’t even think twice about the crystal in your hand. It’ll be a smooth swap. Easy . The best part? You won’t even have to lift a finger.

…Okay, fine. The whole plan is based on a lot of lying and manipulation, and deep down, you’re not sure you want to go that route. You just know the second you turn on the charm, you’ll be running a con that leaves you wondering if you really want to sell your soul for some ancient cursed relic.

Let’s face it: using your “powers” on this guy would probably leave you with a stomach full of regret. Next idea.

Option Three:

You’ve pulled this trick a thousand times—make it so casual, so nonchalant, that no one even realizes what’s happening until it’s already done. You’ll walk in, make small talk, act like everything is just so normal . You’ll ask a couple of questions, say how much you love the crystal (you know how to fake enthusiasm), and get him distracted with a harmless conversation about something— anything —while you casually pull off the swap. You’ll make it look so easy, so natural , that your client won’t even blink. Hell, you’ll be sipping your coffee, leaning back, asking him if he’s thought about updating his insurance policy, and the next thing you know, you’ll be walking out of there with the real crystal in your pocket, like it was always meant to be that way . Simple. Elegant. The perfect crime.

Just in case, The Bullshit Plan is always tucked away in your pocket.

You nod to yourself, feeling a smirk tug at your lips. After taking a strong sip of coffee, you say, “Oh yeah, Taro, I do have a plan.”

When you actually find yourself standing outside his office, fake crystal safely inside a silk pouch in your pocket, you can’t help but feel like this is about to go completely off the rails. The door opens before you can knock. The client—a man whose very existence radiates ‘I cried in my car this morning’ energy—stares at you, beads of sweat already forming at his temple. His hands twitch as he adjusts his tie.

“T-Thanks for coming.” He muttered, rubbing his sweaty little hands together.

“Yes,” you say, carefully stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. “That is how meetings work.”

“Right! Right, of course. I was just, uh… surprised. You know. Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

“I wanted to check on the crystal,” you say smoothly, strolling further into the office. “Make sure everything’s in perfect condition. You know how it is with delicate artifacts. To make sure I removed all the dangerous seals from it.”

His face lights up like you just complimented his hairline. “Yes, of course! I understand completely. It’s just—well, I’ve been keeping it very safe. Very, very safe.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Very safe?”

He nods frantically. “Yes. Extremely. Triple-locked. Hidden. Guarded.”

Guarded??

You keep your expression neutral. “You hired guards?”

“Not exactly.” He gestures vaguely to the side. “I have… a security system.”

You glance over.

It’s a single, tiny dog. A chihuahua sitting on a pink pillow. The dog—whose entire existence is concentrated into two bulging, watery eyes and a body that looks like it’s vibrating at the speed of light—stares at you. It does not blink. It does not move. It simply watches.

You clear your throat. “Impressive.”

The client beams. “Thank you. I trained her myself.”

You watch as the chihuahua lets out a sound that is neither bark nor growl, but something far more unholy. This is it. This is how you die. The chihuahua doesn’t break eye contact. Neither do you. The room has become a battleground of pure willpower. Then, in the most haunting display of power you’ve ever witnessed, the chihuahua sneezes.

“Her name is Princess Peach,” he whispers reverently.

Princess Peach licks her own eyeball.

“Of course it is,” you say, because of course it is. You force yourself to keep a straight face.

The chihuahua still doesn’t blink, so do you. Silence fills the room. Then the beast moves. Like a tiny, possessed wind-up toy, she scurries off the pink pillow and onto the desk with a speed that should not be physically possible.

“Oh, she likes you!” he beams.

Liar. This hell creature has declared war.

Okay. Focus. You still need to get the crystal, and now you have to do it while dodging a satanic rat with a Napoleon complex. The safe sits behind the desk, mocking you. You need him to open it . The most likely way to pull off the swap was with a distraction—but now, the real challenge was making sure neither the client nor that sneaky chihuahua caught on.

The Princess is staring straight into your soul. Your soul is staring right back at the Princess.  The client, blissfully unaware that his personal gremlin is trying to intimidate you into submission , clears his throat. “So, uh… You wanted to check the crystal?”

You take a slow, calming breath. “Yes. That is why I’m here.”

He nods too rapidly, like he’s trying to convince himself that this isn’t suspicious at all—and scurries over to the safe. You watch him input the code, press his sweaty palm to the scanner, and lean in for the retinal scan. The safe hisses open. And there it is. The reason you ended up back in this office. The reason you still can’t get rid of that annoying, white-haired bastard. The client turns back to you , holding the crystal up like a proud father . “Here it is. Completely stable, of course. No signs of any energy surges.”

You plaster on your best ‘concerned professional’ look and nod seriously. “Of course, but we can never be too careful.”

The chihuahua —tiny, furious, powered by pure malice —let out a sudden, high-pitched whine that made you suddenly look at her. The client jumped , clutching the crystal tighter. With all the righteous fury of an ancient deity , Princess Peach squatted , locked eyes with you , and peed on her owner’s desk. Ew.   There was a moment of silence. A horrifying , paralyzing , unholy moment of silence. The puddle of chihuahua betrayal spreads slowly, soaking into important documents, a very fancy-looking pen, and what appears to be a contract folder labeled in big, bold letters: ‘TOP SECRET: PRIVATE CLIENTS.’ The man made a strangled noise.

“P-Princess Peach…?”

The dog did not break eye contact. Then, as if she had not just committed a heinous crime, she hopped daintily off the desk, trotted to her pink pillow, and sat down. You can swear she smirked. Maybe the dog really did like you? The man made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a dying whale’s cry .

“Princess Peach…” he almost whispered, “ what have you done? ”

You could kiss Princess Peach. Actually, no. You’re not touching that demon.

“Oh no,” you murmured, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “That’s… that’s really unfortunate. You should, uh… probably grab some napkins. Before it seeps into the, um…”

“The warranty papers ,” he choked, face ashen.

Yes. Exactly. The very important warranty papers. The ones that were now soaked in divine canine vengeance. He whirled toward the drawer, yanking it open and frantically pulling out an entire roll of paper towels. And while he fumbled with the paper towels, you extended your hands.

“Here,” you said, your tone perfectly measured . “Let me hold the crystal while you clean that up.”

He hesitated—because even in the depths of existential despair , he was still clutching the crystal for dear life. But desperation is a powerful thing. With a strangled groan, the client thrust the crystal into your hands like it was the least important thing in the world.

“D-Don’t drop it,” he muttered. Oh, buddy. You took the crystal with the most solemn expression you could manage. “Shit, shit, shit—” He scrambled to blot it up, his hands trembling as he threw layer after layer of napkins onto the mess. “How did she even—there wasn’t even that much water in her bowl today, I don’t understand—”

Taking advantage of the moment while the poor guy was busy dealing with the puddle, you stepped back behind him, slipping a hand into your pocket. In one motion, you pulled out the fake crystal and quickly stashed the real one in your other pocket. If there was ever a sign from the gods to make your move, this was it—delivered, of course, by none other than a rat-dog. You look at Princess Peach. She was pleased. She had won. She looks up at you. A single, mutual understanding passed between you: this was her office now.

You waited patiently as the man desperately tried to clean up at least half the puddle on his custom-ordered desk—burning through an entire roll of paper napkins in the process. You roll the fake crystal between your fingers before clearing your throat and carefully holding it out.

“Here. Everything looks stable. No dangerous seals left.”

The client pauses mid-blot, looks up at you—then at the crystal. He takes the crystal back, cradling it like a man who has suffered one too many betrayals in his lifetime.

“Thank god,” he mutters.

As you watch this poor, defeated man, you feel the faintest twinge of guilt. Just a tiny, almost nonexistent twinge. You shook your head. Listen, you are a professional artifact hunter. You do not get sentimental about your clients. But this guy  just got betrayed by his own security system in the worst way possible. He sets the fake crystal back into its little display stand with a sigh so deep, so mournful, you actually have to fight the urge to tell him to sit down and breathe into a paper bag. Nope, you shouldn’t ask him anything. None of your business. You should tell him you’re leaving. You should just say goodbye and go. Just. Don’t. Ask.

”…You okay?” you ask—while barely holding yourself back from slapping the shit out of yourself.

He shakes his head, shoulders sagging. “I just…” he stares at the pee-stained desk like a man who has truly seen the abyss. “I really thought she respected me, you know?”

You glance at Princess Peach, who’s sitting on her cushion, tongue hanging out, eyes pointing in completely different directions. She licks her own eyeball. Again.

“…Yeah,” you say, nodding solemnly. “That’s rough, buddy.”

“Maybe it’s my fault,” he continues. “I was so focused on the crystal, I neglected our bond.”

This man is about to have an emotional breakdown over his chihuahua.

Abort. Abort.

“Hey, listen,” you say, keeping your tone calm, steady, deeply serious. “I think Princess Peach still loves you. I mean, this?” You motion vaguely to the puddle of betrayal on his desk. “This wasn’t an act of war. This was…a cry for attention.”

The client gasped “Oh my god.”

You nod wisely, like you have any idea what you’re talking about. But if it helps the poor bastard sleep at night, why not?

“She just wants you to notice her more,” you say smoothly. “She’s not just a guard dog. She’s family.”

A single tear wells up in his eye.

“Oh, Princess…”

You glance at the chihuahua, who is currently licking the bottom of her own foot with the grace of a creature who has never known shame and force down a sigh, patting the guy’s back a couple of times in some half-assed attempt to be reassuring.

“I will spend some quality time with her,” he says. “Maybe… I don’t know, take her on a walk. Get matching sweaters. Rebuild the trust.”

You do not wanna stay here anymore. You do not want to hear it. You do not wanna witness any of this. This is officially the strangest job you’ve ever pulled.

“Exactly,” you say, already stepping toward the door before he decides to make you his emotional support therapist.

He straightens his back, determined. “We’re going to the pet spa tomorrow. Full treatment. She deserves it.”

Please, don’t answer. Just go.

“Great plan. I support it.”

15 minutes later you walk out of there faster than a curse fleeing an exorcism , making it to the street before you allow yourself to let out a slow, steady breath. But you still have to get this crystal to Gojo. Nope. Not happening. You are not dealing with his smug face today. Or ever. You’re not. Which is why you’re heading to Taro’s place instead—who, apparently, has already managed to buddy up with him. Not surprising. Taro is the only person you trust enough to act as the middleman in this exchange. You’ve known him for years— since he was a scrawny teenager who thought hacking government servers ‘just to see if he could’ was a good idea. (He got caught. You bailed him out you don’t know even why. He’s been annoyingly attached to you ever since.)

To be fair, you’ve saved his ass more times than you can count —but to his credit, he’s saved yours a couple of times too.  

Grabbing some groceries on the way to his place ( because, let’s be real, his apartment is basically a graveyard of fast food boxes ), you made it to his door just as the sun started dipping below the horizon, the city coming alive with headlights, streetlights, and the neon glow of shop signs and cafés. You knock on Taro’s door and immediately hear a series of crashes from inside. Something clatters to the floor. A muffled “Shit—one sec!” echoes through the hallway. You sigh, shifting the bag of groceries in your arms. Why does his apartment always sound like a crime scene?

The door finally opens, revealing Taro—barefoot, curly waves of hair slightly messy, big green eyes peeking out from behind his glasses. He’s wearing a sweatshirt from his favorite manga—the one you got him for his birthday. Kid could’ve been a model, but decided to go the wrong way. He blinks at you, eyes flicking from the bag in your hands to your face.

“…You brought food?”

You lift the bag. “I saw your fridge last time. It was a tragic sight.”

You step inside, carefully navigating past a pile of empty soda cans and a suspiciously half-disassembled gaming chair. The apartment is exactly as chaotic as you remember from few days ago before you went to Kyoto. Three monitors are set up on his desk, displaying lines of code, a paused anime episode, and what looks like a forum post about conspiracy theories involving Gojo Satoru.

Taro closes the door behind you, immediately snatching the grocery bag from your hands with zero shame. You immediately grab a trash bag from his kitchen and start picking up leftover fast food wrappers and empty energy drink cans off the floor. He watches you for a second, then rolls his eyes. “Okay, mom , I was gonna clean up. Eventually.”

You froze for a second and then hold up a half-empty container of instant ramen that looks at least a week old. “Don’t call me that.”

Taro shrugs, already rifling through the grocery bag with the excitement of someone who hasn’t seen real food in a month. “I mean, technically, you kinda are my responsible adult figure,” he says, pulling out a pack of fresh onigiri and holding it up like a trophy. “Oh, hell yeah. You really do love me.”

You chuck the ramen into the trash with a dramatic thunk , completely ignoring his words. Yeah, you loved him. He was the only person you trusted. He meant a hell of a lot to you—but, of course, you’d never actually say that. “Have you even tried going outside at least once this week? Or, I don’t know, getting yourself a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?”

Taro snorts, flopping down onto his couch with a rice ball already halfway to his mouth. “Pfft. Like I have time for that. I’d date Gojo Satoru tho. Too bad he likes hot chicks like you. And i’d date you, if you weren’t like moth-“ He stops in his tracks the moment he catches your warning look. “Sorry, like sister to me.”

“Better,” you mutter, shoving another pile of questionable trash into the bag. By the time Taro finished listing off all the people he’d date (most of whom were anime or manga characters, obviously), you’d already cleaned up all the crap in his apartment and tossed his scattered clothes into the wash.

You really needed to start charging him for maid services out of his paycheck.

The smell of simmering broth and sizzling oil filled Taro’s tiny apartment, transforming the usual disaster zone into something warm and almost homey. You stood at the stove, stirring a pot of miso soup, while a pan of golden-brown tonkatsu crackled beside it. The rhythmic chop of your knife against the cutting board echoed as you sliced fresh green onions for garnish. The scent of soy sauce, mirin, and dashi filled the air, and for once, the place didn’t reek of instant ramen and energy drinks. This was normal. The two of you had done this for years, falling into this rhythm of your lives: you cooking, him eating, both of you talking shit in between. Taro leaned against the counter, watching you work with the lazy attentiveness of someone who had absolutely no intention of helping. He popped an edamame pod into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, while you finally found the chance to tell him every detail about what went down in Kyoto.

“So let me get this straight—" he said between bites. "You broke into Kuroda-dera, got into a literal fistfight with Gojo fucking Satoru, triggered some kind of reality-warping cursed energy explosion, accidentally teleported into the middle of nowhere, got harassed by a goat, conned the world’s strongest sorcerer out of an ancient artifact, swapped it with a fake under the nose of a guy whose chihuahua betrayed him, and now you’re dumping the real thing on me so you don’t have to deal with Gojo?"

"Correct.”

Taro’s lips—small but aesthetically on point—quirked up at the corner as he popped another edamame into his mouth. “My god. I’m so proud.”

Sneaky bastard. Of course, he was proud. The guy had been competing with you in scams for years.

“You never told me your technique weakens when you’re near him,” he said, chasing down a stray piece of green onion—only to get smacked on the hand for his efforts.

“That’s because I never thought about it until I ran into him at Kuroda-dera. And for the record, it’s not just my technique. His gets weaker too. His Infinity? Completely gone.” You shoved two nimono-wan into Taro’s hands—mostly to keep him busy so he’d stop snatching food from under your nose.

“And why’s that?”

Your gaze flicked up. His question made you pause for the first time ever. Not that you really cared—just like you didn’t care about the whole jujutsu world in general. At the end of the day, it wasn’t your problem. Taro was gonna hand the crystal over to him soon, and as for that so-called “date”? Knowing Gojo Satoru, he’d forget all about it the moment he found another pretty face to take out. So you just shrugged, and Taro took that as the answer.

“Why’d you even decide to help him get the original crystal back?” Taro asked later as you both sat at the chabudai , eating soup.

You sighed. Taro always had a million questions, kinda like a little kid still figuring out how the world works. Normally, you didn’t mind answering, especially when it came to artifacts. But explaining that a seal from the Heian era was glitching out and could potentially screw over the entire world? Yeah, that would just open up a whole new can of questions you weren’t ready to deal with. So, you just shrugged again. Taro took that as his answer again—he knew you’d talk if you actually wanted to. You figured he’d probably just Google the information about the crystal later anyway.

“Why did you agree to go on a date with him?”

And that’s when it hit you— the more you shrugged, the more questions he’d ask, and the harder it would be to dodge them.

“Because he wouldn’t leave me alone.” You see Taro’s mouth open again, but you cut him off. “And no, he’s not into me. He’s probably just obsessed with figuring out why some random artifact hunter can shut down his Infinity and nerf his cursed technique.” His mouth opens again. “And no, I’m not actually going on this date. I’d rather book a flight to Italy for a month just to ghost him. Not that he’d need a whole month—he’d probably forget about it the second he spots another skirt that catches his attention.” You pause, squinting at him. “Any more questions?”

“I was gonna ask how’s Kazuki,” he replies, already halfway through his second bowl of miso soup. “But sure, if you wanna talk about your date with Gojo Satoru, I’m all ears.”

You glare at Taro, gripping your chopsticks a little too tightly. Breathe. Be mature. Do not stab your only trusted ally with a piece of bamboo.

“Kazuki’s fine,” you reply with as much patience as you can muster. “Thanks for asking.”

“Still dragging you to those Friday nights with his parents while his mom won’t shut up about the wedding ‘cause she’s dead set on marrying off her precious baby boy?”

You call him by his name, and he hits you right back with yours.

“Bruh, just stop.” You’d already lost your appetite the moment Satoru Gojo got mentioned, but now? Yeah, you were done —both with the food and this conversation.

“Aight, alright, chill. Just asking.” Taro, probably sensing that something was about to get yeeted at him, decided to back off. But it was too late. You were already over it. Your social battery is dead. Time to go home.

After clearing all the dishes—so they wouldn’t start evolving into a new life form over the next week—you said goodbye to Taro. Half an hour later, your foot finally crossed the threshold of your warm, cozy, and proudly antisocial home. Leaning against the door, you let out a loooong exhale. Well, at least one problem was off your plate. A hot shower, a comfy silk robe, snacks safely hidden from that white-haired pests this time, your giant couch—life’s good again.

“So there I was, nodding along the whole time, having zero clue what he was talking about, thinking the dude just needed to vent to a random stranger—only for him to push his hair back, revealing an earbud. He was on the phone. For fifteen minutes, the real idiot wasn’t him—it was me, nodding and reacting to a conversation I wasn’t even part of.”

You’re barely holding back laughter, pressing your phone tighter against your ear.

“Kazuki, you’re such an idiot. Nobody really talks to strangers like that these days.”

“Well, maybe i still believe in the basic decency of human connection?” he did.

You reach for a soda can on the coffee table, give it a shake, and—great, it’s already empty. “Hate to break it to you, but welcome to the 21st century. We don’t do that here.”

“Not everyone operates under your rule of ‘minimum social interaction, maximum efficiency.’ Some of us actually enjoy human contact.”

“Okay, but was it really worth it?” You shuffle to the kitchen in your bunny slippers for another can. “You just spent fifteen minutes hyping up a dude who wasn’t even talking to you.”

“I was being polite!”

“You were basically background noise for his conversation.”

While Kazuki is busy searching for a justification for modern society, passionately assuring you that all is not lost, you switch on the kitchen light and—

You let out an unexpected shriek, phone nearly slipping from your grasp as your soul momentarily departs your body. Because there, halfway inside your fridge like some kind of raccoon, is none other than Satoru Gojo. His fingers are already wrapped around a suspiciously familiar-looking box of pocky—one you distinctly remember hiding behind the miso paste.

“Babe, you’re okay?” you pay no attention to Kazuki’s voice.

Gojo Satoru, meanwhile, finally has the honor of pulling his head out of your fridge. “Did you know you’re out of mil—”

But acting on reflex rather than reason, you swiftly clamp a hand over his mouth—because, of course, the last thing you want right now is for Kazuki to find out that there’s a man in your home but not the apocalypse it might cause if you touch him. A man who, in theory, should have already retrieved his crystal from Taro and left you in peace.

The second your palm touches his skin the cursed energy surges like an earthquake, pulsing outward in a shockwave that rattles the fridge shelves, exploding a carton of juice, drenching both you and him completely, and causing a bag of frozen edamame to commit suicide off the top rack. The light bulb in the kitchen flickers twice, lets out a dramatic little buzz, and then bursts. The microwave door pops open, unprompted, as if personally offended by your existence. You hear car alarm wailing somewhere in the distance. The phone has long been abandoned, possibly lying somewhere in another room, disconnected and drained of power. Gojo Satoru licks your palm again. You yeet your hand away so fast you nearly slap yourself in the face. You give yourself a moment to pause.

“You!” You attempt to point at him in the pitch-black darkness, relying purely on instinct. “First, you get in my way when I try to steal the crystal. Then, you teleport me to god-knows-where. After that, you steal my emergency stash of sweets. And now—now you’re wrecking my apartment! If you’re here about that stupid date, you can forget it—because I never planned on going in the first place!”

“Forget about the date for now.”

But there was no stopping you now. Your patience had worn thin. Two days were enough to remind you of your clan, your student years at the Kyoto Tech, the life you had spent years successfully running from.

“What part of leave me alone do you not understand? Is it a language barrier? Do I need to spell it out for you in kanji? Should I get a whiteboard? Maybe use some flashcards?”

“I said forget about the-“

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I’m the one talking right now,” you say into the darkness. “Let me make it clear for you - this whole thing between us? It’s not happening. Not in this lifetime, not in the next, not in any alternate reality where I might be dumb enough to fall for whatever half-baked charm you think you have.”

“Actually, statistically speaking, I have quite a bit of—”

“And another thing! If you think you can just show up into my apartment whenever you feel like it without even knocking, steal my snacks, ruin my kitchen, and then somehow manipulate me into going on a date with you just because you’re tall and annoying and—apparently have nothing better to do with your time than torment me, then—”

Oh?

Oooooh.

Satoru Gojo turns on the flashlight on his phone and shines it directly at you—clearly just to witness the exact moment realization dawns on your face.

“I need your help.”

Chapter Text

To make you truly understand why he needed your help, he first had to persuade you to light the candles and settle comfortably on the couch—but not before promising to clean up the chaos left behind and restore the light in your apartment, disturbed by the collapse of your touch. When everything was set for the conversation, and your pocky still lingered between his lips, he was the first to break the silence.

“What do you know about the second artifact?”

“Tasogare no Utsuwa,” you begin, your gaze fixed on the flickering flame of an aromatic candle, its scent a delicate blend of cherry and vanilla. “ Is one of the oldest artifacts tied to the balance between realms. Not just Heaven and Earth—but everything in between. The vessel was created in the Heian period, forged from obsidian that was said to have formed at the exact moment of a solar eclipse. A relic meant to hold transitions, to contain the liminality of existence—the space where life and death touch, where the past and the present fold into each other. Amegiri Seizan and Tsukuyo Hakuren chose it as the one of the seals because they knew that time alone wouldn’t keep the barrier intact. They needed something that could regulate the energy shifts between the worlds.”

The Pocky stick slipped from Satoru Gojo’s lips into his hand, and with a lazy flick, he pointed it at you. “ And where is it now?”

“Osorezan.”

“The Bodaiji temple?”

“Correct.” You nod, your fingers slowly dancing with the candle’s flame.

The man with hair as white as snow, seemed momentarily enchanted by the way you played with the candle’s flame. It took him a few seconds to gather himself before finally informing you that the artifact wasn’t there.

“I was there just a couple of hours ago. It’s gone.”

Your brows twitched in surprise—not because the artifact was missing, but because you had always heard from other jujutsu sorcerers that Gojo Satoru could be in two places at once. And yet, for the first time, those words didn’t seem to carry their usual metaphorical weight. The same fate might have awaited you, had you not-

“I doubt anyone could’ve stolen it.” You push your thoughts aside, replying casually as you pluck a fresh pocky stick from his hand. “I think they’re just hiding it far too well.”

“And you know that because…?”

You took a slow bite of your stolen pocky and then, with an air of nonchalance, you finally admitted, “Because I’ve already tried to steal it once and couldn’t find it either. I think it just hidden somewhere in the temple. And I believe that only two people are capable of finding it.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. “And when exactly you were there?”

“A while back.” You waved your hand vaguely. “Way before I had the misfortune of running into you at Kuroda-dera.”

He clicked his tongue. “You could’ve saved me the trip, you know.”

“You could’ve asked.”

Satoru Gojo bit his lower lip in a smile, his gaze lingering on you. You chose to ignore him, keeping your attention fixed on the candle.

“What makes you think the artifact isn’t in Lake Usori? Hiding it there would make perfect sense too.”

And he absolutely had a point—except you knew two things: first, he was wrong; second, you’d take great pleasure in telling him so.

“Because Amegiri Seizan and Tsukuyo Hakuren were far-sighted sorcerers. They foresaw that, one day, the seal might crack. And sinking such a priceless artifact—one meant to protect future generations trying to save the world—into a lake with high sulfur content would be no different than dooming that world entirely.”

A silence fell, telling you that he was contemplating your words. You had already risen from the couch, eager to finally rid yourself of the sticky traces of orange juice clinging to your robe, skin, and hair. Yet Gojo, catlike, padded quietly behind you, candle in hand. How on earth had your bunny slippers ended up on his feet again?

“Now I have two questions,” he declared.

You snatch the candle from his hands, step into the bathroom, and lock the door behind you. “Why are you so sure that the Tasogare no Utsuwa is hidden in Bodaiji Temple? I mean, I get the logic behind it not being in the lake, but that still doesn’t explain why you think it’s in the temple .”

“The temple,” you say, slipping off your robe and releasing your hair from its clip, “is one of the few places in Japan where the living and the dead exist in constant dialogue. Built upon the very threshold of the afterlife, where else could be better suited to house an artifact meant to balance the realms?” You turn on the shower, water beginning to stream down. “Every artifact is carefully  guarded by unique seals to keep them from falling into the wrong hands—those who would exploit their power for selfish gain rather than use it to save the world. Those were the same seals I removed from the Crystal of Balance. But the Vessel artifact is far more formidable. I believe it’s sealed with a protective charm that allows it to move freely between realms. The only way to break such a seal is by passing the trial it chooses to impose.”

Your answer was met with silence from the other side of the door again, granting you permission to take a shower finally in peace. Ten minutes later, you emerged from the bathroom, your hair still damp, but at least your clothes no longer clung uncomfortably to your skin. Pushing open the bathroom door, you nudged aside Satoru Gojo, who stood casually in your way, a Pocky stick still dangling from his lips like a cigarette and he still had your bunny slippers on him. His blindfold was pushed up onto his forehead, fully exposing his vivid blue eyes.

“So, according to your assumptions, one person might not be able to handle the trial that the protective seal could set up?”

“Bingo.” you answer, running a towel through your damp hair as you step past him.

“Then,” he announced. “We’ll go together.”

You look at him, first letting out a chuckle that soon blossoms into full laughter. “I think you have a severe listening problem.”

“I heard you,” A smirk spreads across his face, and you have the overwhelming urge to wipe it off. “You said ‘bingo’. Means i’m right.”

“I said ‘bingo’ because your reasoning was correct,” you clarify. This man has the audacity to barge into your home, rummage through your fridge, claim your sweets as his own, and then boldly insist that you’ll join him to retrieve an artifact you swore you’d never touch again after your disastrous first attempt to steal it. This man has no boundaries. But right now, there’s nothing you want more than to get this man out of your house. “There are plenty of other active sorcerers in the jujutsu world that can help you.”

“None of them know as much about artifacts as you do.”

He had a point, but still—

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Leave.” You silently marvel at your own calmness as you hang the towel over the back of the chair.

“No can do.”

You let out a long sigh, puffing out your cheeks. “No can do? I distinctly remember saying, ‘leave.’”

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “And I distinctly remember ignoring it.”

It was pointless. Arguing with him was pointless. Trying to kick him out was pointless. But you could strangle him, and no one would ever know. Or, you could agree to help him and finally get rid of him. The mere fact that you’re even considering it makes your stomach turn, so you force yourself to keep a straight face, masking any emotion. But Gojo has clearly already noticed your habit of chewing your lower lip when you’re deep in thought, and his grin stretches even wider.

The idea of strangling him crosses your mind once again.

“Alright,” he clapped his hands, finally rising from your couch. “So, when are we leaving?”

You didn’t respond immediately. Which, in hindsight, was probably your mistake, because he took your silence, not as hesitation, but as permission for him to decide.

“Great. Tomorrow morning it is.”

“I didn’t say yes—”

“You didn’t say no.” Watching him finally head toward the exit was quite the pleasant sight for your eyes. The moment his hand touched the doorknob, electricity danced across every bulb in your rooms, and light finally illuminated your apartment. “See?” he said, turning back to you with a smirk as he pulled the blindfold over his eyes again. “And life is good once more.”

In the morning, after explaining Kazuki that, for some inexplicable reason, the entire building had lost power and—by some unlucky coincidence—your phone had died, and after calling Taro, only to endure his excited shrieks about you meeting again (despite your hundredth insistence that it was strictly business) with Gojo Satoru, you finally headed to the station to meet him there and board the train to Aomori. By the time you reached the platform, he was already there—waiting for you, in a manner of speaking—with a can of cold coffee from a vending machine in one hand and a can of soda in the other, seemingly meant for you. He was shaking them like maracas, setting some sort of rhythm to the sloshing of water. What an idiot. You decided to walk past him and take a seat, but, of course, you couldn’t get far—he had your ticket and he sat next to you, stretching his legs out so far they nearly tripped a passing businessman. “Oops! My bad, sir! Long legs. Can’t be helped. It’s a curse, really.”

You were almost sure he did it on purpose.

“Here.” He handed you a can of blueberry soda. “Blueberry. Last one in the machine. I got it for you. Mostly because I didn’t want it.”

You stared at the soda. Then at him. Then at the soda again. It hissed menacingly in his hand like it had already picked a face to explode on. You took it, but for your own safety and sanity, decided not to open it right away in order to not to give that white-haired idiot the reason to laugh at you the entire way to Aomori and probably all way back to Tokyo.

“Does your fiancé know what you do?”

“Huh?”

“Does your fiancé know what you do?” he repeats.

You look at him, debating whether to ignore the question—one that obviously has nothing to do with him—or to simply tell him it’s none of his business. Your gaze falls on his sunglasses, reflecting the sunlight.

“Why don’t you cover your eyes?”

“Huh?”

“Why don’t you cover your eyes?” you repeat. “Don’t they get tired from even the slightest flow of cursed energy vibrations?”

“Ah,” he shrugs. “Infinity and Six Eyes don’t work near you. No point.”

So, technically, he’s just an ordinary human when you’re around. You tap your nails against the soda can. There are more people who want Satoru Gojo dead than those who want him alive. Not that he’d be weaker without his Six Eyes and Infinity, but he’d certainly be more vulnerable. Which led you to a question: is he an idiot who trusts you—a person he’s seen, at most, four time in his life—to be near him, knowing full well that you or someone else could take advantage of his weakened state? Or is he an idiot who simply doesn’t see the absence of Infinity and the Six Eyes as a problem?

“So you’re helpless.” you smirked

“I’m delightful,” he said. “And slightly more punchable than usual. You look like you’re thinking about it.”

You were.

The voice over the station’s speakers announced that the train would depart in five minutes, and you headed toward the carriage.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, tapping his ticket against the scanner, stepping inside after you following the quiet beep.

“No,” you replied, placing your bag on the empty seat across from you before settling by the window.

“That wasn’t a yes-or-no question. Where does he think you work?” he clicks the tab, and the cold brew can lets out a satisfying hiss. “Let me guess. Jewelry store?”

You don’t answer.

“So, that’s a no.” He takes a sip. “Antique shop?”

You don’t answer.

“Yeah, that would’ve been too obvious anyway. Please don’t tell me it’s paperwork.”

You stare out the window, watching the station slowly fade into motion, trying to drown out his chatter. While he was busy playing a solo round of “Guess where you work for Kazuki,” you cracked open a blueberry soda — which, of course, had to fizz over (despite all the time that had passed) — and spill all over your black jeans. Inhale. Exhale. Count to ten.

“Heh,” came from your left after a pause. “Totally gave me flashbacks to the Goodwill Event. Suguru and I spent the whole afternoon pelting you with pistachios.”

“That was you ?!” you spun around sharply to look at him. If the train weren’t packed with people, you wouldn’t hesitate to touch him again—just to punch him. And let the whole world explode if it must. “Do you know how tempting it is to activate my technique right now?”

He smiled wider. “Do you know how tempting you are when you’re threatening me?”

That stupid smirk. Like he’d just caught you looking at his mouth—and maybe you had. Briefly. But that didn’t count. You looked at lots of things. Strategically. With focus. Like a professional.

“Are you two in love?” small voice piped up right behind you. You turned around first — and right by your seat stood a child, no older than six, clutching candy in his hands.

There was a pause. “I-what?” you said.

The boy looked at Gojo. “You’re very tall.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I grew myself.”

“Did you two kiss?” he asked.

You almost choked on your drink. “What?!” you yelled. “N-no! I am not - he is not- we’re not-“

“Not yet,” Gojo replies.

“Why not?”

“She’s in denial.” he said, shrugging. You were about to have a heart attack.

“Of what?”

“Her feelings.”

You nearly stood up. “Excuse me?!”

The child narrowed his eyes. “Are you married?”

“No!” you both said at the same time.

“I saw a movie like this once. They hated each other the whole time, then they kissed and someone died. I think there were dragons.”

You blinked. “What kind of movie—”

“Do you wanna see me do a dance?”

“No!” you almost yelled again.

“Absolutely!” that idiot said at the same time with you.

The child suddenly started to dance to an unhinged song about butts—complete with choreography. Somewhere, you were sure, this child had parents. But they were probably too embarrassed to show up. Gojo clapped, you wished you somehow could unseen it. After you had already wasted three precious minutes of your life on this show, the boy was finally dragged away by his sister—who looked strikingly like him. She grabbed the boy by the sleeve and yanked.

“Mom says stop emotionally damaging strangers.”

“But they’re in love,” he protested.

“No, we’re not,” you snapped.

“Not yet,” Gojo Satoru added again.

“Bye!” the child waved. “I hope you kiss and don’t die like in the movie!”

Gojo raised two fingers in farewell. You ignored that. In fact, you were still trying to recover from the dance. Maybe you’ll need therapy once you’re back in Tokyo?

“So,” the man went on, “I never did find out what your technique is. You know—because of all that chaos during our spar.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Would you miss me if I did?”

“No.”

“Well,” he said, exhaling through a grin, “good thing I’m not planning to stop.”

As if that would be surprising.

“Tell me your technique.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

Because you didn’t want to talk. Because you didn’t like him. Because he talks too much. Because he knew you before you ran away. Because he knows your clan. Because you just want to get it over with. Because you’re scared.

“ I’ve been thinking about it, you know.” His face rested against his palm. “That first time at the Goodwill Event—when we clashed. Felt like my brain got dropkicked into a freezer and left there for a week. And considering what happened at Kuroda-dera, and the fact that my Infinity short-circuits every time I get near you…is it something spatial? Something that disrupts flow. Maybe erases it. Like a void. Am i close?”

You pressed your lips together, biting back a curse. He was just as clever as he was infuriating. And as usual, he took your silence as confirmation. Gojo clicked his tongue and slouched deeper into the train seat. “I knew it.” he said smugly. “What does it feel like to you when your technique touches mine?”

It felt like falling off a cliff and never hitting the ground. Like every cell in your body was holding its breath. Like gravity forgot you existed and sound peeled away from the air.  As if you could feel the Big Bang itself—or drift like a jellyfish between the ocean floor and the surface . It felt like him. And you didn’t like it.

“Unpleasant,” you echoed, picking a more fitting word as you reached for your bag and pulled out your earphones.

You catch the sound of his laughter out of the corner of your ear.

“Interesting choice.”

You shoved one earbud in.

“So, does he know?”

Your fingers paused on the second earbud.

“No,” and this time, it was an answer to his question.

The man gave a small hum. “So he’s in love with a mask, then.”

“And you think you’ve seen what’s underneath?”

“I saw enough,” he said. “Back then. The first time.”

You stared ahead, willing the train to move faster. It’s only been fifteen minutes, but it already felt like you’d been traveling for a year.

“Tell me the name of it.”

You closed your eyes.

“Your technique,” he said. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Kūhaku,” you said finally, voice quiet. You would have done anything just to forget the name of it.

“Perfect name.” he murmured.

“For a void?”

“ No,” he answered. “For you.”

At that moment, to prevent the conversation from slipping into territory you’d rather avoid, music filled your ears, replacing the silence. Gojo had finally settled down, so you had to seize the opportunity while you still could—

Until one of your earbuds was suddenly pulled from your ear and found its way into his instead.

“This isn’t what I expected. what’s this track called?”

You sigh, tilting your head toward the window. “It’s Icelandic. You wouldn’t know it.”

“What’s it called?” he repeats.

“It’s called—” you squint at the screen, trying to make out the title. “Viðrar vel til loftárása.”

There’s a pause. “That sounds like a sneeze.”

You don’t laugh, but your lips twitch. You hope he doesn’t see it, but he does.

“It means ‘good weather for an airstrike’”

“Poetic.” he muses. “Kinda sexy. Like you.”

You rolled your eyes and turned your gaze back to the window.

He stretches out again, his legs knocking against yours with a dull thud, which makes your chest seize. The contact is accidental—barely there—but the static of it is wrong. Wrong in that specific, catastrophic way only you two could manage. You both freeze. Nothing happens. You both slowly let out a shaky breath. The music kept playing, and you turned your focus to the road. You felt his leg brushing against yours again. You tense again for a second. Was he even worried about this touch as much as you were? Nah, seeing his smug face only makes you understand that bastard does it on purpose.

“Seriously?” you asked.

“Well, the train didn’t explode.” he shrugged. “And those seats are definitely not designed for people like me.”

“Must be hard living in a world not built for you.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Mmm. I’m used to squeezing in where I’m not supposed to.”

You stare at him. He meets your gaze absolutely unfazed.

“Don’t get weird about it.” you say.

“I’m not getting weird about it.”

“You’re blinking weird.”

“I’m blinking like a person.”

You call him by his name and he calls you by yours.

You open your mouth. Close it. Inhale. Exhale. Count to ten.

“…Never mind.”

Chapter Text

Shades of gray wrapped around the edges of Mount Osore and Lake Usori. Despite the warm weather, the air felt icy, forcing you to pull your jacket tighter around yourself. Observing the surroundings in daylight was certainly a different experience. On top of that, people were busy preparing for the Osorezan Jizo Festival, and you thought to yourself that trying to find the artifact amidst the festival chaos probably wasn’t the brightest idea.

“What’s the plan?”

When Satoru Gojo asks that question, there’s only one real answer: you don’t have a plan. The only real plan you had involved not dying. Whatever you might have come up with, it always ends the same — with a bullshit plan that somehow works only because the universe decides to play along. Or you can try to talk to the monks, explain the situation, and they’ll agree to help you themselves—though you really doubt they even know where the vessel is.

“Maybe we should split up? While everyone’s busy preparing for the festival, we could search for the vessel in the shrine.”

Tempting. Going to search for the artifact, finally in silence and without his endless chatter, was actually quite appealing. You scanned the shrine grounds ahead. The courtyard was swarming with festival preparations—lanterns being strung up, children shouting, too many monks chatting.

“There are three main halls in the complex,” you said. “If the vessel’s anywhere, it’ll be near the inner sanctum. We should check the east wing first. The inner sanctum might be too heavily guarded right now.”

“Or you could just ask me, young ones,” said a voice so full of wisdom, knowledge, kindness that it made both of you jump and whip around. In front of you stood a tiny old woman, barely half your size. Her eyes were clouded white, a gentle smile curled her lips. Fluffy gray curls framed her round face, and she was wrapped up in layers of white robes, with prayer beads dangling from her wrist.

“Itako,” you said quietly and gave a small bow. The man next to you was still just standing there like a statue, so you had to hiss at him and jerk your head to make him bow too. Sure, the itako were blind, but their sixth sense was so sharp they’d sniff out disrespect faster than a bloodhound.

The old woman nodded. “Indeed, that’s what they call me.”

“You mentioned we could ask you something—what did you mean?” you asked, still bowing awkwardly and very deliberately not meeting the itako’s eyes. Stealing from monks? Been there, done that. But joking around with an oracle? Hard pass.

“About the vessel, of course. The monks would’ve given it to you. Had you asked properly.” her voice sounded too friendly. “The spirits had already whispered us about the seal’s falling.”

You exchanged a quick glance with the white-haired menace next to you. Okay. So they did know. That was… inconveniently convenient.

“You glow like a funeral pyre,” she pointed at Satoru Gojo.

“Thanks,” he smiled.

“And she feels like stillness before a disaster.”

Gojo leaned closer to whisper to you. “See? I glow. You’re the one scaring the locals.”

You were this close to elbowing him, but stopped just in time—remembered the whole catastrophic consequences thing. Would’ve been a shame to accidentally nuke the granny.

“Come,” she added, already turning toward a small wooden structure just off the main path. “We can sit and talk. And you can stop plotting break-ins and start thinking like people for once.”

Gojo leaned close. “Did she just… scold us?”

“I think she did.” you said and then pressed your lips together.

She led you toward a modest wooden structure nestled among trees, half-hidden behind a wall of lanterns being prepped for the festival. There was a sign hanging over the door, written in kanji. The itako opened the sliding door, and the aroma of something floral and very, very ancient wafted out.

“Please, come in.” She smiled. “And take off your shoes.”

Like well-behaved guests, you took off your shoes, neatly set them aside, and followed the woman. She filled a kettle with water and set it to boil. Looks like you’re in for a little tea party.

You sat cross-legged on a tatami mat, and the idiot sat opposite you. While the kettle was heating up, the old woman walked over and took your hand. Even though she couldn’t see, the look on her face was so full of pity, you half-expected her to tell you you’ve got five minutes left to live.

“Oh, sweetie… he’s not the one for you.”

Huh?

“Oh no-no,” you shook your head quickly. “Nope. We’re not a couple. You got it all wrong.” You gestured between yourself and Satoru Gojo.

“I wasn’t talking about this charming young man,” she finally let go of your hand. “I meant the one whose ring you’re wearing on your finger.”

“Pfft,” Gojo rolled his eyes crossing his arms. “Obviously not my ring. I’d never go below four carats…minimum. I’m not a monster.”

You were about to tell him where to shove his carats when the itako let out a chuckle.

“I like him,” she said, pouring hot water into the teapot with all the serenity of someone who hadn’t just implied you were doomed to marry the wrong man. Then she brought over a tray with cups and a teapot—like it was nothing, even though she was blind and, well, definitely not young—poured the tea with the same supernatural ease, and casually joined you at the table. “With the spirits’ permission, I’ll show you where the artifact is supposed to be in the shrine—but honestly, I have no idea what kind of trial it has planned for you.”

“That’s more than enough, thank you very much!” you gave a little nod again to show your gratitude. So far, so good.

“Oh, right, one more thing, the spirits asked me to give you something,” she said, standing up and heading to the dresser. She pulled out a box—a gehobako—and placed it on the table in front of you. Inside were two braided cords—identical, save for the color of the magatama charm threaded through each. One was carved from polished black wood, the other from bone-white ivory. You weren’t sure whether the glow they gave off was from the overhead light or something far older. “This will help if you ever need to touch each other.”

Gojo leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm. “Ma’am, are you trying to make this awkward?”

“I’m engaged,” you reminded her—and him, and the gods, and whatever cursed thing was probably listening in from the shadows.

“Yeah. To the guy who’s apparently not your fated match.”

The woman ignored you both.

“These are Kyomei-fuda ,” she explained. “Talismans of spiritual resonance. Each carries a mirrored seal, crafted to suppress cursed flow and stabilize conflicting energy fields. You can wear it for one hour tops—any longer, and it’ll start draining your cursed energy, so try to save it for when things get really desperate.”

You pick the black charm, Gojo grabs the white one. You slide it around your wrist, and it tightens with a click—like a living thing exhaling against your pulse. You glance up to find him turning his over between two fingers, eyebrows slightly raised.

“And now try holding your hands. I’m sure the amulets are in a working condition, but still.”

Huh?

The man moves first. He silently offers you his hand, and from the corner of your eye, you notice how long his fingers are. He’s staring directly at you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your own hand. Slowly, carefully, you lift your hand towards his, pausing for a moment, still keeping a small distance between you. Your heart is pounding—obviously, only because you’re afraid you might blow up half the shrine again. First, your fingers lightly brush against his, like a feather. Then, when you realize nothing’s happening, you place your whole hand on his. If you could bury your head in the ground right now, you absolutely would. Your hand looks small against his—slender fingers splayed across his palm. But his hand was soft and warm. And absolutely not allowed to be this nice.

“So,” he says, his voice is unhurried, “this is what it takes to hold hands with you.”

Oh you don’t dare to look up. He shifts, the tiniest movement—just the twitch of a thumb brushing against the side of your hand. And there it is again: that pulse in your throat, answering without permission.

“I’d say it’s not worth it,” he murmured, “but I’m a liar.”

You finally look up because you wanted nothing more than to tell him to shut up, but he was already watching you with those bright eyes. Oh you’d smack him. Yep. You definitely would. Then you try to pull your hand away, but he doesn’t let you.

“Warm,” he said, thumb drawing an absent arc along your knuckles. “Pulse slightly elevated. Suspicious.”

“Let go,” you pull your hand again, and this time he lets it go. They haven’t invented a speed yet to match how fast you yanked that charm off and said, “They work. Great. Wonderful. Moving on.”

The woman led you into the shrine’s main hall—a grand chamber, at the center of it stood an empty altar.

“This is where the vessel should have been,” the itako said quietly, stepping aside to let you approach. “Long ago, your ancestors disagreed. Whether to move the vessel somewhere safer… or leave it here, protected by tradition.”

Satoru Gojo tilted his head. “And while they were arguing, the artifact just… peaced out?”

“Exactly,” she smiled. “Artifacts like that—when bound to balance—they listen. They learn. They choose. And this one decided to vanish, slipping between realms until someone worthy calls it back.”

Bit dramatic, but okay.

The altar is empty—but the pressure in the room says otherwise. Like the thing’s still here , just waiting. Itako gestures toward the center. “Touch the place where the vessel once rested,” she murmurs. “If it accepts you, the trial will begin.”

You glance at him. He glances at you. Silence stretches.

“Ready?” Satoru Gojo asks.

“No.”

“On the count of three.”

Gojo didn’t even make it to three before your hands were already on the altar. And just when you were about to exhale in relief because nothing seemed to happen—bam! A blinding white light swallowed the whole room, wiping out everything from your field of vision. The floor? Gone. Ceiling? Gone. Walls, old lady, even Gojo? All gone.

You were alone. Floating. Well, not just floating.You were falling.

“Wheeeeee,” echoes the voice of that idiot from somewhere in the void. Great. You can’t see him, but at least you’re not alone and too busy trying not to puke to fully appreciate the moment. Just then with only one blink your eyes see at least seven very serious-looking people sat in a semi-circle, dressed in ceremonial robes, staring at you like you had just said something deeply philosophical, or deeply stupid. You blink a few times again just to be sure you’re not hallucinating. Nope. Definitely not hallucinating. You sat at the head of the room. On a raised tatami platform. Rich layers of black and crimson silk wrapped around your body, your hair styled into something very elegant. Gold kanzashi pins poked dangerously close to your skull.

“…What,” you said. The voice is between question and confusion.

One of the men leaned forward, brows knitting with concern. “Lady Tsukiko? Did you not hear the proposal?”

You stared. Lady Tsukiko. Oh lord. Oh, no. You did hear that right. Your brain did a full system reboot. Tsukiko. That was the name of your ancestor from Heian era. The one who shared your cursed technique. You’d heard people in your clan talk about her. The one your grandmother kept mentioning between cups of tea and warnings about dating tall men with white hair. The one whose personality was described as stoic, brilliant, and terrifyingly hard to argue with . You swallowed slowly. Okay. Okay. This is fine.

“I… apologize,” you said, doing your best to sound natural. “Could you repeat the proposal?”

The man nodded. “As I mentioned, the vessel is no longer safe within Bodaiji Temple. Too many sorcerers seek it now for their own means. We must decide on a new sanctuary.”

Oh. So that’s what this is. A strategic meeting. About the vessel. A strategic meeting that, apparently, you’re supposed to be leading . Wonderful. Someone nearby cleared their throat. Another official-looking person. His hair was tied back neatly, his face sharp, his posture flawless. He hadn’t said anything yet—but the way he was watching you…

Wait. No. That voice in your brain wasn’t screaming for no reason. You squinted at him. He stared back. You narrowed your eyes. He tilted his head. Oh god. You knew that head tilt. He knew. And you knew he knew. And he knew you knew he knew. You see him opening his mouth.

“I must admit, I am… surprised to hear Lady Tsukiko advocate for silence. I was under the impression she preferred throwing knives.”

That little shit .

“Ah,” you say sweetly, folding your hands into your lap. “My apologies. I was merely gathering my thoughts. Unlike some, I prefer not to speak until I have something useful to say.”

A third advisor clears his throat. “Lady Tsukiko, to return to the matter—shall we proceed with the plan to move the vessel to Saigoku?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, before your brain catches up with your mouth.

Your emotional outburst makes the men turn around and look at you.

“The vessel stays at Bodaiji Temple.”

Another silence.

Then: “But, Lady Tsukiko, with the festival approaching—”

“—and the growing number of rogue sorcerers in the north—”

“Yes,” you cut in. “And what better protection than hiding something in plain sight? Amid sacred grounds, under the very noses of those who would seek it. To move the vessel now would draw attention. Suspicion. Attack. It is safest precisely where they expect it not to be touched. To move it would be to admit it is vulnerable.”

“But—” says someone, clearly trying to logic his way back to safer options.

“Bodaiji Temple is still a place of reverence,” you add smoothly, “and with the Jizō Festival preparations, no one would dare disturb it.” You pause. “No one wants to anger the spirits during festival season. Not even rogue sorcerers.”

“…Very well,” said one of them at last, the eldest among them. “If Lady Tsukiko insists, we will keep the vessel at Bodaiji Temple.”

There was a wave of hesitant nods.

“And,” added a younger noble with concerned expression on his face, “that means we must immediately begin work on a protective formation. Perhaps even a new barrier seal. If the vessel is to remain exposed—”

You raised a hand, slowly, elegantly. “I will handle it,” you said. “With assistance from…” you look at the face of Gojo’s ancestor. What was his name now? You couldn’t just say “Satoru Gojo.” This will raise a lot of questions and seriously damage their belief in your sanity. They’re already doubting your decision to leave the artifact in the shrine. The silence’s already awkward as hell, and that idiot is just sitting there all amused, not even trying to help you. He’s clearly waiting for you to embarrass yourself, and you’re just waiting for the moment you can slap on that bracelet and deck him.

“…Lord… Seimei,” he said, oh-so-helpfully, placing one graceful hand to his chest and bowing just slightly.

The men nodded. The men agreed. The men bowed. Gojo, shit, Lord Seimei mouthed: you’re welcome. You mouthed: fuck you.

The meeting dissolved with all the ceremony of a sigh — murmurs, whispers, a few sidelong glances that said we’ll absolutely gossip about this later. As you stepped into the sunlight, the world outside the shrine hall was pretty much the same as your time—just minus tourists, smartphones, and decent fashion sense.

Gojo—excuse you, Lord Seimei —fell into step beside you. “Well,” he said, “I think that went well.”

You looked at him and he looked back.

“…You mouthed ‘fuck you’ at me.”

“I did,” you said. “And I meant it with great respect.”

He ignored you. “I was thinking of seducing someone’s great-great-great-grandmother, actually,” he mused. “Equal opportunity lineage disruption.”

You stopped in the shadow of the shrine gate, trying to piece together a plan. YOU DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR HIS NONSENSE. “Okay, serious question. We’re in the bodies of our ancestors. And everyone thinks we’re them.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“We should probably do something about that.”

“Define ‘something.’”

“Figure out a way out of this. The whole point of the trial is to stop the vessel from going, ‘Screw you guys, I’ll fix this shit myself’ and jumping through realms on its own.”

“I got the feeling your loyal minions at that meeting are secretly planning to move the artifact tonight—y’know, while everyone’s busy partying at the festival.” He grinned at some woman, winked, and waved as she giggled like a schoolgirl. “We need to do something before evening. Maybe set up a protective seal or...”

You didn’t catch the rest. Of course not. A protective seal, for fuck’s sake. You even knew what kind of the seal it has to be. You were this close to telling him what a genius idea that was, but someone had to interrupt.

“Lady Tsukiko! Lord Seimei!!!”

You turned just in time to see two monks bowing so low you worried they might headbutt the gravel.

“Forgive our intrusion, but we require your assistance. The fox has returned.”

“The fox,” you repeated, because—seriously?—you were starting to wonder if your ears were full of bullshit.

“The one that’s been stealing offerings. And sandals. And… making unsettling eye contact.”

“Unsettling—”

“Mid-prayer.”

What the… “And you want me to…?”

“You are Tsukiko-hime,” the older one said reverently. “The one who converses with spirits and tames tricksters. It is said you once banished a kitsune from the sacred pond with a mere glance.”

You looked at the monk. Then at the other monk. Then back at the first one. You were hoping—deep down, spiritually, cosmically—that “the fox” was a metaphor. It was not.

The monks stopped reverently in front of the bell tower and bowed again. “It’s within,” one of them whispered. “We dare not enter. Last time, it stared directly into Genkai’s soul. He hasn’t been the same since.”

You stepped forward, parting the heavy curtain at the entrance of the bell tower. A fox was sitting very calmly on a crate. One paw elegantly folded over the other. Tail swaying with disdain. Its fur was snowy white. Pearl earrings dangled from its ears. And it wasn’t looking, it was openly judging.

“Oh,” it said, voice feminine, and deeply disapproving. “It’s you.”

You froze. Slowly turned your head. “You can talk.”

The fox laughed. “My dear. I don’t meow .”

Lord Seimei appeared beside you, brows high. “Holy shit, that’s a talking fox.”

“Thank you, the Honored One,” the fox said licking her paw. “How keen of you.”

You looked at Gojo.

“She knows,” he mouthed.

You looked back at the fox. “You’ve been stealing offerings.”

“I have expensive taste.”

“You’ve been taking sandals.”

“I collect leather.”

“You’ve been making unsettling eye contact.”

“Some people have no soul depth,” the fox said loftily. “I was merely verifying.”

Gojo leaned closer and whispered. “Can we keep her?”

You ignored him. “We need you to stop harassing the shrine.”

The fox stared at you, then stood. “Very well. I shall cease my torment—”

“That easy?”

“—on one condition.”

There it was. She hopped down from the crate and sat neatly in front of you.

“I require a shrine.”

“You’re literally in one.” you and Gojo said in unison.

“I require a personal shrine,” she corrected. “Dedicated. With incense. Offerings. And poetry. And i want a crown. Also, I remember people whose bodies you occupy to argue over the artifact’s resting place. Such loud voices. One of them cried. I stole his sandal.”

“Who cried?” Lord Seimei asked.

The fox raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of her snout curling into a smug little grin like she knew all his embarrassing secrets and was two seconds away from spilling the tea—just for fun.

You sighed. “Fine. You’ll get your shrine.”

“With crown.”

“With crown.”

She bowed. “Then I shall bother no more.”

She walked past you, brushing your leg with her tail as she exited the tower with regal poise. Later, you calmly informed the monks that, per divine negotiation, a shrine must be constructed for the fox—a personal shrine, mind you, complete with incense, offerings, and a ceremonial crown. No, you didn’t elaborate. No, they didn’t ask. Monks, it turns out, have a healthy fear of talking animals with demands and excellent vocabulary.

Deep down, you’re still kind of hoping this is just a long dream. But just to be sure, you pinch your hand (technically, not your hand), and—yep, it hurts like a bitch. Bad news: this is very real.

The festival was in full swing. A crowd of people trying to chat with their dead relatives through itako, monks everywhere, and way too many people in general. Ever since you got rid of that strange fox, nobody said a single word—except Lord Seimei, who was weirdly determined to shove a plum in your mouth.

“Open,” he says. You glance around nervously, making sure no one’s watching this grown-ass man trying to feed you a plum like you’re a toddler, complete with the embarrassing “aaaahhh” sound effects.

“Open,” he says again, wiggling the plum in your face. “Don’t make me aeroplane it.”

“I swear to everything sacred in this timeline, if you make plane noises again—”

“Too late. Vroooom,” he says, zooming the fruit toward your face.

You don’t give up.

“You have hands,” you mutter. “Use them. On yourself.”

“I’d rather use them on you,” he says, peach-sweet.

“What?!”

“What?” he echoed. This man has no shame.

You snatch the plum from his hand and shove it in your mouth, mostly to stop him from talking. He looks pleased. He always looks pleased. You don’t trust it.

“You chew with such purpose,” he says, utterly serious.

“Are you always like this,” you murmur, “or do I just bring it out in you.”

He grins. “Yes.”

You swallow. “That’s not—”

You didn’t even manage to finish your sentence, because right in front of you stood a sight that was a little too familiar. White hair, eyes covered by white veil, and about half your height. You nearly choked on your plum. Lord Seimei turned around to see what nearly got you killed and just froze. The woman—the itako—yeah, that fucking itako , suddenly started sniffing the air with the darkest expression you’ve ever seen, then stared straight at you both with those blind eyes of hers. You stared in horror as the itako turned and began walking straight toward you. You panicked. You pivoted. Gojo pivoted. Now you were both standing shoulder to shoulder, absolutely still, pretending to study a decorative cucumber carving contest happening at a food stall. She stopped right behind you. You can feel her eyes drilling holes into your backs—shit, she’s staring hard.

“Lord Seimei,” she said—her voice a lot less friendly than when you met her in the present.

Neither of you turned. Technically, your backs were very engaged in the cucumber sculptures.

“Lord Seimei,” she repeated again.

“Hmm?” Lord Seimei finally said, not moving an inch.

“Lord Seimei, you do remember your wife hates it when you flirt with Lady Tsukiko, right?”

“Oh lord, I’m married,” Gojo Satoru groaned from Lord Seimei’s body, like his worst nightmare just came true. You pressed your lips tight together, fighting hard not to laugh.

“And you, Lady Tsukiko.”

The moment she said your ancestor’s name, you snapped your head toward her and bowed so sharply your spine cracked.

Why the hell were you so afraid of this granny?

“Being a widow with twelve kids is hard, sure—but that doesn’t mean you should go shopping for a new husband among the married ones.”

You could feel Gojo Satoru’s swelling in his chest, pressure building behind his ribs, his whole being is vibrating. Your worst nightmare was having kids and giving anyone even the slightest reason to think you’d willingly marry Gojo Satoru—no matter whose body he was stuck in.

“My condolences,” you said weakly. Not to her. To yourself.

“You’ve been tainted,” she announced. “The spirits are whispering, but you’re not listening. Lady Tsukiko would never let a man feed her fruit in public. Not unless she intended to marry him. Or duel him to the death.”

“Well,” he said, stepping a little closer to you, “could go either way.”

You took a single step back. He looked positively delighted.

You miss your era. You miss Taro. You miss Kazuki and even his father’s blabbering about the estates. You miss your boring life.

“The spirits are restless. You’re not supposed to be near each other.” itako said.

You nodded solemnly. “We agree. Completely. There was a plum. It was a moment of weakness.”

“And now we’re stronger for it,” Gojo added, absolutely not helping.

You gave the tiniest bow humanly possible. “We will go reflect on our sins.”

“Individually,” Gojo added.

“Far apart.”

“With great shame.”

She raised a brow. “You should.”

The itako finally turned and walked away. And only when her shadow finally disappeared did you exhale and say,

“We need to get the hell out of here. I’m done with this era.”

By the time you finally reached the shrine room where the artifact rested on its altar, three sorcerers were already there, clearly waiting for you—faces you recognized from the morning council. One of them sees you and freezes.

“Lady Tsukiko?” he says, startled. “Forgive us—”

But there’s no time for polite lies. The moment other two sorcerer turned around, their cursed techniques kicked in.

Seimei steps forward, hand already raised, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. “Well, that’s not very Buddhist of you.”

You’re flaring to life Kuhaku. The edges of space ripple, distort. You extend your field, pull it outward, reach and push. The entire front row of attackers is yanked back, dragged past the threshold and flung outside the chamber. You slam your hands against the doors and hold them shut, twisting the technique around the wooden frame until it seals like iron.

“We need to put up a protective seal. Now.” Gojo puts his hand on the artifact.

And so your moment came. From the very second that idiot suggested putting up a protective seal to the moment the monks roped you into dealing with the fox. The plan you’d come up with but couldn’t share with the world. And that idiot.

“We need a lock,” you say, “that no one else can open. Not unless their cursed energy resonates the way ours does.”

“A resonance seal,” he says, fingers splayed lightly across the surface. “It would need two signatures. Two threads of cursed technique wound into the same binding.”

“If we encode the trial into the seal, make the artifact respond only when the resonance is exact—then even if someone finds it…”

“They won’t be able to take it,” he finishes, nodding slowly. “Unless they’re us. Or someone cursed with whatever this is.”

You hate that he understands you very well.

Together, you start pouring cursed energy into the vessel. You twist them into a seal. Wrap energy around energy. You don’t need words. The seal forms like a knot—tight and clean.

He leans back just a little. “Anyone tries to steal it…”

“They’ll get caught in the loop,” you say.

“Try to force it…”

“They’ll trigger the resonance imbalance.”

“And if they somehow survive that…”

You glance at him. “They won’t.”

He smiles. “Hot.”

You do not respond.

The artifact started shaking from the amount of cursed energy and the power of the protective seal, and for a moment, it seems like maybe you messed up—maybe this damn vessel really is about to pack its things and go hopping between realms again.

But then, all at once, it stops.

Silence falls.

Satoru Gojo leans in one last time and says, “If we die in the next thirty seconds, I want you to know—I licked that plum before I gave it to you.”

“You son of a-“

At that moment, the artifact began to emit that same energy again, glowing with white light. It blinded you both, and a second later, you feel weightless—like being dropped onto a perfectly blank page. There’s no ground beneath your feet, no ceiling above your head. You’re flying again, only this time upside down—and not from top to bottom, but the other way around.

You blink, and suddenly the altar with the vessel (finally!) is in front of you again. Did it work?

Your eyes drop to your hands, and you see the same jacket you put on when you arrived at Osorezan. An unconscious, quiet smile creeps onto your lips. You turn to look at Satoru Gojo—and remember that he licked the plum he fed you. Your face goes blank again.

“Bitch,” you finish the sentence you apparently started almost a thousand years ago.

Chapter Text

“I know you’re faking sleep,” Utahime says.

You crack one eye open to look at her, not expecting her face to be that close, staring like she’s trying to catch you in the act.

“I’m not faking,” you say, shutting your eye again.

“You were chewing gum.”

The corner of your mouth twitches into the faintest smile. You blow a massive bubble that stretches out and pops right on her nose, loud and messy.

She jerks back. “Gross.”

You don’t apologize, instead, you crack another bubble between your teeth, this time aiming it toward the window. Goodwill Event. God, what a name. You hated this. You hated trains. Mostly because they make you think. And when you think, you get philosophical. And when you get philosophical, you start contemplating things like: What is the purpose of cursed energy? Why is the Kyoto uniform so itchy? Why do you have to risk your life because people are weak? You hated people. You hated teamwork. And you hated Tokyo’s brats.

“Do you even care about this event?” Utahime says, wiping her nose with a tissue.

“Nope,” you mutter, resting your head against the window. It’s cool and slightly vibrating from the train’s movement.

She let out a sigh. “ You joke like you don’t care, but you never sleep before fights. You’ve been chewing that gum for three hours.” she looked at you to make sure you actually were listening to her. “ You’re the only one in the Special Grade class, and the whole school’s counting on your ass, got it?”

You shrug. “Tell them to pick someone else next time.”

“They can’t,” she says. “There is no one else.”

You pop another bubble.

Utahime pulls her phone out and waves it in your face. “Your sister texted.”

“Why didn’t she text me?”

“She said you left her on read.”

You did. Not on purpose. You pulled your phone out of your uniform pocket.

Evil twin: still dying. pls avenge me. crush tokyo team. with grace.

Evil twin: but also don’t fall in love with anyone. that’d be humiliating

You: fall in love?

Evil twin: anything that makes u blink too much

You: oh no. i just blinked

Evil twin: whore.

Utahime peers over your shoulder. “I can’t believe you two share DNA.“

“She’s adopted,” you said. “From the same womb.”

“How’s she doing?”

Mika was the golden child. You were the sharp one. She smiled through family dinners and perfected all the shrine etiquette and said thank you when your clan elders offered her advice that sounded like insults. You mostly just avoided eye contact and thought about setting things on fire. They tolerated you. But only because you were useful.

“She’s fine,” you say, putting your phone away. “Still bitter about missing the event, though.”

“Weren’t you two always competitive?”

“We came out of the womb competing. She beat me by three minutes and hasn’t let it go since.”

“Sounds healthy.”

“Oh, it’s very healthy. That’s why she took one look at the thermometer last night, coughed once, and said ‘go win it for me, bitch.’ ”

“Your clan must’ve lost their shit over the news.”

“They don’t know.”

Utahime went quiet. Blinked a couple times. Looked straight at you.

“What do you mean, they don’t know ?”

“They think Mika’s with me. Gakuganji promised not to tell them the truth. Otherwise, they would’ve made her come with us even with a fever. I’m not letting her mess up her health for this.”

“I hate your clan.”

Well, she wasn’t the only one. Nobody liked your clan. Not even your clan liked your clan. Stuck with traditions straight out of the Edo period, always beefing with other clans, and staring at you like you were just a vessel - the first in generations born with a huge cursed energy reserve and the founder’s technique. A precious resource. Mika had it even worse - if you could call it that. She worked twice as hard as you, so yeah, they respected her more. Didn’t mean she got it any easier.

A proper heir does not falter. A proper heir does not show weakness. A proper heir does not flirt with enemies, lose in public, or humiliate the clan name in front of lesser bloodlines. A proper heir kneels.

The clan taught you everything: how to smile, how to fight, how to obey. Mika taught you how to live with dishonor and survive it anyway. That was your life.

Utahime leans her head back against the seat and stares at the ceiling. “Honestly? If it were me, I would’ve lied too.”

“Thought you’d judge me for that.”

She snorts. “I’d only judge you if you told them the truth. They don’t deserve it.”

That’s why you liked her. She thought they were cultish. She once called your grandfather a fossil to his face and somehow survived.

The train jolts slightly. Someone sneezes a few rows back. You stare at your reflection in the window. It looks bored. Mostly because Utahime had started whining about how Satoru Gojo wouldn’t stop bullying her. Satoru Gojo. You’d heard the stories. He was either Tokyo’s prodigy or Tokyo’s problem, depending on who you asked. You weren’t impressed either way. You still hadn’t met that idiot in person because your clan thought it was more important to ship you and Mika off on some “crucial family mission” instead of letting you kick ass at the last year’s event. Not that you were dying to deal with those Tokyo snobs anyway.

You didn’t like Satoru Gojo. Nothing could change that.

You were already in Tokyo twenty minutes later, but before you could even step out of the station, Gakuganji ambushed you with a ten-minute speech about how it was finally time to deal with the white-haired plague of Tokyo Jujutsu and bring glory back to Kyoto Tech and your clan. Yeah, sure. He also held your hand through the whole thing. His hand was shaking like Princess Peach. How old was he even back then? You remember him being ancient since you were a baby.

You didn’t even get a chance to yawn before a convoy of black cars pulled up. The doors opened in eerie synchrony. You got shoved into a leather-seated car with tinted windows and complimentary water bottles. The ride wasn’t long. Ten minutes of listening to Gakuganji mumble again about the honor of your bloodline and how the Goodwill Event was a sacred opportunity to prove the superiority of the Kyoto school, while Utahime made increasingly loud coughing noises every time he said “sacred.”

At the gates of Tokyo Jujutsu Tech, you were greeted by Masamichi Yaga. Mika had a secret crush on him and she used to say he looks like a “sugar daddy,” which honestly made you want to throw up. You hadn’t known peace since. He nodded once and told your group to follow him. He didn’t wait to see if you actually did.

Eventually, he led you into a main hall with floor-to-ceiling windows and zero escape routes.  You scanned the room. Brats. Everywhere. You could practically smell the ego and it stank. You sat down next to Utahime in the very front row, because of course Gakuganji insisted on it. Nothing says subtle like forcing your strongest students into a spotlight.

Then the speeches began. First it was him. Then it was Gakuganji. Then it was both of them at the same time. You stopped listening approximately three seconds in. Only caught a few phrases here and there  - something something unity, something something responsibility - and then it was just blah blah honor, blah blah teamwork, blah blah….was that a pistachio?

It was a pistachio. You reached up and pulled it out of your hair slowly. A whole, unshelled pistachio. A fucking pistachio.

You stared at it. Then at Utahime, who looked just as confused. She shrugged, mouthing, what the hell?

You turned around. Two rows back, a boy with white hair, you realized it was Satoru Gojo, because that was too obvious, with round glasses was sitting like he’d never thrown anything in his life. Next to him, a boy, who was Suguru Geto, with long black hair and bangs, had his hands folded in front of him.

They were both staring at the stage.

You squinted.

No reaction.

Okay. Maybe it hadn’t been them.

You turned back around.

Thunk. Another one. This time, it hit the back of your neck and bounced onto your lap.

You spun around faster.

Satoru Gojo was now adjusting his glasses. Suguru Geto was now solemnly nodding at Yaga’s words. He even closed his eyes. Like he was feeling it.

What the..?

You felt another thunk five minutes after. Then you touched your braid. Another one. You yanked it out and turned again.

Now both of them were clapping. Nobody else was clapping.

You were building a small nut collection. Could’ve opened a shop by the time Gakuganji hit the phrase warrior spirits. You didn’t even bother to turn around anymore to catch whoever was doing it.

When the endless, praise-filled speeches finally wrapped up, it was time for the first event - sparring. Even without Gakuganji constantly reminding you (on the way to Kyoto station, on the train, in the car ride, and right before you finally took your spot in the hall, just in time to get hit by those stupid pistachios), you already knew your turn would come last, the cherry on top of this shit-show cake. You knew exactly who your opponent would be. And he knew it too.

They took you to a field that looked more like a track and field stadium. Everyone sat their asses down again, and each pair went up one by one to the “ring” in the middle to spar. By the time your name was called, the sun had shifted just enough to blind you if you looked stage right. You adjusted your sleeves. Utahime gave you a thumbs up. Satoru Gojo was already walking toward the ring. You joined him in the center. Up close, he looked taller and smug. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, spread them wide in a dramatic bow (like he was soaking up applause), and said, “Ladies first.”

You stared at him.

“I mean, I’m kind of a big deal around here,” he added. “They call me the-”

“Shut up,” you said.

He only grinned.

Obviously, trying to break through his Infinity would’ve been like slamming your head into a concrete wall and hoping it leaves a dent. So first, you had to figure out how his Infinity worked, and to do that, you had to feel it. And to feel it? You had to hit him. With a big pleasure.

You didn’t waste time with pleasantries - took a running start and headed straight for him, all your energy packed into a clenched fist aimed right at his unbearably punchable smug face. But the closer you got, the more off everything felt. Your technique was weakening with every step, but you didn’t stop. Half a meter away from him, it vanished completely. Just blinked out of existence. Poof. That was not part of the plan. You just froze.

Satoru Gojo raised an eyebrow, visibly unimpressed. “That’s it? I thought this was supposed to be-”

And just then you punched him in the face and his Infinity didn’t work. Well. You meant to stop. You really did. But your body didn’t get the memo. The force knocked you both backward. The ring cracked. A tree in the background lost a branch. You blinked up at the sky from where you landed, trying to remember your own name. A gust of wind rolled through the stadium, dragging an awkward silence behind it.

Satoru Gojo was still on the ground. And then…he laughed. Not a normal laugh. Not a “haha, good one” laugh. A laugh that sounded like disbelief.

“Did you just punch me?” he asked, using reverse technique to remove the blood from his nose.

You were still on your ass, vision spinning slightly and your hand stung.

“Yes?” you said.

He silently pushed himself to his feet, dusted off his uniform.

“Well, shit. Looks like we’re doing this for real.”

You had approximately three seconds to recover before he attacked. The second your elbow met his arm in return - boom. Another burst. You tried to fall back, recalibrate. He didn’t let you.

“Oh no,” Gojo said, grinning wide, his glasses nowhere to be found. “We’re not done.”

The moment he touched you it caused another crack. The ring buckled under both of you. Dust flew. Someone screamed.

You elbowed him in the stomach just out of spite. Explosion. He kicked your knee. Explosion. You headbutted him. Nuclear fucking explosion.

Yaga stood up. “What the-?”

Gakuganji started muttering prayers.

Satoru Gojo dropped low and swept your legs. You hit the ground again. He went down with you. You kneed him. He laughed through the pain. You punched his side. He pressed his forehead to yours, even though the whole fucking ground was shaking and the sky was about to lose its shit. Neither of you cared -you were both too busy trying to prove who was stronger.

“I think we’re compatible,” he said, too close.

You headbutted him again.

“Stop flirting! ” Utahime screamed from the stands.

“We’re fighting! ” you both shouted back.

That’s when Yaga stepped in. Gakuganji followed. Together, they grabbed you both by the collars and yanked like angry babysitters dealing with two toddlers.

“Enough!” Yaga barked. “You’re done.”

“Are you two out of your minds?” Gakuganji spat.

Gojo was breathing hard. So were you. Your braid had come undone and a pistachio fell out of your hair. You turned your head to look at him. He looked at you too.

“You hit like a bitch,” he said.

“You fight like a pussy,” you replied.

“Enough!” Gakuganji snapped. “You’ll both be banned from the next round if you pull that again.”

“Oh no,” Satoru Gojo said. “Anyway.”

And that’s how you ended up hating Satoru Gojo.

Now it was past midnight and the dorm was silent. Mostly. Someone was snoring. You were curled on your side in an oversized shirt, half under the blanket, your phone screen glowing against the dark.

Evil twin: how’s tokyo?

Evil twin: did u win? did u punch anyone?

Evil twin: did u get banned?

Evil twin: did u fall in love

You: yes

You: yes

You: yes

You: no

Evil twin: HAH

Evil twin: if you marry that gojo brat our clan kills u

You: he’s not my type

Evil twin: you don’t HAVE a type

Evil twin: you’re emotionally constipated

You: wow

You: did the fever give you courage

Evil twin: answer me coward

You didn’t. You rolled onto your back, let the phone rest against your chest. The adrenaline wore off hours ago, and even though you used reversed technique, your whole body still ached. You hated it. You hated him.

There was a knock on your door. You flipped the blanket off and moved to the door quietly. Satoru Gojo stood there when you opened it. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Round glasses gone. Barefoot.

“Truce?” he said. His voice was lower.

You started to close the door. He caught it with one hand. Didn’t push, just held it there, palm open. “Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he said, stepping in anyway. He walked to the desk chair, turned it around with one hand, and sat. Backward. Arms folded across the chair’s spine, chin resting on them, watching you.

“You’re different.” he added.

“From who?”

“Everyone.”

You stood there a second too long, not saying anything, not blinking. That alone probably gave him all the ammo he needed.

“You’ve been staring at me for- ” he glanced at his wrist. No watch. “-longer than most people do before falling in love.”

“Are you having a stroke?”

“Hard to tell,” he said. “My face always does this around hot people.”

“If this is a seduction attempt,” you said, “you’re worse at it than I expected.”

He tilted his head. “So you had expectations?”

You stared at him and he stared back.

“Did it happen before?” he asked. “With anyone else?”

Now you were the one who tilted head.

“Your technique. That interference.”

“No,” you said.

His thumb moved slow against the edge of the chair back. His forearms were resting easy, loose muscle shifting.

“Explain it,” he said, voice lower.

“My technique?”

He nodded.

Your hand found a pen on the desk. It rolled under your thumb. Clicked. Unclicked.

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I don’t trust you,” you said.

“That’s logical,” he said. “But disappointing. I want you to do it again.”

“What, punch you?”

“The other thing.”

“Oh,” you said. “Make the entire ground collapse under us?”

“Exactly.”

You clicked your pen again. “Yeah, no, thank you.”

Because you didn’t quite know how it had happened yourself.

Satoru Gojo stood up, dragging the chair out from under himself and shoving it aside with one hand. He walked over to the desk where you were leaning and blocked your way with both arms, planting his hands on either side of you. He leaned in closer, just enough to really look at you. From his side, it felt less like flirting and more like he was studying you -waiting to see how you’d react.

“Did it feel good?”

You didn’t answer.

“Because for me,” he went on, calm as hell, “it felt insane. Like my whole technique got rewired. I can’t stop thinking about it. What’s your technique called?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he said. “New question. What’s your favorite color?”

“No.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Go away.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Why are you here?”

“I already told you,” he said, calmly. “Truce.”

“Truce accepted,” you said.

Satoru Gojo leaned in so close your noses were almost touching. The pen was still in your hand, and you seriously thought about stabbing him with it. He reaches up and adjusts your collar.

“You’ve got a mark here,” he almost whispered. “From earlier.”

You look down. There’s a faint bruise blooming just under your jaw. His thumb hovers near it. Not touching. You looked back at him and he was watching you.

“Got you burned into my brain, Kyoto girl. Good night.”

You didn’t move an inch even after he left. Even when he closed the door behind him. You were still holding the pen. You pressed the end of it to your palm just to feel something sharp. Yes, you didn’t like Satoru Gojo. That was the story, and you were sticking to it till the day you met him many years after.

Chapter Text

After you finally managed to return the Tasogare no Utsuwa to your own realm and stop it from slipping between others, you retrieved the artifact - technically with the permission of the monks at Boadiji Temple. More technically, Satoru Gojo took it, while you handled the actual diplomacy, because, as it turns out, that man is physically incapable of asking for anything without making a joke at the expense of holy men.

And that’s not even counting the fact that the moment you were finally freed from the burden of Lady Tsukiko and Lord Seimei’s bodies, the itako who was supposed to meet you upon return vanished into thin air. You figured she must’ve been one of the spirits from the past Jizo festival. Gojo, on the other hand, declared it was clearly a sign from above. Needless to say, your opinions did not align.

But you still had the Kyomei-fuda - the pair of woven cords she’d entrusted to you on behalf of the spirits inhabiting the sacred grounds. The sorcerer suggested wearing them to transport yourselves directly back to Tokyo, and honestly, weighing that against another long train ride home with him, you were more than willing to risk teleportation. After all, the absolute worst-case scenario would be Captain waiting for you somewhere along the way. Again.

You never quite figured out how the Kyomei-fuda worked exactly, you didn’t get a chance to. Gojo said it was resonance-based spatial transference. You said that sounded made-up. He said most jujutsu theory sounded made-up and the real trick was saying it with confidence. You briefly wondered if all his lessons at Jujutsu Tech went this way, and felt a sudden pang of sympathy for his students. Then he grabbed your hand mid-sentence and everything shattered into mist. You were momentarily a wrong entry in someone else’s registry of souls. You smelled vanilla, sweets and his shampoo. For the first time, teleportation didn’t make you nauseous. And then you caught it, that familiar scent of home. Your home.

You checked the time.  Sixteen hours were spent in Heian era, but upon returning to the present, barely thirty minutes had passed. The teleportation itself had taken half a second. Which meant it was still morning. 10:02am, to be more clear.

“I’ll make us breakfast.“  Satoru Gojo slipped off the white cord with a soft click and headed for the kitchen. “What’s your favorite?”

You quickly pulled off your talisman too and followed him into the kitchen. No, you didn’t welcome his presence in your life -unless it was strictly professional. Satoru Gojo had never been anything of significance to you. This moment was no exception.

“I’m not hungry,” you said, even though you were. “And you should be in your own apartment.”

He didn’t respond. Just kept cooking, as if he already knew you’d eat anyway. By now, you knew better, if you wanted to get rid of him, the smartest move was to stop resisting. Same principle as getting caught in a whirlpool: don’t fight the current. Take a breath and dive.

So you did. You took a breath.

“You know there’s a word for this,” you said. “When a man invites himself into a woman’s home and makes her breakfast she didn’t ask for.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Hospitality?”

“Uninvited hospitality is just trespassing.”

“Then I hope the eggs are good enough to earn parole.”

He smiled. You didn’t. Not on the outside, anyway. Instead, you made the grave tactical error of sitting down. The toast popped up behind him. You watched him butter it without asking how you liked it, and hated how close he got it right. He added jam and made one more toast for himself. Then he set the tamagoyaki onto the plates and placed them on the table. Everything looked delicious, and you couldn’t help but wonder - how exactly did he find the time to cook with that impossible schedule of his?

You had no intention of touching the food, but then remembered how he’d attempted to hand-feed you a plum, and suddenly suspected he was about to try something similar again. Determined to spare yourself from reliving that particular trauma, you promptly bit down. Tamagoyaki was, in fact, perfect. You didn’t tell him that, but judging by the way he smiled, he’d already figured out that you actually were enjoying the meal.

“I have to leave on a four-day assignment tomorrow, so we’ll have to put the search for the third artifact on hold for now,” he announced.

“I was planning to go through some historical records on Kagari-bi no Men anyway. The legends say the masks are-” Wait. Hold on. What the hell? You were eating breakfast with him. And casually discussing your next trip to hunt down the third artifact. Next trip. As if you’d ever said yes to that in the first place. A piece of jam-slathered toast is being chewed aggressively in your mouth as you glare at his infuriatingly smiling face. Does he ever stop smiling? Is it some kind of facial spasm? Is he truly incapable of being serious, even for a second?

“Why do you talk like I agreed to keep doing this with you?” “You didn’t say no,” he remarked calmly.

“I didn’t say yes, either.” You rose from the table, grabbing your plate to set it in the sink. “I only agreed to help you with the vessel-“

“But you didn’t have to.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, smirking slightly. “And yet, you did.”

“Only because you wouldn’t leave me alone!”

“True, but I didn’t force you to show up at the station this morning. You did that all by yourself.”

You froze. He was right. He hadn’t forced you at all; you’d shown up entirely of your own accord. This realization burrowed deep into your mind, sending your thoughts scrambling for an answer with such intensity it made your head ache. You didn’t realize you’d started biting your lower lip again, betraying your thoughts.

Satoru Gojo rose from his chair, placing his empty plate near the sink. His piercing blue eyes never left you.

“And do you know why you’ll always come back?” The question was rhetorical. “Because you miss this. No matter how much you hate jujutsu, sorcerers, and everything in this world, you’ll always find a reason to return. Because this is where you belong. Because it’s only here that I see that fire in your eyes - the same fire I saw the day you punched me in the face. Because you hate the woman you pretend to be when you’re with him. And that’s why you’ll never be happy with that man…ever.”

You hated how still the room got after that. Not quiet…quiet was fine. Quiet could be ignored. But this? This was silence. The kind that pressed up against your ribs and waited to see what you’d do next. You turned back toward the sink. Slowly. Set his plate down.

“Are you done?” you asked, not looking at him.

“No,” Gojo said. “But I’m pacing myself.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Not to find patience ( there was none left) but to stop yourself from turning around and throwing the entire dish rack at him. How could he speak about you as if he knew you? He didn’t know a single thing about you. He didn’t know about Mika. Hell, he’d only ever seen you once in his entire life before he decided to barge back into yours, kicking the door wide open.

“First, you know nothing about me,” you said, quiet and restrained. “We’re not friends-“

“Not yet,” he said, lifting a finger to correct you.

You stared at him and he stared at you.

“Seriously?” you asked.

Gojo raised a brow. “What? You were the one declaring we’re not friends. I’m just adding a timeline.”

Inhale. Exhale. Count to ten.

“I don’t like being part of anyone’s timeline.”

“I can tell,” Gojo said. “You keep trying to erase yourself from mine.”

It was hard to tell when he was joking, ninety percent of what came out of that perpetually running mouth was either a punchline or some story you’d rather not hear. But this time, you caught it - that note in his voice. The one where he still tries to play it off like it’s nothing, but something in his tone always gives him away. The tense silence was cut short by the buzz of your phone in your pocket. Kazuki’s name lit up the screen. You picked up and stepped out of the kitchen.

“Hey, babe,” your voice softened automatically. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to check if everything is alright. You said this morning you were heading out on some urgent work trip.” Kazuki said just as softly.

“Ah,” you say, scratching the back of your head. “Yeah, that trip… got postponed.”

“Oh? So you’ll be home?”

“Yes, sir. Got plans for me?” You peek into the kitchen that was spotless. The dishes washed, not a trace of him left. Wow. Apparently Gojo Satoru doesn’t just break into homes and hearts - he also cleans up after himself. A true menace.

“Actually, I do. Was gonna save the surprise for when you got back from your trip, but since you’re not going anywhere… I’ll swing by tonight.”

“Do I need to wear something special?” you ask, opening the fridge - only to find the new box of Pocky mysteriously gone. Of course. Monster.

“Hmm, nah. Just wear whatever you’re comfortable in. Alright, gotta go now. Love ya.”

“Me too. See you.”

Grabbing a bottle of juice, you settle in front of your laptop and dial Taro’s number.

“What do you want?” Gunfire rattled in the background on Taro’s end. Judging by his thoroughly annoyed tone, two things were clear: one, he was losing; and two, he sucked at this game. Even you had managed to beat him at it.

“That’s it? Just ‘what do you want’? No ‘oh wow, you actually made it out alive and managed to retrieve the vessel from another era before it slipped through to a dozen other realms’? No ‘I was so worried about you, my dearest friend who is like a sister to me’?”

“If you were dead - shit - I’d already know. And you left with Satoru fucking Gojo , for god’s sake. The odds of you dying are basically nonexistent. Did something already happen between you two?”

You let out a sigh, cheeks puffed like a balloon. If it were physically possible to roll your eyes hard enough to see your own brain, you would’ve done it right then.

“Stop being an idiot. Pause the game and hack me into the Kyoto and Tokyo Jujutsu Tech archives.”

The sounds of the game dropped to zero. Silence, then a rapid-fire clatter of keys filled the gap.

“I’ve waited twenty years for this. This is my moment. Give me ten minutes - I’ll send you the link.”

Taro delivered in seven minutes, not ten. You told him his overconfidence was embarrassing. He told you to shut up and enjoy the fruits of his brilliance. You opened the file and reached for your notebook, clicked your pen and started writing. After hours of digging through the files, here’s what your notes ended up looking like:

Artifact 03: Kagari-bi no Men

(aka: the Masked Mutual Destruction Ritual)

• Two masks. Always a set. Can’t be used solo unless you have a death wish or a twin in your pocket.
• Must be worn by two people. At the same time. While dancing. Around fire.

Note: not metaphorical fire. Actual fire.

Requires “perfect resonance.” Whatever that means.

Translation: you and your partner have to vibe so hard you don’t accidentally die.

You stared at the word partner for a moment too long, then neatly drew a line through it and replaced it with: functional partner under pressure .

End result if performed correctly:

•  Controlled celestial fire summoned from above.
• Can purify cursed objects.
• Probably also your eyebrows.

If failed:

• Spontaneous human combustion (duet edition).
• The dance ends, you don’t.

Note: failure rate suspiciously high. So is whoever invented this.

Only works once per bonded pair.

You took a sip of juice. Glanced at the Pocky-less fridge. Wrote more aggressively.

• Compatibility is determined by the masks themselves.
• If the masks reject the wearers, the ritual fails.

Switching partners mid-ritual = big no.

Historical source: last verified usage was 1872. Ended in flames.

Current location: unknown.

•  Last documented mention was in Iga province, under the care of someone named “Kuzunoha.”

Field notes to self:

• Do not let Gojo anywhere near ritual fire.
• Figure out how to test compatibility without actually dancing.
• Threaten Taro with being backup dancer B if necessary.

You underlined that last part twice.

Then, just for your own satisfaction, you flipped to the bottom corner of the page and wrote:

• If I catch Gojo trying to freestyle mid-ritual, I’m leaving him in the fire.

Folded the notebook shut. Sighed into your palm. It won’t be more difficult than the Tasogare no Utsuwa —but it’ll damn well be more dangerous. But you still had to figure out the location of the masks—and come up with a backup plan for when things inevitably went sideways. What kind of plan could you even make if the masks decided to reject you? Stock up on fire extinguishers the moment you smelled barbecue?

Buzzzz.

Kazuki: I’ll be at your place in thirty. Stuck in traffic.

Shit. What time was it? Almost 7 p.m. already. Why did time only ever sprint when you needed it to walk?

Luckily, years of chronic lateness had trained you to shower, do your makeup, and pull yourself together in under twenty minutes. That still left ten whole minutes to notice the one thing you probably shouldn’t have: ever since Satoru Gojo vanished, he hadn’t sent a single message. What a blessing!

You scribbled a few more notes into your notebook just as a call came in from Kazuki - waiting for you downstairs. The hallway mirror was kind enough not to betray the sixteen hours you’d spent in the Heian era, and you counted that as a win.

You spotted his car before he saw you. Same silver hatchback, parked just down the street. He was leaned back in the driver’s seat, one arm resting on the steering wheel, chewing on a straw like he always did when bored. The moment you slid into the car, he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek and brushed his thumb gently across it.

“You look good.”

Liar. You ruffled his hair as a form of punishment.

“So I’m guessing you’re not telling me what the surprise is until we get there.”

“Of course not. That would defeat the entire purpose of it being a surprise.”

You sighed and clicked your seatbelt into place. “Is it dinner? Please tell me it’s dinner. Because if you’ve planned a hot air balloon ride or something, I swear to god-“

“It’s not a hot air balloon ride,” he said, pulling the car into gear. “Though now I’m   kind of regretting not booking one.”

You pressed your lips together to keep from saying something that might hurt his feelings. Kazuki was terrible at surprises. Not the surprises themselves -they were sweet, in their own way, even if you were far from the romantic type. It was the endings that always veered into catastrophe. The romantic picnic had ended in rain, the theater date had ended in your tears over the tragic demise of both leads, and the amusement park date had ended with you vomiting behind a churro stand while Kazuki rubbed your back.

So, no, your hopes were not high.

“How long is the drive?” you ask.

“About forty minutes. Maybe less, depending on traffic.”

His hand is still on the gearshift, tapping in rhythm with the radio, and for a moment, it’s easy to pretend this is all there is. A normal couple, a surprise plan. Nothing strange about that. But then you wondered - would Kazuki still love you if he knew the truth about you? Not the lie about the normal childhood you’d made up. Not the lie about finishing a normal university. Not the lie about what you do for a living. And definitely not the lie about your whole family living somewhere abroad. You hadn’t lied about everything, though, when you said you didn’t keep in touch, that part was true.

Would he still look at you the same way he’s looking at you now?

“Because you hate the woman you pretend to be when you’re with him. And that’s why you’ll never be happy with that man…ever.”

“Did I tell you I saw Taro the other day?” Kazuki asks, God bless his pure soul.

“Was he wearing shoes?”

“Flip-flops. In the rain.”

“Ah,” you nod. “Better than barefoot.” because Taro could. Would. Has.

Kazuki chuckles again. “Yeah, well. He seemed fine. Friendly.” A pause. “Talked a lot about you.”

You tilt your head. “Did he?”

“He said you’d been working late a lot.”

“I have,” you say automatically.

“I didn’t realize sales was so intense these days.”

“Neither did I,” you say softly.

You parked in front of a massive high-rise in the city center. The building looked expensive, luxurious, even. Kazuki reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a blindfold.

“Put it on,” he said, in that commanding tone that might’ve given you goosebumps two months ago. But the moment you saw the black blindfold? Oh, for god’s sakes. Because clearly, one emotionally complex man with a blindfold in your life wasn’t enough. One fucking blindfolded man ruining your life is never fucking enough for the universe.

You stared at the blindfold. Then at him. Then back at the blindfold. “Are you trying to trigger my PTSD or propose again?”

He laughed. “Neither.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.”  You let him tie it over your eyes.

“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Blindfolds are just my favorite thing.”

He chuckles and squeezes your hand. “Come on, this’ll be quick.”

He led you out of the car, guiding you toward the building. You heard someone greet him -male voice, maybe concierge or security - and Kazuki responded with a friendly “Evening.”

Then came the elevator. Kazuki kept talking, light chatter to distract you. It didn’t work. Eventually the elevator stopped. A soft ding. Then the jingle of keys. You heard the door open. Kazuki loosened the blindfold.

“I know we haven’t set a wedding date yet,” he said softly. “But I couldn’t wait.”

He pulled the blindfold off. “I bought us this place.”

Your eyes adjusted and you found yourself standing in a beautiful apartment. Open layout. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Custom lighting. Wood floors and stone counters.

Kazuki stepped forward. “We’d live here after the wedding. Obviously.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away.

He glanced toward the balcony. “I wanted the penthouse, but it was already taken. This was the next best one.”

You looked at him. He looked so proud. You wished you could mirror that expression. Say the right thing. Smile. Tell him it was perfect. But all you could think about was how he’d built something beautiful for a version of you that never really existed.

Liar. 

Chapter Text

When Kazuki mentioned a surprise, you honestly didn’t think he’d actually manage to surprise you. The apartment really was fancy, even though he’d constantly complained about some asshole getting the penthouse instead.

Did you actually care what floor it was on? Nah, not really. Did you give a shit if it wasn’t luxurious enough to be a penthouse? Ridiculous.

What you did care about, what sank its teeth into your chest and refused to let go, was the fact that you’d never even talked about buying a place. Not seriously. Not until now. Obviously, you’d move in together after the wedding, anyone could figure that out, but until now you’d been comforted by the thought that the wedding wasn’t happening anytime soon. You still had to deal with all the cursed artifacts and seal bullshit first, save the world and whatever, and only then get married in peace.

But this place? This meant soon .

“So? What do you think?” Kazuki stood there, arms at his sides, waiting for you to say something.

You managed a smile. Then you told him it was beautiful, because it really was. Kazuki made good money, sure, but this place was in one of the fanciest neighborhoods and one of the top apartment buildings. Maybe he had a mortgage? You offered to split the cost. First for renovations. Then at least half the apartment. Then a third. Anything, really. But Kazuki had smiled and said no. It was a gift, he explained. Technically, from his parents. His mom. Unbelievable.  You nodded. Said thank you. Tried to mean it because….well, because that’s what you do when someone hands you a dream they think belongs to you.

He showed you the rest of the apartment. You followed him through the space, listened as he described where the couch would go, how he imagined the bookshelves, whether you’d want plants. And… maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe, for a minute, it even felt nice. Safe.

Maybe there’s a chance?

Late in the evening, with only the glow of a bedside lamp lighting the still-empty apartment, you settled comfortably on the floor by the large windows. Kazuki’s shirt kept you warm, leaving him bare-chested (not that you minded) and lounging in loose-fitting pants. The bowl of noodles cools on your lap as you sit back and take in the view.

“Kazuki?” you said.

“Mm?”

“If one day I told you I’m not who you think I am… what would you do?”

Kazuki stopped chewing, considering carefully. “Then I’d wonder why you didn’t tell me the truth right away. People lie for different reasons - maybe you had a good one.”

A good one… but good for who? For him, or for yourself? You couldn’t agree. A lie was still a lie, no matter the reason. People only came up with the idea of lying for someone’s good to make themselves feel better about it.

“I mean,” he continued, “if it was something serious, something that mattered, I’d probably want to know why you didn’t feel like you could tell me. It’s not like you killed someone, right?”

Right. You barely nodded. Kazuki said it like a joke, but jokes always knew where to aim. That one hit right on the mark. You thought he was supposed to be the closest person to you, yet you knew you couldn’t tell him the whole truth. Maybe you never would. Maybe there’s no one you could ever tell. In the end, the guilt you carry eventually fades into nothing more than the memory of what you did. There’s no such thing as a lie for the greater good - just like there’s no real excuse for the one who caused the harm.

Kazuki changed the subject. You still hadn’t said a word.

During the four blissful days without a blue-eyed demon, you buried yourself in research on the third artifact. Kagari-bi no Men. The masks. The Jujutsu Tech archive leaks were helpful. Ish. Turns out even the higher-ups seemed lost on where the masks ended up. Still, you dug. Between research sessions, you’d managed to inhale an ungodly amount of chips, play video games with Taro, and even snag another artifact for a client. Hell, you’d even cleaned the entire apartment. But still…what exactly had happened during all those breaks in between?

Your phone started vibrating. And kept vibrating. And never fucking stopped. Satoru Gojo, it turned out, had developed a new hobby: psychological warfare via group text. Except the group was just you. And the texts weren’t actual words. They were memes. Photos. Selfies. Voice records. A continuous, exhausting stream of nonsense from whatever Special Grade assignment he’d been sent on.

It started with a selfie from some airport lounge, captioned: Tell me you miss me without telling me you miss me.

You didn’t answer.

Then came a voice memo : “do you think I’d look better with bangs? be honest. don’t lie. i’ll know.”

Then a photo of the stolen Pocky, captioned: You’ll get them back when you learn to be nice to me.

A selfie with four terrified-looking foreign junior sorcerers in the background.

Caption: they’re learning so much :)

You considered blocking his number. You really did. But blocking him would mean admitting you were bothered. And you refused to give him that satisfaction.

On the evening of one of the four days, while finishing up notes from the last minor artifact pickup, your phone buzzed one more time. A photo. Satoru Gojo, standing with arms crossed in front of what was clearly a very large, very dead and a very Special Grade curse. One of the junior sorcerers behind him looked like he’d just thrown up. In the foreground was handwritten sign that read:

“This wouldn’t have happened if you’d just answered my text.”

You stared at the photo for a solid ten seconds. Then closed the tab you were working in, threw your phone under a pillow, and said out loud, to no one, “This man is emotionally twelve.”

The phone assault went on for four days straight -memes, videos, photos, texts. You only replied to the ones where he asked about the masks. Short replies and minimal punctuation.

You never did manage to find anything about this Kuzunoha person, but you did uncover a detailed description of the dance, or rather, the ritual, needed to master the masks and come out alive. The dance had to be performed within a circle of fire, movements perfectly synchronized, eyes never breaking contact. And we all know exactly how it ends if the rules are broken.

The last message from Gojo came sometime around three in the morning: at the airport. waiting for the plane. tell Tokyo to behave.

By late morning, he still hadn’t followed up. You thought maybe he’d lost interest or got distracted by something more important and interesting than bothering you. You should’ve known better. Your phone buzzed around noon.

Unknown number (because no, of course you still hadn’t saved his number): back in Tokyo.

You turned the phone screen toward yourself and stared at it, debating whether to text him back. Calculated the flight time but not on purpose. Six hours. He’d been in the city for three. Does this man ever sleep?

You: and?

Unknown number: just thought you’d appreciate a warning before i show up on your doorstep again. i’m considerate like that. also, dropping by tomorrow. thought we could look at the mask intel together. two brains. one terrifying ritual.

You: pretty sure the ritual requires compatible brain cells.

Unknown number: good thing i brought mine.and fine, you can borrow a few.

You nearly choked on your cereal and milk. That son of a -

Unknown number:  i found something last week that might help with the masks. thought we could go over it together.

You: 11a. you know where the door is. use it like a normal person for once.

Evening hit without ceremony - the way it always did at Taro’s place. He’d gotten a new oven, which apparently meant tonight was “experimental pizza night.” With the city pop you’d gotten him hooked on playing in the background, you watched - half proud, half amused, as this young man, for the first time in years, actually tried to cook something on his own without asking for your help. There was dough on the faucet, sauce in his hair, a single pepperoni stuck to the wall…ugh.

“You sure you don’t want me to-”

“Nope,” Taro said immediately, hands wrist-deep in flour. “You’re not allowed to mom me today.”

You sighed and peeled a slice of pepperoni off the wall, humming a tune under your breath. Watching this lanky twenty-year-old try to do something besides hacking into government systems stirred something in you you hadn’t felt in a long time. For a moment, you saw him as he used to be: just a scrappy teenage kid you took in, dragging him out of trouble more times than you could count.

“How’s Kazuki?” Taro asked eventually, not looking at you.

“He showed me a new place,” you said. “Said it was a surprise. Turns out it’s an apartment. Big and fancy.”

“You’re kidding,” Taro said flatly. “He bought you an apartment?”

“No,” you said, picking sauce off your sleeve. “His mother did. Technically.”

“Of course she did.” He shoved the half-shaped dough onto a tray. You didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched. Old habit. “So generous.” he continued.

“You know, normal people would say ‘congrats.’”

“I’m not normal people,” he said, shaking flour off his hands. “I’m me. And I’ve met him.” Then he reached for a knife to slice mushrooms, then paused again, knife in hand, pointing at you for some reason. “You’re not actually moving in, right?”

“Not yet.”

“I just don’t get it,” he said finally, wiping the blade clean. “You’re smart. You don’t play dress-up for strangers. But you’ve been with this guy for three years and I still can’t tell if you’re building something or running from it.”

OH HERE WE FUCKING GO. You looked at him and his stupid sauce-streaked apron. The way he refused to meet your gaze when he said things that mattered.

“You think I’m running?”

“I think,” he said, voice even, “you’ve got one foot out the door and the other pretending it’s not shaking.”

Hearing that from the idiot who once refused to eat for two days because you grounded him from energy drinks was something new. So you climbed off the counter, did your best to make the so-called pizza look a little more like actual food, and shoved it into the oven. You set the timer and leaned on the counter and then grabbed two glasses from the shelf.

“You’re not wrong,” you said finally. “you’re not right, either…but you’re not wrong.”

Taro realized there was no point in continuing the conversation, so you spent the rest of the time staring at the pizza baking in the oven’s reflection, quietly singing your favorite song. The timer went off. You opened the oven and felt heat slap your face. The pizza was… cooked. The dough had browned unevenly, cheese melted sideways, toppings floating toward one corner… as if they were trying to escape this torture. You bit down on your lower lip to keep from swearing - something told you this creation might be the end of you both, either here in the kitchen… or in the bathroom later. But it was his first attempt at cooking, and he looked so proud, so you forced a smile and sliced the pizza.

You each took a slice, sat across from each other at the table, and bit in at the same time. It was hot. Sweet. Salty. And then spicy….like, very, very spicy. In a what-the-fuck-did-you-put-in-this way. Your throat made a noise that shouldn’t exist in the human language. But then you tasted cinnamon and pepperoni, and that was the last fucking straw. You coughed once. “Did you… what did you-”

“I don’t know!” he said, already chewing again. “I just grabbed whatever was in the red jar.” Taro picked off a mushroom that had somehow turned black on only one side. “It’s not that bad.”

You stood up and got a glass of water. Drank the whole thing. Grabbed another.

“You’re actually insane.” you said, swallowing down the urge to throw up.

“Eh,” he shrugged. “You raised me.”

You were about two seconds from passing out when your phone rang and saved your ass. You slid it out of your pocket, checked the screen. Unknown number . Which was stupid, because you knew who it was.

With a sigh, you answered. “If you’re calling to ask about bangs again, I swear to god-“

“Can you come over?”

You paused.

“Excuse me?”

He exhaled on the other end. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t… Look, I just… need help. Something came up.”

His voice threw you off. You stayed quiet for a while, trying to figure out if he was messing with you or if he actually needed your help. And the real kicker - what the hell could the strongest man in the world possibly need you for?

“What kind of something?”

“Well,” he started. You had a feeling it’s going to be a long story. “I saw blood on Tsumiki’s jeans. Then I panicked. She screamed. I screamed. Then she screamed again. Then Megumi screamed. Then she locked herself in the bathroom and said she’s dying. I don’t think she’s dying, i mean, I hope she’s not dying. But Megumi is convinced she is dying, and he won’t stop pacing in a circle, and I tried to slide tissues under the door but she screamed at me again. I also offered tea but she told me to shut up and call a woman.”

Okay, okay. It took your brain a couple of seconds to realize - this shit’s not a joke. You hadn’t even known he had kids. You hadn’t even known he had kids in his apartment. Plural. Who are Megumi and Tsumiki in the first place? What was he doing with them? Are those his kids? If no, why weren’t they with their parents? Why were they his problem? Why was this suddenly your problem? You had too many questions.

“Are you babysitting?” you asked.

Only silence was his answer.

“You’re babysitting.” you pressed.

“They live with me,” he added. “Kind of.”

You took the deepest fucking breath known to mankind. Let it out. Counted to ten. Didn’t do shit. You opened your mouth and closed it immediately. Looked down and realized your jacket was already halfway on. One sneaker on. What the..? How on Earth…?

You didn’t know why you were still on the call. You didn’t know why you weren’t saying no. You did not do kids. Never had and never would. It was a mutual agreement between you and the entire juvenile population of Earth. You found them sticky, emotionally unstable, and unreasonably loud. They found you scary, mean, and once, according to a seven-year-old at a client’s house - “the boss of the underworld.”

You weren’t built for this. You’d accepted it. Taro was the only exception, mostly because you took him in during the peak of his awkward, hormonal coming-of-age bullshit, and he wasn’t like the other kids. He was never scared of you.

“I’m going to regret this,” you muttered.  “Send me the address.” The words left your mouth before your soul had time to file a formal protest. You wanted to slap the shit out of yourself, so you hung up before he could say anything back.

Taro’s face lit up immediately. “What?! What’d he say? Are you going on a date? Is he dying? Did he confess?!”

Ignoring Taro’s wild-ass theories was the best thing you could do right now. You were still reeling from that phone call.  “Listen to me very carefully,” you said, “I need you to promise me something.”

“…Okay?”

“If you ever want to see another birthday… if you ever want to grow old and discover what adulthood really feels like… you will not eat that pizza.”

“But-”

“Don’t.” you said, already pulling the door shut behind you.

You didn’t think the day could possibly get worse. Like, seriously, what could be worse than dealing with two kids -one hitting puberty and the other smack in the middle of their annoying-ass nine-year-old phase?

“This better not be what I think it is,” you muttered.

Spoiler: it was exactly what you thought it was.

You stared at the address on your phone screen. Then stared at the building in front of you. Then stared at the address again. Then back at the building. You figured if you just kept staring long enough, you’d spot some mistake—anything to prove it was the wrong building after all. Less oh god this is the same place Kazuki showed you four days ago .

“Some asshole got the penthouse.”

You tilted your head upward. Penthouse. You actually staggered a little. Not because it was shocking. Not because it didn’t make sense. No. Because the universe hated you personally and wanted you to suffer with specificity.

“He lives in the fucking penthouse,” you said aloud, because silence was no longer enough. “The fucking penthouse. Of course it’s him. Of course it’s his damn penthouse. This is karma. For what? Who knows. Probably that one time I told a third grader that Santa doesn’t exist and that probably were his parents.”

Of course it was Satoru Gojo. Of course the man who once sent you thirty-seven selfies in a single day lived thirty-seven floors above you. Well. Here you were. On your way to the penthouse. To help that asshole.

The apartment door was already open when you walked in, and at first, there was total silence…for like two seconds.

“I’m bleeding to death!!” screamed a high-pitched voice, somewhere between full-on sobbing and sheer panic.

“You’re not bleeding to death, Tsumiki.” The voice - calm, reasonable, apparently belonged to Satoru Gojo.

“Yes, i am!!”

“What if some curse hurt her, Gojo? What the hell are we supposed to do? Should we take her to Shoko?” The boy’s voice was clearly panicked.

Yeah, kid, it’s a fucking curse alright, you thought bitterly, bleeding out every month - every woman’s personal hell.

The first person to meet your eyes was Satoru Gojo, looking way too good for the situation and way too innocent for someone who’d been blowing up your phone non-stop for four fucking days. He was wearing a t-shirt that said “world’s okayest dad”. Then a little boy turned around to look at you, sharp green eyes wide and messy dark hair sticking out everywhere. He looked freaked out - but not by you. Something about him reminded you of Taro.

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” Satoru Gojo said, voice serious now. “I’ve fought things with seventeen arms and six rows of teeth that were less terrifying than whatever’s going on in that bathroom.” He pushed his sunglasses up onto his head. Which meant his six eyes had stopped working again.

You were just about to say something when a boy’s voice cut through your thoughts.

“Who are you?”

“I’m his colleague,” you said flatly.

“She’s my friend,” said Satoru Gojo. At the exact same time.

“Colleague,” you corrected him again.

“Friend,” Satoru Gojo corrected you right back.

You stared at him, and he stared right back. When you both turned toward the kid, you found him staring at you too. Then kid said:

“You’re not good with kids, are you.”

You crossed your arms. “Well, aren’t you a little judgey for someone with jam on his face.”

The kid wiped at his cheek on instinct. There was no jam. Checkmate. You smirked. He narrowed his eyes at you. “There was never any jam, was there.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p.’

Satoru Gojo tugged the corner of his lip under his teeth in a smirk. And he was giving you that look - unreadable, and way too bold. You didn’t like it. So you ignored him and tried to be nice to the boy. You crouched a little to his level, and said, “Megumi, right?”

He nodded.

“You worried about your sister?”

Another nod. Slower this time.

“Cool. Then we’re on the same team. You keep guarding the perimeter, I’ll breach negotiations.”

“…Like a mission?”

“Exactly like a mission.”

His expression said he was taking this whole situation more seriously than you’d ever taken anything in your life. It was kind of sweet. Mika had freaked the fuck out too when you first realized you were hitting puberty and came running to her in tears.

“Copy that,” he whispered.

When you stood up, Satoru Gojo leaned in slightly, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Thanks for coming,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer. Mostly because your brain short-circuited for a full second. He saw that and smiled. You turned to the bathroom door and knocked.

“Tsumiki,” you called gently, pressing your knuckles to the door. “Can you hear me?”

“Who are you ?”

Fair question. You hadn’t even figured that out yourself lately.

You took a breath. “I’m, uh…I’m the person your idiot guardian called when he realized he doesn’t know how to deal with blood that isn’t spraying out of a curse.”

“Do you even know what’s happening to me?”

Ah. The million-dollar question. You pressed your forehead to the bathroom door, doing your best to sound like someone whose entire approach to childhood trauma wasn’t “just walk it off.” You could hear the fear under her voice, equal parts horror, embarrassment, and the all-consuming certainty of imminent death. Had her mom seriously never told her this thing could happen. Then again, who were you to judge? After all, you and Mika had to figure this stuff out on your own, too.

You cleared your throat, buying yourself a couple precious seconds. “Listen, Tsumiki, I… Look, when I was your age, I didn’t get a pep talk about it too. My sister and I..” Your tongue tripped a little. “Let’s just say we figured things out the hard way. There was blood, there was a declaration of death too, there were a truly unhelpful adults. It runs in the family, I guess.”

Still pause. But then she asked quietly: “Will it hurt forever?”

“No,” you said. “But it’s gonna feel like it sometimes. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to feel like absolute shit. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means your body’s throwing a surprise party once in a month.”

The door opened, which you took as permission to come in. Behind you, someone let out a relieved sigh -it was Megumi.

Tsumiki’s eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy, and she was wrapped in what appeared to be the fluffiest towel on Earth. You knelt down and pulled a small pack from your bag. “Alright, soldier,” you said, “First, painkillers. Swallow now, thank me later.”

Tsumiki took your advice, and then you brought her a fresh towel and clean clothes with pads.  “Take a shower,” you said. “Hot water helps. Trust me. You’ll feel like a whole new human.”

“Please, don’t leave. Just wait outside the bathroom,” Tsumiki said, still sniffling but out of tears. For some reason, it made you smile—and you promised you wouldn’t leave. You even told her you’d stick around, and if she felt like it, you could watch a movie together. She lit up and nodded.

You stepped out and gently pulled the door shut behind you, only to find Megumi standing right there, staring at you.

“Did she stop dying?” he asked.

“For now,” you said.

“So, if blood comes out and it doesn’t mean dying, then… is that gonna happen to me too?”

Satoru Gojo behind him froze. “Nope,” he said instantly. “Hard nope. This is where I leave. This is your department now.”

Oh you hated that man. You turned back to the boy. “No, kid. You’re safe. No blood. Just… other weird stuff later.”

Megumi, being the smart kid he was, didn’t press for details (thank God) and figured he’d save his questions for when he was older. But sneaky-ass Satoru Gojo, true to his word, and pure fucking cowardice, vanished. You found yourself alone with Megumi again, who, after a very long silence, pointed to the stack of cookies and said, “Can I have another one?”

“Take two,” you said. “You’ve earned it.”

You checked on Tsumiki once, she still in the shower, humming something under her breath - and when you returned, Megumi had rearranged the pillows on the couch. You helped him build a little fort out of blankets. Then you retrieved the emergency stash you’d grabbed from your bag -two bags of gummies, a chocolate bar the size of your forearm, and marshmallow cookies you grabbed from Taro’s place before heading out. Tsumiki finally emerged from the bathroom, looking much better than before. She stopped mid-step when she saw the fort. “Is this…?”

“Your throne,” Megumi announced. “Come on.”

You helped her settle in, passing her a fluffy blanket, then Megumi immediately shoved a cookie into her hand.

“I’m okay now,” Tsumiki mumbled, mostly to the cookie. Her eyes flicked to the table, where you’d already laid out an irresponsible number of sweets.

“We’re watching anime,” Megumi declared, remote already in hand. He clicked through a few options, then paused on a title: Nichijou.

So there you were. A blanket fort and three people under it. One healing girl, one smart nine-year-old, and one woman who definitely hadn’t planned to spend her evening explaining puberty to a stranger’s child while watching nonsense.

Then the front door slammed open.

“Okay!” Satoru Gojo announced cheerfully. “I’ve returned from the field. Brought offerings. Behold!”

He brought a ridiculous amount of stuff -three family-size bags of chips, a small mountain of candy, two tubs of ice cream (both strawberry), six different kinds of soda, a loaf of banana bread (why?), and three brand new packs of pads. Three.

He placed the bags down, kicked off his shoes, and gave Tsumiki a little wink. “You holding up, champ?”

He tossed strawberry ice cream to her, and Tsumiki caught it with a small laugh. “You didn’t have to get all this.”

“I know,” he said. “But spoiling you makes me feel good.”

He ruffled gently her damp hair and then put the last bag of pads on the counter and gave you a pointed look. “I didn’t know the exact kind,” he said, completely serious, “so I got three types. One of them has wings. I assume that means they fly?”

Tsumiki giggled. You ignored him. Without waiting for further commentary, he sank into the only available space left - right between you and Tsumiki. A neutral zone. You shifted just enough to avoid his arm brushing your shoulder. He noticed, but didn’t comment. He just leaned slightly the other way, elbow resting on the back of the couch, legs stretched out. He kept exactly five inches between your knee and his. You counted.

Nichijou kept playing - you’d lost track of what episode it was a long time ago. Someone farted and Megumi blamed the couch. Tsumiki snorted soda up her nose. Satoru Gojo laughed so hard he choked on a marshmallow. By the time the final episode finished, both kids were dead asleep, limbs tangled under blankets and crushed pillows. Tsumiki had ended up half on Gojo’s shoulder, Megumi draped across her legs like a sleepy bodyguard. Cute. The ice cream was gone. The chips had been reduced to empty crinkled bags.

You slowly peeled yourself out from under the blanket fort without waking the kids, moving like a ghost and grabbed the now-empty tub of ice cream from the floor.

“You heading out already?”  Satoru Gojo asked, quiet enough not to wake the kids- but loud enough to catch.

You didn’t answer. Just slipped your arms into your jacket, feeling the weight of your bag settle against your side. Behind you, Satoru Gojo got up from the couch and threw a blanket over the kids.

“You didn’t tell me you had a sister,” he said suddenly.

“So?” ” you replied, still facing away from him, still composed. Or, well, composed enough. “I don’t mention a lot of things.”. Inside, you were already kicking yourself. Idiot. You’d mentioned Mika. You never mentioned Mika.

“I just think it’s fascinating. You’re artifact thief with a secret history and a fake fiancé-“

“He’s not fake,” you said quickly.

He smiled. “Sure. Anyway. You’ve got enough walls up to build a fortress, and now out of nowhere, there’s a sister? That’s news.”

“She’s my twin.”

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed loosely. “You two close?”

You shoved your foot into the sneaker. “We were born in the same room, three minutes apart. You get close fast when you’re screaming at the same time.”

That made him laugh. You laced up your other sneaker, took your time with the knot.

“You still close?” he asked eventually.

“We were.”

He hummed low in his throat. “Past tense.”

You straightened slowly. “People grow apart.”

“Shame,” he murmured.

You exhaled, short and sharp, ready to leave. “Next time you need someone to handle your hormonal children, call an actual adult.”

“I did. You showed up.” he said behind you.

Chapter Text

You light the last candle and take two steps back, turning to check if Satoru Gojo lit his on the other side. Across the circle, he lifts his hand (absolutely careless) and sets his final candle ablaze with a flick of cursed energy, as though conjuring fire is no more complicated than breathing. It’s been days of this. Midnight rituals, rehearsal after rehearsal - all because Mister World’s Strongest Sorcerer apparently can’t squeeze a schedule around saving reality without it cutting into your beauty sleep. You flex your wrists instinctively, feeling the braided cords of the Kyomei-fuda shift against your skin - a cool, reassuring bite. The cords will prevent your cursed techniques from colliding violently if you touch during the ritual, not that you plan on touching him. Or noticing the way his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, or the way the candlelight cuts new angles into the sharp, devastating geometry of his face.

You step into the center of the circle of candles; he takes his place across from you. The talisman lets you touch without triggering destruction, which means your techniques won’t cancel each other out -and for the next hour, his eyes, left uncovered by glasses or a blindfold, will probably start to tire. Nope. Not your problem. None of it is your business. You rolled your eyes at yourself, and Satoru Gojo shot you an amused look, one eyebrow raised.

“You always roll your eyes that hard,” he drawls, “or is it just a special service for me?”

“No talking,” you said crisply, signaling with your hands that the dance ritual was about to begin. “Focus.”

Miracle of miracles, he obeys. Your right foot moves clockwise. His left foot mirrors counter-clockwise. A slow circle. One hand lifts to the air, fingers half-curved. He matches the position instantly. A pivot. You count the rhythm in your head, but not out loud. You learned the hard way he’ll make fun of your counting voice. Step. Turn. Pivot. Shift. Repeat. Satoru Gojo actually went quiet. Your brain, however, did not.

You glide left. So does he. Step and turn.

Two small figures have been stuck in your head ever since you met them - Megumi and Tsumiki. Ever since that unexpected call for help, the questions in your mind have only multiplied. How come those kids end up with him?

Step. Pivot. Palm forward.

You hadn’t asked, because questions open doors. And opening a door meant Satoru Gojo would walk in, kick it off the hinges, and set up camp inside your life like a storm that refuses to pass. Besides  - questions lead to answers and answers lead to trust. And trust is a knife you hand to someone else and hope they don’t slip it between your ribs. Not happening.

But they live with him. Kind of. Why?

Step. Shift. Arms raise.

The worst part is that while the spiral of your thoughts keeps pulling you under, and your movements slip into autopilot, Satoru Gojo, who hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the rehearsal started (because the ritual demands it, of course) has definitely noticed.

“Losing focus already?”

“Bite me.”

“That’s not in the ritual instructions.” For some reason, he whispered. Why the hell is he whispering? It’s not like there’s anyone else in your place but the two of you.

The strongest sorcerer in the world took the time to memorize the entire Kagari-bi no Men ritual. His movements are effortless, maddeningly so, the black sleeves of his shirt falling back to reveal strong wrists, the braided cord catching and sliding over the bones beneath his skin. He’s not even sweating. Even now, as your arms arc outward in perfect symmetry, and his match yours exactly, he does it like he’s not even trying, not even focused. Show off.

You circle each other slowly, heel brushing the floor. Step. Half-turn. Shoulders angled. Another spin and his hand brushes yours briefly as you move, fingers curling just enough for contact, just enough to make it seem intentional, and yet meaningless.

“What are you thinking about?” his voice is amused. It’d be stupid to assume Satoru Gojo hadn’t noticed your absence, despite you physically being right there.

“Shut up and pivot.”

Your legs sweep in mirrored semi-arcs, shoulders dipping mimicking the ceremonial bow.

His fingers brush past yours again as you complete another spiral. Then again. And again. And okay, maybe he’s doing it on purpose now, just barely ghosting close, but you’re not giving him the satisfaction of reacting. Your foot hits the turn a beat faster than before and he matches you instantly.

Another step. Another fucking spin. When your hands meet fully, palms pressing for a required beat, his touch lingers like silk sliding over your bones, his eyes tracking the contact instead of your face. He breaks ritual rule number one and ritual rule number two simultaneously, which you would murder him for. When he finally looks back into your eyes, amused and shameless, the message there is loud and clear: do something about it, i dare you.

Move after move. The sorcerer tries to keep a straight face, but every now and then, his lips twitch like they’re fighting off a smile. Your bodies rotate along the circle’s edge, shadows flickering over the walls in rhythmic flashes. In the end, the sounds faded to nothing but footsteps and the creak of the floorboards, your breathing falling into sync, the soft rustle of fabric and it stayed that way until the ritual was over. Breaking eye contact during the final bow, you finally tore your gaze away and looked down at the floor.

Before you can step away properly, before you can reassert the fragile walls you’ve built between yourself and him, you feel a brush of fingertips against your temple. You can feel the callused pad of his index finger trail the curve of your hairline, tucking an errant strand behind your ear with a tenderness that feels far too intimate for what either of you are supposed to be. And you aren’t supposed to be anything at all.

“Huh,” he says, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Knew you were trouble the moment I saw you. Didn’t realize you were beautiful, too.”

You straightened up fast, lifting your gaze from the floor and locking onto the ocean-blue eyes staring back at you.

“Touch me again,” you manage through gritted teeth, “and I’ll bite your damn hand off.”

“Guess I’ll have to be careful where I put my hands, then,” he murmured absolutely unsurprised of your reaction but still doing what the hell he wants anyway.

The Kyomei-fuda cord on your wrist burned with the sudden, furious yank you gave it, ripping it off so fast the braided strands left a thin mark on your skin. Then you grabbed two sodas from the fridge and handed him one while he browsed through your collection of favorite books. His eyes skimmed over the lines of “ Wuthering Heights” while you stood leaning against the windowsill. Megumi and Tsumiki’s faces flashed through your mind again, and you straightened up, trying to shake off the swarm of questions clawing at your head. And because you are stupid, because you are weak, because you are you, you open your mouth and ask:

“How did they end up with you?”

He freezes for the slightest fraction of a second, so quick anyone else would miss it, but not you, and when he lifts his head from the book he’d been pretending to read, his expression is almost maddeningly neutral.

“Megumi and Tsumiki,” you clarified, shifting uncomfortably on the windowsill, already regretting being the one to start the conversation.

“I knew their dad,” he says, carefully closing the book and sliding it back into place between the stacks. “He owed me money.”

You snort without meaning to, because the grin curving his mouth gives him away instantly - he’s deflecting, trying to make it easy for you to pull away if you want to.

“Fushiguro, or Toji Zenin, was Megumi’s father,” he said.

You know that name. Toji Zenin - the infamous sorcerer killer. Despite the nickname, he was more than happy to kill anyone who got in the way of your clan that paid him a hefty sum - money Toji was all too eager to blow on bets and gambling. Corrupt, petty, too strong for a normal human, and too weak to be a real sorcerer. There were plenty of stories about him, but you knew all too well how his life had ended.

“He sold Megumi to the Zenin clan,” Satoru Gojo added. “Thought he’d cash in before the kid’s technique showed up. But I guess his conscience finally kicked in during the last minutes of his life, right before I sent him straight to hell.”

You stared at him, and he stared back, almost daring you to ask for the worse parts. The ones he was leaving out. But you already knew all those parts, Mika had told you everything in detail. She just told it from another person’s point of view.

He went on, telling you how he found the kids and paid off all their father’s debts. How he threatened (you asked him to spare you the details) the Zenin clan, who were ready to sink their teeth into the boy, chew him up, and spit out whatever humanity he might’ve had left.

Satoru Gojo, killer of monsters. Keeper of broken children. Guardian by accident and by choice, and somehow, still an idiot who smiled like none of it mattered. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore after telling the story for so many years. Because it was easy, wasn’t it, when you were Satoru Gojo. When you were too strong for the consequences to ever matter. He didn’t save people because he thought he could make them whole. He saved them because letting the world eat them alive was worse -something he knew from bitter experience.

You lift the can to your lips, hiding your expression behind it, taking a long slow sip.

“And Tsumiki?”

“She’s his sister. Not by blood. But she was all he had left. No cursed energy, no clan interest. Nobody cared what happened to her. So i did.”

You wondered, for a stupid, fragile second, if Megumi even knew. If he realized that behind every sarcastic comment, every smug look, every reckless promise Satoru Gojo tossed into the world like confetti  - there was a choice. A decision to be something better than what the world had offered either of them.

You hummed quietly as he took a few steps toward the window where you were standing. Distance was a language he refused to speak.

“Why did you run?”

The question tensed every muscle in your body. It could’ve meant a thousand different things, but you knew exactly which one he meant.

Why did you run from your clan?

Why did you choose exile over legacy?

Why are you standing here, a ghost wearing a thief’s skin, when you could have been so much more - or less?

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who’s not getting any answers,” you say, your voice cooler than you feel.

Then he leans a little closer to your ear and murmurs, voice low and maddeningly amused:

“You know… I can wait.”

Somehow it made it worse. Because it means he understands you don’t trust him and he’s willing to wait until you do. If you ever do.

“You’ll be waiting a long time,” you say stiffly, refusing to step back.

“No problem,” he says smiling. “I’m very patient.”

His eyes, unshielded, held yours without looking away. The seconds dragged. One, two, three. He watched…closer? The kind of closeness that didn’t need steps or hands to bridge it. You gave a quick cough and stepped away from the window to put some distance between you and him.

“Dig up anything on Kuzunoha?” you asked, dropping onto the couch.

“Kuzunoha wasn’t a person,” he said behind you. “She was a title, passed down through a line of guardians. The last recorded sighting, according to the school archives, was in Iga Province in the late 1800s and nothing after that. I think it might be connected to the fact that around the same time, the powerful clans started hunting the masks… and probably yours did too, which forced Kuzunoha to cover her tracks along with the artifacts.”

He had a point.

You leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling with a heavy sigh. “Heading to Iga is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Where are we even supposed to start? Hills, forests, small towns.”

The view of the ceiling was cut off by his head, leaning over you with a half-smile.

“Which is why we don’t start with forests,” he said. “We start with people.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Locals?”

“Locals,” he confirmed. “Caretakers, shrine workers or families who’ve been around long enough to pass down the kind of stories that never make it into textbooks. Gonna start with the oldest parts of it.”

Well, this was going to take a while. You pushed yourself up off the couch, grabbed your laptop, cracked it open, and started zooming in on the least hospitable areas of Iga. Shrines, forests, ghost villages, and a list of things that definitely weren’t your problem but had somehow become your job anyway. The worst part wasn’t the uncertainty of it all - it was the fact that you knew Satoru Gojo wasn’t wrong. The best chance to find something useful wasn’t buried under layers of folklore; it was going to be in the mouths of the people who lived there, the ones who’d heard whispers. You both leaned closer to the map, the blue glow washing over the room. The province stretched out before you, a tight knot of mountains, forest, and barely-there towns.

“Alright,” you said, squinting at the screen and pointing at a cluster of hills east of central Iga. “First place, Shindō, is a barely a village. About… fifteen houses, if they haven’t lost a few to the last landslide season. Has lots of older farming families, so if there are rumors, they’ll know.”

The sorcerer nodded, tapping the side of his can of soda.

“Second,” you said, zooming further. “The little Kasuga here has a handful of shrines, and it’s isolated enough that a guardian mask wouldn’t stick out too badly if someone passed it down.”

He leaned in a bit closer, reading. “They still do handmade paper there, right?”

“Exactly,” you said. “Old crafts usually mean old families.”

“Add Narukawa to the list,” he said, tapping the spot lightly. “I was there once on a mission- three shrines close enough to walk between, two of them abandoned. And an old temple ruin at the top of the hill. Since i’ve been there before,  I can teleport us there directly.”

You pressed your lower lip against your upper one, uneasy. The plan sounded almost too easy. But what if the masks weren’t in any of those places at all?

“Fine, Narukawa first. Shindō’s only about ten, maybe fifteen kilometers from Narukawa if we cut through the old forestry roads. Then Kasuga.” You sat back, folding your arms over your chest while the laptop was glowing on the table between you. “How soon?” you asked without looking at him.

“Two days,” he said, almost casually.  “Earliest.”

“Because?”

He shrugged. “Because people keep trying to die and I have to make sure they don’t.”

Welp, you got two days for yourself. What a blast, you thought. That’s exactly why, thanks to one random moment of stupidity, when you were kicking him out of your apartment, you blurted something about “the connection being crap out there, so we’ll need a map,” and also “we don’t know how long we’ll get stuck, so i should stock up on supplies at the market.”

Which is also exactly why, right now, at two in the afternoon, you’re standing with him in a supermarket not far from his place, while he’s happily tossing into the cart a bunch of stuff you both definitely won’t need for the mask hunt.

“You didn’t have to come with me, I could’ve handled it on my own,” you said, tossing a few sodas and canned iced coffees into the cart.

“I’m on break anyway,” he replied casually, giving a shrug as he browsed through the array of sweets on the shelves. “Besides, I wouldn’t feel right having you pay for something I’m going to use as well.”

“It’s no trouble for me to cover everything,” you insisted sincerely, and it was true. Your career as an artifact hunter left you with a substantial balance that you hardly knew how to spend. You weren’t particularly extravagant - designer brands and flashy luxuries never really appealed to you. However, you did appreciate quality and comfort, spending generously on good food and a comfortable apartment. Still, your bank account rarely took a noticeable hit. “I have more than enough.”

“Well then, save that generosity for our date,” Satoru Gojo murmured teasingly, his eyes still fixed intently on his ongoing dilemma between sour-sweet jelly candy and, inexplicably, anpan.

You froze mid-step - along with your brain and possibly your heart.

“A date?” you echoed, frowning as you turned to look at him.

He finally tilted his head, giving you an innocent look. “You still owe me one. That was our deal. Don’t think i forgot.”

“That wasn’t even a real deal,” you mutter, reaching for yet another bag of chips on your toes.

“Let me help you with that,” the sorcerer says smoothly, stepping closer.

“No need, I’ve got it,” you insist quickly, because really, the last thing you want is another offer from him disguised as a threat of a date.

“It’s no trouble at all,” he counters easily, not budging an inch, and of course, he doesn’t listen. No, he steps in behind you, reaching over your shoulder. “Careful-”

Okay, let’s make this crystal clear: you’re someone who grew up handling your shit alone, not counting on anyone, especially not other people’s help. You do your best (but fail spectacularly) not to help anyone or ask anything in return. But what happens when someone exactly like you crosses your path - someone who also doesn’t expect shit from anyone, but is annoyingly ready to step up anytime? Yeah, that’s when stubborn collides with stubborn, and in the heat of battle, every rule goes out the window. And, really, there was only one rule to begin with: keep your hands off each other.

Your fingers brush the bag at the same moment his arm ghosts past your shoulder. You both freeze.

“Oh shi-”

We all know that split-second calm before the shit hits the fan. Like in action movies, when the bomb goes off and the shockwave just obliterates everything in slow-mo. That moment? Yeah, you can picture it instantly, because that’s exactly what it felt like. Too much tension for the aisle six in the center of Tokyo supermarket. First it started with fluorescent light - bulbs flicker once, then twice.

The resonance backlash hits like a sucker punch to the face - cursed energy lashing out where skin meets skin, just enough contact to trigger a shockwave. It doesn’t blow the walls off or set off any fire alarms (small miracles), but every. single. item. on every shelf immediately decides it no longer wants to be on the shelf.

You get hit with a flying bag of rice, something sugary explodes midair, and people start yelling, probably thinking the ground’s about to split open. Bags of chips, boxes of cereal, rows of instant ramen, tampons, ketchup launch themselves into the air like they believed they could fly. A box of tofu slaps Satoru Gojo in the head and detonates.

“Duck!” you shout (pointlessly) because in the time it takes you to say it, your foot slides across a bottle of soy sauce and your balance goes out the window with your dignity. You flail. You’re going down. The white haired demon, being the gallantly unhelpful bastard he is, tries to catch you and  fucks it up completely, because his foot hits a bag of sugar, skids sideways, and instead of saving your life, he body-slams you into a collapsing mountain of snack packs. Silence crashes over the store, dead quiet, shattered only by the soft thunk of a tissue box nailing Gojo right on the head, as he carefully pushed himself up on his hands, trying not to touch you anymore.

“This is exactly how I imagined our first time.” he said, barely holding back a laugh, knowing well you’re fantasizing about kicking him right in the nuts.

And you could’ve done it. You could’ve said fuck it and let loose another cursed blast - right to his balls and straight through the supermarket again. You had the time. You had the power. If only the position you two were currently in didn’t already look so… pathetic .

You could’ve done a lot of things. And all it would’ve taken was a split second.

But you didn’t get that second. Because right then, from somewhere behind you, a voice you definitely recognized called your name. Still lying on the floor, you lifted your head—slowly, very slowly—dragging out every inch of movement like it could stall reality itself. Because you already knew:

There was no excuse in the world that could explain what this looked like from the outside.

Kazuki.

Chapter Text

Kazuki’s fingers drummed, pale and fidgeting, one after another upon a cafe table, which wobbled slightly every time he shifted his weight. The café itself wedged between a dry cleaner and the supermarket none of you dared mention aloud. Above, a TV murmured on, indifferent to the silence, broadcasting news of tremors somewhere in central Tokyo. A minor quake, they said, nothing unusual.  All while a blurry security cam loop replays: canned goods raining from the ceiling. Not a whisper was breathed of the two unfortunate souls buried beneath that apocalyptic rainfall of wasabi peas. Your spine had not yet forgiven you for the fall and your jacket cling damp from landing in a puddle of soy sauce, and you were reasonably certain that you smelled of ketchup.

“One americano,” came the gentle voice of the waitress, breaking the silence that had stealthily taken root at your table as she slid the cup toward you. “One iced matcha latte with five pumps of vanilla, oat milk, and exactly one ice cube,” she purred flirtatiously, handing over the “trophy” to Satoru Gojo with her sweetest smile yet. “Aaand,” she turned to Kazuki and paused, even blinked twice, her expression changed immediately, probably thinking the dude just lost someone close to him. “Espresso…” She left without waiting for a thank you. You didn’t blame her, the vibe here wasn’t far off funeral.

Another unbearable silence settled in. You turned to Kazuki, willing him to speak, but he simply watched the sorcerer as though the man were an unsolvable riddle in human form. Clearly, no one wanted to be the first to speak, so you broke it, like the hero you were or the idiot you’d become.

“Kazuki-”

“You said you only worked with Taro,” he cut you off, eyes still glued suspiciously to Gojo Satoru and his relaxed smug face.

And know you’ve met my newest headache, congratulations, you thought.

“I did… I mean, I do .” you said quickly, tripping over your own words. “He’s just… this is my new colleague.”

Technically, what slipped out of your mouth before your brain had a chance to catch up wasn’t a lie. You did have unfinished business - universe-level stakes and all that. And it’s not like you ever considered that idiot a friend. That would imply trust. Or liking…or even tolerance.

“Satoru Gojo,” the sorcerer declared, extending a hand Kazuki did not take. Clearly, this man had no clue how serious this shit actually was. “Pleasure. I work with whales.”

“Sales.” you corrected immediately. He was doing this on purpose. One hundred percent.

“Sales?” the sorcerer repeats, brow lifting in innocent deceit.

“Sales,” you confirmed.

“…Sales,” Kazuki echoed flatly.

You wondered briefly if anyone here remembered what human conversation sounded like. You, for one, had blacked out.

“That whole incident in the supermarket,” you tried to change the subject, gesturing vaguely as though your hand could wave away the entire catastrophe. “It was just a ridiculous accident. We both reached for the same bag of chips and, well, at that exact moment-”

The world had cracked in half because your fingers had dared to touch his for a fraction of a second, you nearly said it aloud, but Kazuki had already been through enough for one afternoon.

“An earthquake,” Satoru Gojo offered smoothly.

“Yeah!” you agreed. “I slipped on some stupid soy sauce bottle, and he tried to catch me. And then he slipped and fell, too.”

“On top of her,” Gojo corrected, casually, like he was doing you a favor and not absolutely making it ten times worse. You shut your eyes. One… two… three… murder is illegal and prison would not suit you.

Kazuki looked at you, then at him. His eyes were clear, and full of the quiet conviction that you would never betray him. He was right, of course, because you never would. But you could see it - he didn’t trust Satoru Gojo for shit.

“How long have you two been working together?” he asked.

“Just a couple weeks,” you replied. “It’s temporary…just working on a project, then we’re done.”

Oh God, please let us be done.  Never in your life had you so deeply desired for a man to vanish into a parallel dimension and never return. Please let the gods find someone else to harass.

“Can I get you anything else?” None of you even noticed the waitress at your table again until she popped that question.

“No, thanks,” you said with Kazuki in tandem.

Satoru Gojo leaned forward slightly. “Actually, do you have any of those tiny soufflé cheesecakes with the smiley faces on top?”

“You mean the kids’ ones?”

“Yes,” he said, with neither shame nor hesitation.

“…I’ll check.”

She vanished, leaving behind a fresh wave of silence, yes, again, as Kazuki’s espresso sat untouched. You watched waitress go, envying her freedom, and then  just curled your fingers around the warm ceramic of your cup and sipped.

“You don’t look like a salesman,” Kazuki said at last, eyes still locked on the anomaly seated across from him.

The white-haired devil ceased sipping his green abomination through the straw and turned his gaze upon Kazuki, tilting his head just so. “And you don’t look like-“

“That’s because he’s new,” you said at once, far too quickly, because you knew exactly what was coming. “Yes, he-he’s completely new, fresh off the boat, and company assigned him to shadow me. He’s helping out with the project now.”

Even as the lie left your mouth, you could feel its texture - sticky and ill-formed. Kazuki sat back a little, folding his arms across his chest in the way he always did when his brain ran a background analysis he wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

Satoru Gojo nodded. “She’s a strict boss. Doesn’t let me use the stapler.”

You coughed louder to drown out his comment.

“And grocery shopping,” Kazuki said, slowly, “is part of the project now?”

“It’s for the work trip,” you clarified. ”I’d have told you sooner, but I wasn’t even sure if it was happening. And you know how it goes - sometimes you’re waiting on confirmation, and then it’s all short-notice chaos.”

Satoru Gojo, meanwhile, smiled at the reappearance of the waitress who now carried a plate with a cheesecake on it. He clapped once.

“Glorious,” he said, like an idiot, popping the plate directly in front of himself. The cheesecake had two chocolate dots and a little curved mouth drawn on it. “Look, it’s me,” he added, gesturing to the smiley face. “Before I met her.”

You cleared your throat sharply AGAIN and reached for the sugar packet. “We’re leaving tomorrow,” you said, trying to corral the conversation back onto some terrain that didn’t feel mined. Though it felt to you as though every word you spoke, every breath you dared take, was being watched and studied beneath a thousand unblinking eyes. And perhaps, in truth, you were.

“Where to?”

“Iga. We’ll only be gone a few days, should be simple.”

You understood Kazuki’s confusion, but you were running out of explanations for all of it. Iga was no place that could reasonably interest anyone in the “sales” industry, and you knew full well how flimsy your reasoning sounded. You could already hear the questions waiting to be asked, questions to which you had not a single real answer. For a brief moment, it seemed almost simpler to tell him everything. Right here, right now. Lay bare the past and the present (both meanings of it) and wait for his judgment like a prisoner before the headsman. But then you glanced to your right at the white-haired man calmly chewing his food.

Perhaps not today.

Kazuki gave a silent nod, then cast his eyes down to the watch fastened upon his wrist.

“My break’s over. I need to get back to work.”

He stood, the chair scraping harshly against the floor and he threw on his jacket with such haste and made for the door so swiftly that you barely managed to follow, let alone stop him.

“Kazuki. Wait.”

Reluctantly, but he turned.

“I know this whole thing looks-”

“I don’t like him.” His voice, when it came, was restrained. “He’s…something’s off. I don’t mean the sales thing or whatever else you’re doing now that you won’t talk about. He’s too familiar with you. He doesn’t act or look like a person who knows you only for a couple of weeks.”

“There is nothing between us,” you said firmly, striving to lay bare the plain and unvarnished truth before him. “At least not in the way you’re thinking. Just unfinished business, nothing more. It just landed in my lap and now I have to deal with it, and yes, he’s unbearable, and no, I don’t enjoy it.” You took his hand, if only to lend some small weight to the certainty you tried to speak aloud. “I’m not cheating on you, but all I’m asking for is a bit of trust when it comes to my trip to Iga. I swear, I’ll tell you everything once I’m back.”

Was it foolish to hope you’d die out there, after all? But the word was already spoken, and there was nowhere to put it now, no corner in which to bury the thing. Just as there was no escaping the truth that what troubled you more wasn’t Kazuki’s anger, should he find out who you’d truly been all these years. No, it was the look he would give you after. That was the thing you feared the most.

He let out a breath, one that likely meant he was ready to talk things through. “Just be careful out there, alright? I’ll be here when you get back, and then we’ll talk.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead, brief and wordless, then turned and made his way to the door. Your gaze followed him until he slipped out of sight, then drifted back to the table - where Satoru Gojo, with all the decorum of a cat in heat, dipped his finger into the whipped cream and licked it clean. Now would have been the perfect time to flee this place and never return. And yet, for reasons unknown even to the gods, you returned to the table, only to find your americano had vanished from the cup…possibly straight into that idiot’s stomach. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Did you drink my coffee?”

“You weren’t here,” he said.

“I was literally gone for two minutes.”

“And in those two minutes, I bore the great burden of loneliness, you should know better than to leave it unattended in the wild.”

You snatched the plate out of his hand and stabbed the cheesecake in the eye. Sweet vengeance.

The sorcerer watched you for a moment, head tilted, before quietly muttering, “So violent, I think I’m in love.”

You pressed the fork down a second time, just to make sure the smiling cheesecake had died a proper death. Its tiny chocolate-dot eyes stared up at the ceiling in mute defeat.

“So,” said the man who never did know when to shut up, speaking once more. “How’s Kazuki?”

You did not rise to the bait.

“He say anything fun?”

You didn’t respond.

“Anything spicy?”

Silence again.

“Oh no,” he gasped very dramatically, “did he cry?”

“He did not-“

“He doesn’t like me”

Which was a rather strange thing to note, considering that an hour ago, Kazuki had caught his fiancée beneath a man who looked as though he’d walked straight out of a men’s underwear magazine.

“I wonder if you’ve ever met anyone who did like you.”

The man looked pensive. “You,” he said, shrugging.

“I don’t-“

“Not yet,” he corrected you, lifting a single finger with precision. “Denial is a river in Egypt, they say. Also, he thinks we’re sleeping together.”

“We’re not.”

“Yet.”

You stared at him and he stared back. Was there any point at all in attempting a rational conversation with him? While the two of you were locked in a silent war of stares, he stabbed his fork straight into what was now unmistakably your cheesecake.

“Tell me,” Satoru Gojo began again, mouth half full. “Since you introduced me as the new hire and I now serve under your command, does that mean I have to call you boss? I do like a woman in charge.”

“Please, don’t.”

“Boss-senpai.”

“No.”

“Do I get overtime pay, boss-sama?”

“No.”

“Do I still get to fall on you in supermarkets, boss-sama?”

“If you ever fall on me again, I’ll show you what a stapler’s really for.”

“Well,” he said, sipping coffee with both hands wrapped around the cup, “in that case, I quit. And i’ll report to HR.”

You stared again. He just sipped again. This wasn’t exactly funny to you, but the sight of his utterly unbothered, dead-serious face made your mouth twitch in a way that betrayed you, even just for a moment.

Chapter Text

The warm sunlight streamed straight through the window into your eyes, yet you kept them shut. Mmm, a lovely dream. The pillow cradled your head just right, and the blanket, oh, the blanket- added a comfort so divine it tempted you to sink deeper into sleep’s embrace. Five more minutes? Ten? To hell with Iga, perhaps? Maybe a beach vacation or a five-star hotel bed somewhere near the ocean.

And the scent. Citrus? Bergamot?

…Lilacs?

You sniffed the air and stretched lazily with your eyes still closed. What’s that smell? Then again - who cares?

WAIT. WAIT JUST ONE GODDAMNED SECOND. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL????!!!!!!

Eyes flutter open, only to confirm your very worst suspicions.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

You’d long since given up trying to understand what exactly Satoru Gojo found so thrilling about showing up uninvited to other people’s homes, shamelessly abusing the privilege of teleportation. And he was wearing your bunny slippers again, seated cross-legged upon your chair.

“I thought we agreed to meet at eight,” you said, staring at the ceiling.

Satoru Gojo glanced at his bare wrist, where no watch had ever lived (which, the author suspects, was not entirely without meaning - hello, Kazuki from the previous chapter).

“It is eight.”

Without bothering to shift from your position flat on your back, you reached for your phone, thumb fumbling across the screen until the time blinked back at you -8:27 a.m. Had he really just stood there for thirty whole minutes… watching you sleep? Why didn’t your alarm go off? Whatever.

Your bare feet met the cold floor as you slipped into the bathroom.

“So, I was walking down the street, right?” He stayed posted by the door, with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall. “Went to buy coffee before heading out to you, thinking about whether I should also grab breakfast or just annoy you until you fed me.”

You turned on the tap, splashing cold water over your face. The scent of his cologne still lingered in your nose. Damn lilacs… Just in case, you splashed your face with water once more, but the smell had already etched itself into your memory.

“I walk into the café, and I’m holding the door open for this woman, mid-forties maybe, red pencil skirt, black blouse, black-and-white blazer. Hair pulled back in a low bun, bold red lipstick. So I say, ‘after you, ma’am’ like the gentleman I am. She looks me up and down, like, full once-over and steps inside.”

Maybe a shower would wash the scent off…and his blabbering.

Drip. Drip.

“…she starts flirting with me, so I figured I’d flirt back.”

Drip. Drip.

“…i bought her coffee…”

Drip. Drip.

“…‘You don’t seem like a Sagittarius…’”

Drip. Drip.

“…‘You’ve got Leo in your moon…’”

Drip. Drip.

“…gave me her number…”

By the time you stepped out of the shower, he was finishing with the words, “called me beautiful omen.” Then he trailed after you into the kitchen, shuffling along in your slippers.

“She also said I have ‘lonely guy aura.’ Couldn’t agree with her. I have rich guy aura, thank you very much.”

You grabbed a mug from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, then reached for a second one -pure habit, nothing more.

“Anyway, that was my morning. What’d you dream about? Was I there? I bet I was there. I usually am.”

You had absolutely no intention of describing the nonsensical dream you’d just had, because what had unfolded was a chaotic medley born of your own mind, a tangled collage of the thousand scraps of knowledge gathered from the stacks of books you’d devoured. Not even a fever had ever conjured dreams like that. You remember being at a ball held in an underwater world, where chandeliers were jellyfish and a trio of squids was playing old jazz. There was also Taro, standing in a starfish pose and insisting that he was, in fact, one. Satoru Gojo was wearing a crown made of seaweed and you were both dancing on a floor made of a sea glass, he then leaned and whispered “Behold, my sea bride,” which was the precise moment your brain pulled the emergency exit cord and flung you back into reality.

The dream had been just as foolish as the silence enveloping the room while the sorcerer waited for you to hand him the second cup, tilting his head curiously to one side. You carefully handed him the empty one (for whatever reason) and awkwardly cleared your throat.

“Didn’t remember it.” you lied and never been proud of this in your life.

“Mm, shame, sounded interesting. You said something about jellyfish and how good jazz sounded under the water.”

Okay, that wasn’t the worst thing to say in your sleep. Whatever, fine. You could live with it, you thought, keeping your face carefully devoid of any emotion and pouring hot water from the kettle into his cup, choosing silence instead of offering a clear reply.

“Oh, and you called someone daddy.”

The muscles in your body ceased to function at what you’d just heard, paralyzing every inch of your arms. Only your eyes, widening to impossible proportions, revealed that if ever there was a day to choose your demise, you fervently hoped it would be today, consumed by flames in Iga, though something whispered that you’d sooner burn to ashes from embarrassment. It’s not like you were a daddy issues girl…more of a whole family issues girl, starting with your biological father and ending with your second cousin’s grandmother. Your brain failed to send any signal to your body to move, sounding alarms inside your head accompanied by the wailing of sirens in your ears, until the scalding water from his cup began spilling directly onto your toes.

“Shit! Fuck! Ow ow ow! Hot! Morherfu-“

You dropped the kettle somewhere onto the stove, not bothering to check where it landed, and lifted your scalded foot into your hand, hopping on the other from the sting. Satoru Gojo, unaware that his words would cause such a ruckus and land you in pain, moved to help. As you both bent toward your injured foot, your foreheads collided, miraculously, without setting off any explosions, but enough to send a second wave of pain coursing through you. Damn, his head was like a saucepan.

So you both hissed in pain, clutching your foreheads.

“You alright?” he squinted, rubbing at his forehead.

Hard to say, really, the last time you felt pain like that was when the elders of your clan made you train for seven hours straight, hurling every kind of curse they had stockpiled just for that sort of occasion. You didn’t know if you were alright or if you ever would be, in a case like this.

“Not sure,” you said, gripping your leg with one hand, the other pressing to your forehead.

The sorcerer opened the freezer, retrieving ice cream from within, handing some to you, while pressing the rest against his own forehead. It would have been simple enough to use reverse technique to heal yourselves had it only worked when the two of you stood at such a distance.

“Where do we start in Narukawa?” you asked, the ache in your head nearly making you forget that it was about time to head out. Ideally, you’d wrap up the mask search today, if they really were hidden there, and if not, then at least set off for Shindo by tomorrow. Assuming, of course, the artifacts were even in Iga to begin with.

“We’ll start with the only active shrine. I know a family there from a past mission. If they don’t know the location, they might at least point us in the right direction,” he said, settling into a chair not far from you.

You nodded, your forehead now thoroughly numbed by the ice cream. “Are they open to outsiders?” The ice cream made their way back into the freezer.

“They were to me. I doubt they’d turn away the guy who cleared their area of curses.” Satoru Gojo peeled open the wrapper of his ice cream, revealing a lemon soda-flavored brick. “The family’s tight-knit. They might talk, or they might not. Depends on how we ask.”

You pulled out the backpack you’d packed since the night before. “What exactly do we ask for?” you asked after a moment. “They’re not going to call them ‘ritual masks’ or ‘Kagari-bi no Men.’ Besides, do they even know what the word ‘Kuzunoha’ means?”

“I doubt it,” he said, chewing slowly. “If the title ‘Kuzunoha’ meant anything to the villagers, Iga wouldn’t be this quiet on the archives. I think the name’s long gone from use, if it was ever local to begin with.”

Zipping your backpack shut, you double-checked the side pocket for the notebook. “So we ask about the stories.”

“Exactly. There’s a woman there - Oba-san Kinu. I think she’s in her nineties.” Satoru Gojo said,  finishing the last bite of his ice cream bar. “She used to keep records for the shrine, so If she’s still alive, she’s the one we talk to first. She likes me, so.”

“Right,” you muttered, tugging on your hoodie and slinging your backpack over one shoulder. “Shall we head out?”

The sorcerer rose from the chair and at last traded your slippers for his own sneakers. Seeing him in casual athletic wear was… new, and though you’d sooner gnash your teeth than admit it - you had to concede, it suited him. You pulled the Kyomei-fuda from your pocket and fastened the talisman around your wrist, bracing yourself for departure. Satoru Gojo followed suit, mirroring your movement.

“Ready, my watery wife?” he said in a horrible imitation of your sleep voice.

Excuse me?

“What?”

“Behoooooold, my sea bride!” he shouted, barely holding back a laugh.

That son of a bitch.

He placed his hands on your shoulders before you reacted, and within a heartbeat, the dry air of your apartment was gone replaced by the damp breath of morning forest. Fog had draped the mountains and nearby hills in a soft blanket, while clouds kept the sun hidden well out of reach. Looking around, Satoru Gojo drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “We’re here.”

The fresh air struck your senses sharply, making your head swim or perhaps it was the teleportation itself; you weren’t sure. The surroundings bore the hallmarks of an ancient shrine, clearly maintained with care, yet bearing the inevitable marks of centuries spent nestled in these mountains. Nature had long reclaimed its domain, vegetation wrapping itself lovingly around every surface, lending the shrine an air more mystical than forsaken. A few stone steps led the way up to the main torii gate, beyond which the shrine grounds opened in tiers, each level carved into the hillside with wooden walkways and small prayer altars perched here and there. Children’s voices rang out in the distance, quick steps, the tap-tap of their shoes over stone.

“Gojo-sensei!!!!!!”

Two girls and a little boy came tearing down the slope, aiming straight for your companion’s arms. Children loved him you’d noted that long ago. Maybe because, in some ways, he was a big kid himself. Or maybe he’d simply always been that way.

“Gojo-sensei, you’re back!” A small boy clung tightly to his long leg, until the sorcerer scooped him up into his arms.

“Still short,” the man muttered, ruffling the boy’s hair without mercy. “Didn’t I tell you to grow at least twenty centimeters by the time I came back?”

“Working on it!” the boy shouted. “Mama said I might be taller next summer!”

“Ambitious,” he said, poking on kid’s cheek.

You stepped aside slightly, removing the Kyomei-fuda from your wrist. The scene unfolding before you drew forth an involuntary smile until your gaze fell upon the older girl, who was already staring back at you, grinning ear-to-ear with all thirty-two teeth. Well, perhaps not quite thirty-two; she was at that particular age when the two front teeth had already made their escape, and somehow this transformed your smile into something far more awkward. You definitely did not like children.

“Are you his wife?” the girl asked still smiling. You might’ve answered, if you weren’t so entirely fixated on the gap between her teeth. What the hell was wrong with you? Every kid went through that phase. Maybe it was the lingering effect of cracking heads with him.

“She’s my sea bride,”  Satoru Gojo, apparently, decided to answer instead of you. The moment he spoke those words, both girls’ attention snapped to you. They gasped very loudly, and with such wonder it startled you even more. Their eyes lit up like they’d just walked into a candy store. One immediately reached for your leg, trying to feel for a mermaid’s tail, while the other squinted hard, inspecting your neck searching for gills. And you…well, you were still fumbling for words, managing only a series of inarticulate sounds that refused to form anything close to speech.

“Do you live in the sea?” the younger asked.

“I-“

“Do you have fish for friends?”

“N-“

“Do you breathe bubbles?”

“W-“

“What do you eat?!”

“P-p-p,” (you actually wanted to cry for help)

“Does she speak our language, Gojo-sensei?”

“Yeah, i don’t think she understands us.” the one with the gap confirmed.

Through all the chaos, Gojo Satoru stood watching and holding the little boy in his arms, grinning as he took in your suffering. One of the girls accidentally stepped on your foot, landing squarely on the toes still tender from the scalding water, and you let out a sharp yelp followed by a very heartfelt, “Shit!”

“Did you hear what she said?”

“Probably something mermaid-y.”

“No no no no,” you croaked, speech finally staggering back to you. You might not have known much about children, but you knew this: they were unparalleled in their love of parroting adults… especially the bad words.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” the girls and the boy in the sorcerer’s arms chanted gleefully, hopping in a circle around you. At this rate, you’d be kicked out before you even had the chance to ask about the masks.

Satoru Gojo clicked his tongue a few times in disapproval, though even a fool could tell he was enjoying it. “Boss-sama, for shame.”

You closed your eyes. Counted to three, then five, then seven, because at this point, numbers were the only thing between you and complete psychological collapse.

“Oi! That’s enough, brats! You’ll scare the poor girl off before she’s even made it past the gate.” From a distance came the stern voice of a woman, presumably the mother of these tiny devils. Her gaze was tired (which, frankly, made perfect sense, you were already on the verge of losing your mind after just two minutes with them). She squinted in your direction, and the moment she made out who was standing beside you, her expression shifted at once. Adjusting her clothes, she began making her way toward you. Her hair was hastily gathered in a clip that had clearly lost its will to hold, and her sleeves were rolled to the elbows in that timeless pose of domestic readiness. Her eyes flicked over you briefly, then landed on a man near you, where they stayed. “Gojo-sama,” she said, half-bowing. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Gojo Satoru, meanwhile, bowed in return, a smile playing on his lips. “Apologies for dropping in uninvited.” You could hardly believe your ears - he actually apologized for showing up uninvited. “We’re here to see Oba-san, she…?”

“Still kicking and full of fire,” the woman (whose name you still hadn’t caught) replied, already answering the question you hadn’t asked. She snapped her fingers, and the girls immediately released you, scampering to her side. “She’s in the back garden,” she waved you along with a flick of her hand. “Hasn’t shut up about the moon cycles for three weeks straight. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled someone else is here to suffer.”

The woman and her demons walked ahead, while you did your best to keep a safe distance from them.

“How’s the leg, boss-sama?” Satoru Gojo asked, meanwhile strolling far too close and carrying the boy on his back like a backpack.

“Pretty sure the girls just crushed the last of my functioning toes.”

“Want me to kiss it better?”

All you could do was shake your head. Hopeless. Your eyes drifted toward him, searching for even the faintest flicker of shame -only to be met with bright blue eyes entirely void of it, and a grin spread wide across his lips. The boy clinging to his back was braiding his hair, painstakingly, with just three fingers. He gave a victorious hum as he secured another twisted knot of Satoru Gojo’s silver hair with something that looked like a dandelion stem.

“You look ridiculous,” you said, your eyes drifting back to the woman and the girls walking just ahead.

“Says the woman who just taught those kids their first swear words without even asking their names.”

All that was missing were a pair of drumsticks and the ba-dum-tss! that would’ve followed. Alright, maybe he had a point -you probably looked even more ridiculous. But you weren’t about to explain yourself just to stretch the conversation. You had a job to do. This was temporary. He was temporary.

You were led to the back of the shrine grounds, near the house where the whole family lived. The garden was mostly moss and morning dew, and the tree branches drooped low, casting a weary hush over everything. Maybe it would’ve looked beautiful in sunlight, but, well, no such luck for both of you today. Oba-san Kinu sat beneath the crooked canopy of a plum tree, surrounded by precisely nothing - no cushion, no helper, just a wooden stool as weathered as her face that wore no smile, no welcome, no trace of curiosity. Her entire posture said: If you want something, you’d better bleed for it. Her thin hands were folded neatly over her lap.

“Well,” she said. “Look what the kami dragged in.”

Satoru Gojo set the boy down from his back and gave a lazy bow, grinning. “Still alive, Oba-san? You owe me five hundred yen.”

“You’re still tall and full of shit, I see,” her eyes flicked to you for a split second before settling back on the sorcerer. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, boy? Don’t tell me something’s stirring on the shrine grounds again?”

“Nope, no curses this time,” the man said cheerfully, popping his hands into his pockets. “Unless you count the language the kids just learned.”

“Don’t go filling my grandkids’ heads with crap,” she grumbled, which was hilarious, really, considering the old lady swore like a sailor. Then she gestured at the stool beside her, without looking. “You. Sit.”

So you sat.

She turned back to Satoru Gojo. “You. Stand. My knees hurt and I like looking up at you. Makes me feel powerful.”

Which made absolutely no sense, but could be forgiven, given her age. The man obeyed with quiet “yes, ma’am”. Oba-san let out a noise you couldn’t decode (somewhere between a grunt and a curse) and turned to face a moss-covered statue. “Introduce yourself.”

If you hadn’t slammed heads with that idiot so hard, you probably wouldn’t have frozen for those few seconds -long enough to genuinely believe she was talking to the statue and not to you. You cleared your throat and bowed your head slightly. “I’m-“

“Louder.”

You raised your voice. “I’m-”

“Louder!”

“I’m-“

“Louder!!!!”

Crazy old bat. Your lips clamped shut, holding back one more curse and then you shouted your name so loud the mountains echoed it back at you.

“Hmph,” she said. “What do you want?”

“We’d li-” you began.

“Speak plainly and fast. I’ve no time for your cryptic bullshit.”

Satoru Gojo, still sporting those ridiculous half-undone braids, leaned in a little closer to the old woman, assuming she hadn’t heard you again. “We want t-”

“If this has anything to do with the shrine records, then I’m telling you right now -hell no.”

“But-“ you started to argue.

“No.”

“Oba-san-” Satoru Gojo tried to cut in.

“No.”

The man glanced at you, as if silently asking for permission to hollow purple the old bat into the next week. You shook your head. Right. Okay. She’s senile, stubborn, and absolutely insufferable. Even her fondness for the man who once cleared their rickety log-hut of dangerous curses wasn’t enough to get her to speak without cutting you off every damn second. Were those records really that precious to her?

“I don’t show the records to unmarried folks,” she said, absolutely serious.

“Sorry, what?” you asked, because surely you misheard.

“I said,” Oba-san repeated, slower now, as if speaking to someone deeply stupid, “I don’t share shrine records with people who aren’t married.”

There was a very long pause, broken only by the sound of a bee somewhere near your ear. Even Satoru Gojo was really trying to find some scrap of logic in all this, and still couldn’t figure out what the hell scrolls had to do with marriage.

“Why?” you finally managed.

“Because.”

Sure. That made as much sense as anything else here, which was to say: none at all. If you told her now that you didn’t really need to see the shrine records, that you just wanted to ask if she’d ever heard anything about ancient masks or their keepers, she’d absolutely insist that sort of knowledge was strictly reserved for married couples with children and a mortgage. But this was your first real lead in Iga, and the old crone looked about as ancient as the shrine itself. Every instinct in your body screamed she might actually know something. While your brain scrambled to figure out the best way to navigate this ridiculous negotiation, your eyes drifted to the ring on your finger.

Oh, for the love of…no. Absolutely not. Your conscience would eat you alive if you pulled this kind of shit with Kazuki’s ring, even if he never found out. Except… well. You did need the information.

Right?

Chapter Text

“Let me see that,” Oba-san said, grabbing your hand and squinting critically at the ring glittering on your finger. “Hmph, two carats-are you fucking serious?” Her judgmental gaze shifted sharply toward Satoru Gojo. “I thought you had standards.”

The corners of your mouth pulled into a smile before you could stop them, watching as the sorcerer struggled to keep his irritation in check- now forced to explain a ring he didn’t even give you. You weren’t even trying to hide how much you were enjoying it. This was your compensation for the godawful morning. On the other hand, it made absolutely no sense why everyone but you had so much to say about the ring. It was just a ring… one Kazuki’s mother had picked out.

“I do have standards.” he said. Oh, how you enjoyed it.

“Must’ve left them in a different country, then.”

Ba-dum-tssss! You said nothing, because why on earth would you interfere? The sun was now suddenly out. Birds were chirping somewhere in the trees. The old lady was verbally annihilating one of the strongest men alive. Life had its moments.

“And where’s your ring, hm?” she finally released your hand from her grasp and began inspecting the man’s instead. Of course, no ring was to be found there, which meant you’d now have to conjure up a far more convincing reason to make the old woman believe in your nonexistent union.

“Left it at home,” Satoru Gojo replied with a convincing calm. “I don’t wear things I care about on missions, especially if there’s a chance I’ll lose ’em.”

“Hmph, you expect me to believe that?”

“Would’ve brought it if I knew I was going to be questioned under oath.” he shrugged.

“Oba-san,” you interjected, forcing out the politest tone you could muster. “Is my ring not proof enough to convince you of-” You had to finish this sentence somehow, though nausea surged at what you were about to say. “Of-” Pull yourself together, you absolute coward. “Of our union.”

“Meh, this ring could’ve been given by anyone and mean anything but marriage.” Well, she had a point-an annoying one. And you were out of arguments. The old woman was far too sharp to fool. You needed a solid reason. Think, think, think.

“She’s pregnant.”

…

Silence fell with such weight that even the trees around the shrine seemed to draw back in anticipation. Somewhere beyond the gate, a bell tolled faintly reminding you were still very much alive and conscious, despite the overwhelming desire to cease both immediately. Words left your mouth for the second time this day, and it felt, once again, like someone had dumped a kettle of boiling water over you. The fuck did he just say?

Oba-san’s brows lifted so high they disappeared into her hairline. “You’re what now?” Her eyes landed squarely on the region of your very much not-pregnant stomach, hidden beneath an oversized hoodie.

“I’m-“ you said, trying and failing to follow up with literally anything at all. What were you supposed to do now? Admit it and commit to the dumbest lie of your entire life? You opened your mouth again, desperate for something to come out that didn’t sound completely unhinged. “I’m in early term.”

You hated yourself. You hated him more. You hated that you had said “early term” as if you even knew what that meant in this context.

“Yes,” Satoru Gojo cut in, flashing that ridiculous con-artist smile of his. “We weren’t planning to go public just yet, but, well, here we are.” He stepped up beside you. “You don’t mind, do you, darling, that I spilled our secret?”

You did, in fact, mind. But you weren’t about to go running around yelling that you weren’t pregnant to a woman whose cooperation you desperately needed. We improvise for now-kill Satoru Gojo later. The old lady stared at you long enough that your ears began to burn from the silence.

“Hmph, that explains why you’re so plump,” she said at last.

Plump? Did she just say plump ?!

“Excuse me?!”

“I said,” Oba-san repeated, leaning ever so slightly forward, hands resting on her knees like she was preparing to stand but hadn’t yet decided whether you were worth the effort, “that explains puffy face and those wide hips of yours. Morning sickness already?”

“I..no..yes..some days-” You had no idea whether to say yes or no. What were the rules? Was there a handbook for spontaneous fake pregnancies?

“How far along are you?”

“Four weeks,” you said.

“Eight weeks,” said the idiot.

The woman turned her right ear toward you. “Huh?”

“Eight weeks,” you said louder.

“Four weeks,” said the idiot.

You stared at him and he stared back. Oba-san stepped in closer, peering straight into your sly eyes. “If I find out you’re lying-”

“Oh, no, we’re not lying,” Satoru Gojo leaned in just enough to redirect her gaze. “We’re expecting.”

She didn’t tear her gaze away from you, still searching carefully for any trace of deceit, jaw working as though chewing on something unsaid. Then she shifted her suspicion to the blue ocean of eyes belonging to the man standing beside you. Oh, granny - conscience and truth had long since drowned in those depths.

“What do you want to know?”

The scent of sweet victory filled your nostrils, and you released the breath that had lingered far too long in your lungs.

“We’re here to ask if you’ve heard anything about two ancient masks-” Satoru Gojo began.

“Do you even know how many ancient masks there are across Japan, boy?” the old woman scoffed, grim as ever.

“I swear she wasn’t this cranky last time,” he muttered just loud enough for you to hear.

Oba-san turned to him, cupped her ear again, and hollered, “Huh??!!!”

“We’re looking for the masks believed to be somewhere in the Iga region,” you said loudly.

“I-” the old hag tried to cut you off again.

“They’re tied to a ritual - dancing surrounded by fire,” but you beat her to it.

“But-”

“No idea what you folks call them here, but the original name is Kagari-bi no Men, ” you shouted, loud enough that you wouldn’t have to aim your voice directly into her ear again.

“It’s bad for pregnant women to shout,” she muttered, getting up from the stool again. “Sit down.”

Waiting until you’d settled on her rickety chair, she went on.

“I’ve heard of the masks you mentioned. The name Kagari-bi no Men doesn’t ring a bell - at least not among the folks I know around here.” Oba-san stepped once more toward the moss-covered statue. “My mother used to tell me about some masks that could only be tamed through a certain flame ritual under a full moon. She said not everyone who dared to wear one could see the ritual through to the end, ’cause the masks choose their bearer, not the other way around. She once also mentioned my grandmother met a traveler. Someone who claimed their purpose was to guard the masks - until the chosen ones came. Said their name was… something with a K. I don’t remember. Kuzuno… something.”

“Kuzunoha?” you said at the exact same moment as Satoru Gojo, rising from your seat in surprise.

“Could be,” she said slowly, though her brow was furrowed like she didn’t trust her own memory. “I kept the records after mother passed. If there’s anything about these masks or this Kuzunoha person, it’ll be in the scrolls, not in my head.”

“That’s exactly why we came to you, Oba-san,” the sorcerer said, slipping a light arm around the old woman’s shoulders. “We came here hoping you could help us. Because if you don’t, my wife might start to worry. And when she worries, I worry. And you know how stress is, especially in the first trimester - real unwise. Could set off all sorts of complicated things.”

And so, Satoru Gojo’s little manipulation ended in the defeat of a ninety-year-old grandmother. Bluff like that came in handy when you wanted to squeeze information out of someone, or just boost your own stock. In this case, even if Oba-san still didn’t buy into your made-up marriage or your very much nonexistent pregnancy, there’d be a little voice in the back of her mind now. One that whispered it wouldn’t sit right if her stubborn old pride ended up putting a pregnant woman’s health at risk.

“Follow me.” came her words, a surrender, like a white flag raised.

Your eyes darted between the massive scrolls crashing onto the table and the shelves where Oba-san kept pulling out even more. With every brittle sheet she stacked, leaving less and less space to breathe, your eyes widened further. There was no way in hell you or Satoru Gojo could read through all of this. Not by evening. Not even if you stayed up all night.

“Hmph,” the old woman said, folding her hands over her hips. “These are all the scrolls on various masks. You’re bound to find something on the ones you’re after.” She gave her palms a few firm claps, knocking the dust off them. “Don’t mix them up,” she added, mostly saying it to Satoru Gojo. “And don’t sneeze near the ones with red seals. The ink runs.”

She left you after only a few minutes, pausing to throw a suspicious glance your way before opening the door. The room (more shed than anything) stood beside their main house, and the dust hung so thick in the air it felt baked into the walls. You had to pry open a sad excuse for a window just to breathe.

“I’ll take the right side of the scrolls,” you said, rolling up your sleeves. “Yours is the left.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered reluctantly, flipping the chair around and leaning his chest against the backrest. You didn’t need to know much about Satoru Gojo to be certain of one thing - routine wore him down more than any number of missions ever could. A man with a perpetual engine in his ass wasn’t built for sitting still. But he didn’t argue, and that, at least, was something.

“Please don’t be storage inventory, please don’t be storage inventory…” you heard him half-whispering under his breath, as he unrolled the first scroll.

You already had one untied on your side, carefully brushing your fingers the edges of the parchment. The ink had faded in patches, and the characters were written in such rigid, formal calligraphy you had to squint to catch the rhythm. Looked like pre-Meiji or maybe even late Edo, judging by the peculiar vertical phrasing. It wasn’t going to be easy. Your gaze lifted to the man, who was hunched over the scroll, lips moving as he tried to make sense of the words unraveling before him. He struggled in silence for a moment, lips twitching as he paused over a particularly dense knot of archaic kanji. A breath slipped past your lips - half a sigh, half something close to a laugh. Let him suffer a bit.

“Is this upside down?” he finally asked.

“No.” you said looking back at the scroll in front of you.

“I feel like it’s upside down.”

“It’s not.”

“Could be.”

“It’s not. It’s in kuzushiji ,” you said, still staring down at the scroll.

“Gesundheit.”

“It’s pre-standardization Japanese. Highly abbreviated. You need to read it with contextual knowledge of the era’s phrasing structure. I can help you with yours, if you actually try,” you already rolled up the current scroll to get to the next.

“I am trying,” he said, then turned back to his open scroll and tilted it just a bit. “Hypothetically… what does it mean if I can only read every third kanji, and none of them make sense together?”

“It means you need help.” You leaned just slightly over the table, toward his side, to get a look at his scroll. “That says ‘fourth moon, twelfth night, ceremonial procession begins.’ But unless you’ve read court records from the mid-Edo period, you’re going to think it says something about fish and household.”

Satoru Gojo leaned in toward you, wearing a grin straight out of a Cheshire fever dream. “You explaining dead language like it’s no big deal. I think I’m developing a kink.”

“Please keep your kinks to yourself while I’m decoding shrine records.” you muttered, pulling the next bundle toward you with more force.

“Where did you even learn to read kuzushiji?”

“My clan must’ve figured that if they couldn’t claw their way back to former glory, then at the very least the next generation wouldn’t be a complete disappointment and could read every record written since the Heian period.”

“Right. Your clan never did manage to claw its way back after-”

“After the birth of the first boy in four hundred years with Limitless and Six Eyes, yeah.”

“But you were the first in a  while in their clan born with the founder’s technique.”

“Yeah, but…no. No, no, no. You’re not distracting me with conversation. Read.”

Silence settled over the room once more. The scrolls, for the most part, were useless -at least four of them dedicated entirely to masks worn in noh theater, one with an entire genealogy of shrine custodians from a different region altogether, and one with recipes. Recipes, for fucks sake. The quiet was broken when the mother of the little devils walked in, carrying a tray of drinks and snacks.

“Mom said you’ll probably be stuck in here till evening, so,” she set the tray down in the only spot on the table not buried in scrolls, “here.”

“Thank you, Noriko-chan.” Satoru Gojo straightened up and reached for the glass of cold tea. Perfect timing, really, since the higher the sun climbed, the less help that open window seemed to be.

“No need to worry about us, really. Apologies for the trouble,” you said in turn, reaching for your own drink. You took a sip, only for it to come right back out into the glass as you fought the very real urge to gag. You lowered the glass slowly. “What… what is this?”

“Herbal tonic.” Noriko-chan said, giving you a few light pats on the back, as though you were choking on something rather than fighting off a gag reflex. “My mother brews it for expecting women. Strengthens the womb and clears stagnation.”

“I’m sorry… strengthens the what?” You no longer knew what made you feel more like throwing up.

The man made a sound that was halfway between a cough and a stifled laugh, covering his mouth with his hand. “Drink up, sweetheart. Can’t have our baby growing up with a stagnated womb.”

You had already opened your mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his stagnated womb, but Noriko-chan gave a small bow and said, “Call if you need anything else. And if you haven’t decided where to stay in Narukawa yet, we have a guesthouse here. You’re welcome to spend the night. We’d be happy to have you.”

The moment the woman slipped out the door, you swapped your drinks without hesitation, because why in hell should you suffer for a lie that idiot came up with? Satoru Gojo lifted his glass in a toast. “Cheers to our future baby,” he said, taking a sip. His expression didn’t change, but you could see the effort it took not to grimace at the taste. “Well,” he said. “I can practically feel my womb straightening.”

You stared at him for a long, quiet moment, watching the muscles in his jaw shift ever so slightly as he swallowed. The smug bastard even managed to keep a straight face. Unbelievable.

“Serves you right,” you murmured, dragging another scroll toward you, this one bound with a fraying blue ribbon that didn’t match the rest.

“I’d do it again.” he said. “For our child.”

You gave a snort, untying the scroll. The paper beneath was delicate and yellowed, the ink brittle. No clear title and no stamps. Just a mess of overlapping notations—several authors’ hands visible, some in fluid cursive, others like they’d been scribbled. You skimmed through the first few lines in silence. And so the hours passed, one after another. You’d lost count of how many scrolls had flickered past your eyes, how much useless information your brain had chewed through. Still no mention of Kuzunoha, and nothing on the masks you actually needed. The sun had already begun its descent beyond the horizon, and you were forced to switch on the lamp - barely clinging to the ceiling above your table by what felt like a thread.

Letting out a weary sigh, you glanced at the sorcerer who, to your surprise, had been silent for a full thirty minutes.

“How many have you gone through?”

He held up five fingers. You stared and he curled one finger. Considering he could barely make sense of texts from that era, the effort wasn’t half bad, but it didn’t change the fact that, after nearly an entire day, you still hadn’t found what you came for.

“I think that’s enough for today,” you said tiredly.

Across the table, Satoru Gojo let out a long exhale, then stretched his arms behind his head to see how far he could lean back without tipping the chair over. A dangerous game, one he seemed entirely too willing to lose.

“I was five minutes away from pretending I found something just to feel alive again.”he said, grinning up at the ceiling.

One by one, you began gathering the scrolls you’d already read, stacking them neatly before carrying them to the cabinets against the far wall. For a moment you wondered how many hands had touched these before yours…probably none of them had to fake a pregnancy to get access. The unread scrolls remained spread across the table in uneven piles, forming a precarious fortress of hopeful leads for tomorrow. The shrine was quiet now, the children presumably hauled indoors for baths and stories, the path cast in the low orange hues of an aging sunset.

Noriko-chan met you halfway to show you to the guesthouse. You had no desire to eat or drink but to lay your head on a pillow and sprawl out freely across the bed. All the way there, the woman spoke awkwardly, mentioning that they didn’t get many visitors, so the guesthouse rarely saw any use, but while you’d been stewing over the scrolls, she’d taken the time to tidy it up for your comfort. Truly kind people, honestly, and you even felt a flicker of guilt for the lie you’d spun to gain access to the archives. But as the saying goes, everything comes with a price. Yours happened to be a single bed in the room. Just one.

Third time. It was the third time today you’d been struck speechless. Satoru Gojo stood in the doorway just behind you, lips already parted with that half-breath of anticipation he always got when he knew -he was about to have the time of his life at your expense. He glanced at the bed, then back at you. And then he said, “Oh.” The smirk bloomed on his face.

“No.”

“ Ohhhhhh. ”

“No.”

“Just one bed. What a shame.” he said amused.

You started at him, then at the bed, then back at him.

“I’ll take the floor.”

“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor,” he said. “What if you roll over and damage the womb I’ve worked so hard to strengthen?”

You grabbed your towel before he could say anything else or because you just wanted a minute of silence. Slid the bathroom door shut. Let the water run until the noise drowned out the sound of your own headache. When you came back out, he was already lying on the bed, one arm tucked behind his head. The room smelled of the minty soap he’d used, and the scent hit you just as you passed him, which made everything worse, because he had the nerve to smell good. And he still smelled like lilacs. You hate lilacs. As you quietly towel-dried your hair with one hand, the other reached for your phone buried in the backpack. Shit, you’d completely forgotten to text Kazuki. Who, at that very moment, was calling you.

“Hey.” Sound totally normal. Perfectly casual. Not at all like a woman with a fiancé who had absolutely no intention of sharing a room with Satoru Gojo.

“Hey, babe.”

“Sorry I didn’t call you earlier, Kazuki,” you said before he could speak. “There was too much work, and I couldn’t even bring myself to pick up the phone.” Your feet carried you out to the terrace of the guesthouse.

“All’s well. Just wanted to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m okay, really, just a bit tired from all the work. Might have to stay longer, or maybe we’ll manage in two or three days, like I said.” You couldn’t seem to stop talking, subconsciously, maybe from nerves over the whole situation, or maybe because you were afraid of what Kazuki might ask next. “Anyway, enough about me, how are you doing?”

“Is he with you?”

Straight to the fucking point, huh?

“Yes, I mean, at the moment, no, but in general, yes, he’s…” Jeez, you sound like an idiot. “He’s helping me.”

“You back in your room already?”

“…Yeah.” you said, more like a question than an answer.

“All right, get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Kazuki sounded dry and distant, as if every word out of his mouth screamed that he didn’t believe a single thing you’d said, as if he were just waiting for you to confirm his worst suspicions. “Love you.” that, it seemed, was his way of compensating for the possibility that his worst suspicions might be unfounded.

“Me too.”

When you stepped back into the house, Satoru Gojo had already made himself a separate bed on the floor and changed into something more comfortable.

“Lover’s quarrel?” came his voice.

You kicked your shoes off and started digging around for the charger.

“Y’know,” he continued, “you really should’ve gone with something more believable than ‘sales’ and ‘colleague’. That man’s not stupid.”

“I know he’s not stupid.“

“But you’re still trying to play him like he is.”

You pulled the charger from your backpack and plugged in your phone. There was no point in dragging the conversation any further, you had long since decided that once the matter of the masks was settled, you’d tell Kazuki everything. Well, maybe not your full life story. Maybe not about Mika. But enough to cast some light on who you really were.

“If he trusted you, you wouldn’t need the performance. And if you trusted him, you’d have told him what you’re really doing.”

“You don’t think that’s a little hypocritical?” you asked. “Coming from you?”

“Probably. But I’m not the one playing here with a ring that isn’t mine and a man who clearly thinks I’m your side project.”

“I didn’t ask you to lie about all of it, especially about a baby.”

“Meh.” he shrugged. “You’re not that mad about it.”

“I’m plenty mad.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am.”

“Sure.”

You rolled your eyes and busied yourself with straightening the bed. “Either way, none of this concerns you.”

He sprawled out on the floor. “Truly couldn’t care less, boss-sama. But if you want my advice, don’t tell him the truth.”

“I don’t care for your advi… what?”

“Don’t bother. He wouldn’t believe you even if you did.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “He’s not the kind who’d accept the truth without first checking in with mommy and daddy. And you,” Satoru Gojo pointed his finger at you. “you’re clinging to him like he’s some kind of hope for a future where you can forget the past. Which, by the way” he clicked his tongue “you won’t be able to do. I mean, you can’t even tell him that you love him too in return. Because you don’t.”

Everything around you stopped in an instant - right before a match struck and set your gasoline-soaked heart ablaze. “Lovely bit of psychoanalysis coming from someone who couldn’t think straight when it actually mattered. Tell me, was it the bitter experience of watching your friend level half a village and sway the other sorcerers to his side that taught you to dish out advice so well?”

“Sounds like your bitter experience talking, boss-sama.” His voice was amused.

“So now i’m bitter?”

“Little bit.” Satoru Gojo propped his arm behind his head again, utterly unbothered. “You talk about Suguru like he betrayed you personally.”

Because he did. Not in the literal sense, because there was nothing binding you to Suguru Geto, save for one thing. But that one thing was enough to make you wish for his death more than anyone else ever could.

“You and your friend are both idiots. First him,” you hesitated. “You’re two of a kind.”

“Well then,” he said, his tone unchanged. “At least we’ve both made our choice, and we know what we want, without denying who we are.”

You turned off the lamp, your fingers trembling enough to betray the anger and unease surging through you. The blanket covered your body, but you wished something could shield your eyes and ears. “Go to sleep.” you said, turning your back.

You didn’t sleep a single moment that night.

Chapter Text

When you woke, you were alone in the room. The pillow and blanket that had covered Satoru Gojo last night on the floor were neatly folded atop the dresser, and the sorcerer himself had vanished without a trace. Perfect, you hadn’t particularly wished to see his shameless face after the last conversation anyway. Not that you expected peace to last, but for now, it gave you the quiet to wash, dress, and tie back your hair without the usual barrage of commentary.

The entirety of your morning routine concluded in no more than twenty minutes, and Narukawa’s cool morning air greeted you with open arms as you departed the guesthouse. Your feet once more carried you toward the shrine keepers’ main house, where upon the terrace a table laden with an assortment of morning delicacies welcomed your arrival. The children ran circles around it while Noriko-chan busily arranged the plates. Satoru Gojo, of course, was already seated at the table, enthusiastically displaying something upon his smartphone to Oba-san. Surprisingly, the old woman actually had her hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. First time in two days she didn’t look like she wanted to beat someone’s ass. A few heads turned once when you appeared, and the man responsible for most of your recent suffering didn’t even blink before lifting his voice in cheerful greeting.

“Ah, morning, wifey. Just in time,” Satoru Gojo said, pushing his glasses up onto his head. He gave his phone a slight flourish, angling it so Oba-san could still see the screen while simultaneously beckoning you toward the table. “I was showing our honeymoon photos.”

You looked at him with a furrowed brow, one eyebrow arched.

Oba-san’s shoulders were trembling. Noriko-chan bit her lip, barely containing her amusement as she poured tea into tiny earthen cups. You settled onto the chair and leaned in closer, striving to make sense of the conversation, and there before your eyes was your photograph… or rather, your face that angled tragically from below, mouth mid-word, hair wind-blown, neck craned awkwardly in what appeared to be the middle of a sneeze.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” The words slipped from your lips more as a whisper than proper speech, your body remaining still. The fingers kept scrolling, one photo after another flashing past - each one expertly edited, your face captured in its most unflattering states imaginable. “Why are these…how did you even…”

Only one bastard had that kind of ammunition - Taro. That little shit had been collecting your awkward pictures for years .

There was a slow, simmering rage that had been boiling quietly for days. Maybe months, even. From the moment you let that man into your apartment and drag you into this unholy mess with his stupid face and his even stupider smile and now these goddamn honeymoon photos. This idiot had roped you into helping him with the whole impending apocalypse without ever actually hearing you agree to it, had no concept of personal boundaries, kept barging into your life with his dumb advice, wrecked absolutely everything and still had the audacity to sit there like nothing had happened. Un-fucking-believable.

You shot up from your chair so fast everyone  turned to look at you. The little girl who’d been running circles around the table with her sister came to such a sudden stop that the one behind her couldn’t brake in time and slammed right into her back, and down they both went, crashing to the ground in a heap. Everyone was surprised. EVERYONE. Except…. Satoru Gojo was sitting there with his stupid smirk like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Okay, no. No. No more. I’m done.” you started. You turned to Satoru Gojo pointing at him when you spoke louder, so everyone could hear it. “This man is not my husband! I don’t love him. I don’t even like him! I would rather kiss a drainpipe!” your hands moved with the force of every bitter truth you spat out, driven by the mess of emotions you could barely keep the fuck down. “We are pretending ! I am not pregnant. I am not in early term , late term , or any term. There is no fetus, there is no baby. The only thing growing inside me is overwhelming contempt.”

Silence. Absolute silence blanketed the entire shrine grounds and somewhere off in the distance, a cuckoo called. Oba-san made a long loud sigh.

“Hmph.” she said. “That’s the hormones talking. When I was pregnant with my youngest, I swore up and down he wasn’t my husband’s - even though the boy came out looking exactly like him. Pregnancy’ll fuck with your head.”

You were going to flip the table. You were going to flip the table and then strangle him with your own fallopian tubes. If your technique didn’t cancel his out, you would’ve shoved him into the nearest rice cooker and turned it on . The audacity. The gall. The nerve .

“Oba-san, you barely believed this crap yourself just yesterday!” you pointed at him again with such fury your hand trembled. “I mean, why would I marry him ? Why, in the name of every minor shrine god and their half-assed offerings, would I ever marry that man? He’s a dumbass with too many opinions and zero boundaries and I’m…I’m-!”

“…Deeply in love?” Satoru Gojo offered.

“I’m going to-“

“You’re clearly compatible,” Oba-san said matter-of-factly. “The chemistry is obvious.”

“The only thing between us is an explosive chain reaction, and not the sexy kind.” you never tried so hard to prove the truth in your life. Everyone continued to gaze at you sympathetically, still unmoving, and only after a few awkward seconds did they silently return to their tasks. The kids shook off the dirt and resumed running, Noriko-chan went back to setting the table, and Oba-san to sipping her tea. No one said, “oh, how awful that this poor woman is clearly being psychologically tortured by a sorcerer with the emotional maturity of a fruit fly.”

In short, no one gave a shit - because this time, no one believed you. Shocking, right?

Dropping back into the chair, you took a long breath in, then let it out hard, falling your eyes shut. “I give up.”

“Don’t give up,” the man said gently, pouring himself more tea. “Think of the baby.”

Looked like the only thing left for you was to suck it up and live with it. All you could do now was hold onto the one stubborn truth - that you were not, in any fucking universe, pregnant by this man. The only comforting thought was that somewhere out there, in that shed, a whole pile of scrolls was still waiting for you, and you were more than ready to bury yourself in them if it meant forgetting this nightmare.

So you just sat there chewing on grilled salmon, imagining it was Satoru Gojo’s head. Every time he opened his mouth to discuss your delivery with Oba-san, a part of your soul quietly slit its own wrists.

The only thing you could taste was your own regret.

After breakfast wrapped up (and you’d come up with exactly thirty different ways to kill Satoru Gojo with your bare hands without triggering the apocalypse) you headed for the shed. Well. You , technically. Some people have a shadow. You had this bastard.

And really, how the hell were you supposed to react, stepping into the room only to find a single scroll left on the table, instead of the towering pile you hadn’t even made it halfway through? For a second, you thought maybe you were losing it. Maybe, you two had managed to get through almost all of them yesterday. But no. When you turned around, more startled than anything else, and looked at the white-haired man behind you -he was smiling like he’d set up a surprise just for you.

“I got bored.” he said.

The look on your face made it painfully clear his answer hadn’t explained a single fucking thing.

“Couldn’t sleep. Too much excitement. You know, first night sharing a room with a woman who could kickstart apocalypse just by touching me. It stirred things in me.” he said casually. “So i did a little morning reading. Most of them were useless. I mean, unless you wanted to know about how childbirth went down in 1850 or the proper way to have sex if you’re aiming for a boy, but I’ve got a feeling if I start walking you through it, you’ll murder me on the spot.”

The puzzle still wasn’t coming together in your head, and every cell in your brain was clawing for the catch - one that, on the surface, didn’t seem to exist. And yet, something felt off. He sounded a little too… helpful. This thought actually terrified you.

“You should be proud of me.” he continued. “I didn’t set anything on fire, and I only sneezed on one of the red-seal ones. Just the corner.”

You stepped up to the table and untied the ribbon holding the scroll in place.

“You can barely read kuzushiji .”

He pulled out the chair and smoothly plopped down into it, propping one leg atop the table and crossing his hands casually behind his head. “You underestimate how motivated boredom makes me.” he said, rocking his chair back and forth. “So i’ll stay quiet, mostly because watching you try to translate under pressure does things to me. Intellect’s hot.”

There were about seven scathing remarks lined up in your throat, but your hands were already busy unrolling the scroll, and your eyes had locked onto the first few lines of ink. The handwriting wasn’t exactly tidy, as if scrawled by a child - which it most likely was. Possibly even the very same entry written by Oba-san’s mother. You started reading aloud:

“On the eve of the third full moon, a woman arrived at our gates, soaked with night dew, though the skies had been dry. She gave her name as Kuzunoha. We asked no questions. Her manner was quiet, her tone respectful, and when we offered her warmth, food, and rest, she accepted only the latter. Her hands clutched a wooden box, and when i asked what she carried, the woman replied, ‘two masks. They are part of a great seal. I am their keeper until those marked by fate come to claim them and bind them by flame.’”

Your heart kicked up a notch at the realization of just how close you two were getting to what you’d been chasing. Satoru Gojo, meanwhile, now clearly intrigued, stopped rocking his chair, planted both feet on the dusty floor, and leaned in toward the table, listening to you.

You continued: “ She remained only the one night. Declined soup, took only water. Slept in the guesthouse. At dawn, she thanked us, asked how far it was to the village of Hidarimura beyond Shindō Pass, and walked into the mist without another word. After hours of her departure, two men arrived. One tall, had no manners; the other quiet, but the type who watched everything. They asked if we had seen a woman by the name of Kuzunoha. We told them no. Because in our shrine, those who seek shelter are not prey.”

That was the end of the record. You ran your eyes over the scroll one more time, just to make sure you hadn’t missed anything.

“Sounds like my great-great-grand-uncle and your clan’s polite-but-would-choke-a-man-in-a-river emissary.” his voice broke the silence.

“I thought our clans always hated each other,” you said, laying the scroll down on the table. “Didn’t think chasing some  woman with masks would be enough to make them join forces.”

“So we’re going to Hidarimura?”

Yup. You’re going to Hidarimura.

Chapter Text

“So, how long did you say you two’ve been married?”

The man asking had to be in his fifties, though he looked every bit of seventy. The rickety old junker he was driving kept jolting you and the white-haired man beside you with every bump on Iga’s uneven roads, and you were clutching the handle with both hands just to keep from being launched into the ceiling, while the sorry excuse for a seatbelt barely held any part of you in place.

He was only giving you a ride to Shindō because Oba-san asked him real nice - and because Satoru Gojo promised to toss him a decent wad of cash for his trouble. Also, apparently, being “married” gave you access to all kinds of premium services in rural Japan. The folks in Iga wouldn’t so much as let an unmarried soul into their busted-ass ride, and every other person there had a ring on their finger.

You opened your mouth to lie. He opened his mouth to lie.

“One year.” you both said.

You turned your head. He turned his head. You blinked. He blinked. Oh no, you were already starting to sync with him. Or maybe it was the fault of those talismans currently strapped to your wrists (Satoru Gojo’s brilliant idea, of course) meant to keep things “safer,” since on these roads there was always a risk of accidentally brushing against each other. Not that it mattered much. You were pretty sure you were gonna fucking die anyway, judging by how the car jolted and rattled its way down the slope.

The man gripping the wheel whipped his head around, eyes wide (twice their size thanks to the thick-ass lenses of his glasses). He stared at you, utterly thrilled, while you stared right back - your own reflection in his glasses showing nothing but full-blown panic and holy-shit levels of dread.

“Ooooh, newlyweds,” he sang out. “How nice to see young folk settling down, instead of living that wild city life everyone’s so fond of these days. You two must still be at it like…well, nevermind.”

The car jolted again and you let out a sharp yelp.

“You know how it is - just anyone showing up these days,” he went on, still staring at you instead of the road. Your life, right then, was flashing before your eyes. “Askin’ for a room for a few nights, and turns out they’re not even married. Wearing rings someone else gave ’em, too. No shame left in this world, I swear.”

Oh wow, good thing he doesn’t know the whole truth, otherwise you’d be tumbling off a fucking cliff right about now.

“Sir,” you said carefully, “the road.”

“I been married thirty-two years.” he announced absolutely ignoring your prayers. “She’s the love of my life, i knew it since the day i met her.”

“The…the road.” you said again.

The man finally looked back at the road. For two fucking seconds. Then he twisted back around again.

“You know what I said to her?” he rasped.  “I said, ‘Chiyo, if you ever leave me, I’m comin’ with you.’ That’s love. Not this bullshit kids do now.”

“Sir,” you said again, a little louder. “The road. Please.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, still not looking. “These wheels know the way better than I do. I could probably drive this stretch blind. See?” he closed his eyes.

You let out the loudest gasp of your entire life, and purely on raw, unfiltered survival instinct, your hand shot out and grabbed onto Satoru Gojo’s shoulder. What white haired sorcerer did was tilt his head to the side and glance down at your hand.

“Awwww,” he said. “So you do like me.”

“I’m…I’m gonna fucking puke.”

The man jabbed a finger at the driver’s hand. “Hey, pops. Eyes open, yeah? Wife’s nervous.”

The old man finally opened his eyes and turned around, which gave you just enough of a window to exhale and yank your hand off Satoru Gojo’s shoulder back to the handle. “Relax, I know this road like the back of my saggy ass. And look! There’s only one real curve left before we hit the straight.”

You didn’t want to know how many other people had died on that curve. The truck rattled over a loose patch of gravel and your stomach went with it. You clamped both hands on the door handle again, much tighter this time.

The rest of the drive to Shindō passed without incident, which, given the state of the vehicle and its driver’s priorities, was more of a statistical anomaly than a sign of divine protection. The road evened out somewhere near the edge of the valley, and the engine stopped making the sound of dying livestock. That counted as progress.

Shindō came into view sometime after noon. By then, the talismans  weren’t keeping your wrists warm anymore; they were just warming themselves in your pockets.

The village wasn’t much to look at - old houses, too many trees, overhead wires. You didn’t expect much from it, and it didn’t disappoint. The driver dropped you off at the local stop and said Hidarimura was twenty minutes out - if you cut through instead of taking the main road.

“Alright,” you said, already taking the first step toward the narrow path leading away from the stop. “Let’s get this over with.”

About ten steps in, you noticed Satoru Gojo hadn’t followed. So you turned back and found him still standing at the bus stop, head tilted to the side with his eyes fixed on you.

“…what.”

“I’m hungry.”

Oh, of course he’s hungry now.

“I’ve got plenty of snacks in my backpack - you can eat on the way, and once we get there, have a proper lunch when we arrive.”

“I need real food. I’m wilting, look.” he raised one arm at the elbow - then let his hand drop lifelessly. So this is what it meant to argue with a toddler. He drooped his wrist a little more, like it might actually fall off if you didn’t do something soon.

“You had breakfast just a couple hours ago.”

“That fish was ninety percent bones.”

“You’ll survive.” You didn’t back down, turning toward the road that led to Hidarimura.

“If I pass out on the trail, I hope you know how to administer mouth-to-mouth.” his voice followed you

You stopped walking and turned. “The next thing coming near your mouth is a rock.”

“So you are thinking about my mouth.”

“I’m thinking about how it never shuts.”

“Which makes it perfect for eating.” he shot back brightly, already veering toward the opposite direction.

You stood there, staring at his retreating back, hoping he was bluffing or just trying to fuck with your nerves again. But his footsteps, growing fainter with each passing second, told you he meant every word.

“Unbelievable.” you muttered and yet your feet still moved toward him. Strange, really, how every single time you ended up giving in to his bullshit without even meaning to.

You followed him through the little lane that apparently counted as the town center and he stopped in front of a café whose sign was so faded it just said “fe.” There was no menu on display, no customers except a dog asleep beside the entrance.  When the door creaked open, it sounded like a hyena laughing. Inside looked just as bleak as the outside. A woman met you at the door, greeting you with the now-predictable question of whether or not you were married, which, at this point, surprised neither you nor Satoru Gojo. Both of you had long since accepted the madness and got used to it. While waiting for your order at a table under which an entire new lifeform had likely evolved from layers of old gum, you pulled out the map to take another look at the road to Hidarimura - the one Noriko-chan had marked in red pen.

“All right, so,” your fingers traced the red line on the map. “That’s the main road. And this”you drew an invisible path veering slightly off course, “is the shortcut that lunatic on his tin can mentioned.”

The man leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “You mean the same shortcut endorsed by the lunatic who spoke to us with both eyes and zero attention on the road?”

“It cuts the route in half.”

“So would a helicopter. Shall we knock on every door in Shindō and ask who’s got one parked out back?”

You didn’t answer that, because you refused to engage with it. There was only so much idiocy you could entertain in a day, and he was already over budget.

Just then, the woman brought over a tray of food for Satoru Gojo and an Americano for you, stripped of anything that might’ve made it remotely original.

“The shortcut will save us time,” you tried again. “The faster we get to the village, the sooner we’ll know if the masks are there, the sooner we’ll know what the hell to do next and the sooner I can finally go back to whatever’s left of my normal life.”

“It’s funny you still think your life’s anything close to normal.”

“That’s because it stopped being normal the second you showed up and brought all your chaos with you,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Bet you’ll start missing me an hour after I’m out of your life.”

Yeah, yeah. If it helps him sleep at night, fine. That’s why you just went, “Mmmhhhm” keeping your eyes still on the map.

“Come on,” Satoru Gojo said, leaning his chest against the table. “You’ve never wondered how your life’d look right now if we hadn’t run into each other at Kurda-dera three months back?”

“I think the shortcut won’t be that winding.” you said, still refusing to look at him.

“Perhaps by now you’d have thrown a grand wedding with Kazuki and gone on living - Bruce Wayne by day, and Batman whenever it came time to steal another artifact.” he didn’t give up. “He’s gonna live with you and never once notice the way your hands move when you’re lying or hear that pause between your ‘yeah’ and the next word that isn’t true.”

Your drink cooled while you debated the pros and cons of lunging across the table and shoving the map down his throat. A satisfying visual, yes. But then you’d be down one map and probably stuck with a hospital bill you couldn’t explain.

“Personally,” he plucked a fried shrimp off his plate, watching you across the table. “I think you would’ve lasted a year. Two, tops. Then one day you’d wake up and realize you weren’t built for playing house with a man who thinks adventure is taking a different route to the supermarket.”

Oh, he knew exactly what string he’d pulled.

“Ugh, fine!” you snapped. “We’ll take the main road, all right? Just hold your tongue for once.”

He raised a brow in feigned astonishment, affecting innocence, as though it were not he who had just been buzzing incessantly into your ear, a mosquito most persistent.  “You sure? I thought you liked shortcuts.”

You let out a long sigh, heavy with irritation. “The main road takes an hour on foot. There are no buses to Hidarimura, no taxis, not a single damned thing. How exactly are we supposed to get there?”

“We could ask the locals to give us another ride, throw in a bit extra.” He shrugged.

“No, thank you. I’ve had quite enough of the local hospitality for one day.”

The debate over how to reach the village dragged on as Satoru Gojo finished the last of his lunch. When silence finally settled over the table and you’d resigned yourself to an hour of trudging alongside him down the main road, you noticed his gaze had fixed too intently on something beyond the window.

Your brow furrowed in suspicion as you leaned closer to the table to glance out the window. You looked once. Then at him. Then again - and that was when it struck you.

“Oh no.” you said.

“Oh yes.” he answered, rising from the sofa with the grin as he pulled his wallet from his pocket.

Oh yes was for the young man, no older than twenty, standing beside the café with an old moped parked at his side.  One needn’t be a fool to see how well-considered Satoru Gojo’s next move already was. The move you disapproved of from the moment you saw smug look on his face.

“This is insane,” you said, hurrying after him toward the café’s exit. “No sane person just up and sells a means of transport to a complete stranger.”

“You’d be surprised what people will do when you offer twice what the thing’s worth and throw in a compliment about their hair.”

You caught up to him just as he stopped in front of the guy. He had been leaning against the café wall, chewing gum and straightened immediately when you and the sorcerer approached.

“Yo,” Satoru Gojo said lightly. “That your moped?”

The guy blinked a few times, sized white haired idiot up, then glanced at you. His chewing slowed to a halt. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s mine.”

“Glorious.” the sorcerer clapped once. “And I gotta say, your hair? Immaculate. You condition?”

That was it. “Yeah, actually my sister’s a stylist!”

Oh my God, you did a mental facepalm. You stood there and watched the beginning of what could only be described as either an arms deal or a school play, depending on how much gum this kid had chewed today.

“I can tell,” Gojo said, tilting his head. “That shine? That’s pedigree. What’s she use…jojoba? Keratin?”

“Coconut, mostly,” the guy said, puffing up. “But she’s got this serum thing, imported, real bougie.”

You were beginning to lose feeling in your left eye from how hard it wanted to twitch.

“Listen, my friend.” Satoru Gojo went on, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder in a show of camaraderie. “Me and my wife here-“ he nodded toward you without asking your permission, which at this point was so far past expectation it barely registered, “-we’re trying to get to Hidarimura. On foot it’s a hell of a hike. That little beast of yours could really save a marriage.”

The guy was silent for a few seconds. “…You wanna buy my moped?”

“Yep.”

“This is insane.” you repeated, knowing from the start this was a poor idea. “He’s not actually going to sell it.” you turned your full attention to the young man. “You’re not actually going to sell it.”

“Don’t mind my wife,” your “husband” waved it off with a hand. “She’s in early term.”

“Oh no.” you breathed, but it was too late. The train of nonsense had left the station, and your name wasn’t even on the passenger manifest. You wanted to cry.

The boy sprang back from Satoru Gojo’s friendly embrace, spat on his sleeve, and began scrubbing at the moped seat with it.

“Man, that’s beautiful! I mean… if you’re really married, and you need it… like, that’s serious.” His hand jerked back and forth, as though sheer determination and a spit-dampened sleeve might lift the stains caked into the handlebar and seat. “I don’t wanna come between a man and his wife’s legs…uh, I mean, transportation. Y’know what? You can have it. For free. I believe in love.”

“I believe you’re high.” that were you saying…very quietly. This whole Iga area needs a fucking therapy.

“Oh no, no,” Satoru Gojo said, his brow knitting. “We’re paying. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Dude,” the boy grinned. “Come on. You guys are obviously meant to be. I can tell.”

What he could actually see, you had no idea. But Gojo managed to persuade him to accept a decent sum for that wreck. The young man skipped off, humming that he could finally get out of this dump, leaving you alone with that idiot once again. He spun the key once on his finger before tossing it to you with a little smirk that said you’re welcome.

“We already used the talismans today. We don’t know if they’re going to work a second time. What if they don’t suppress the resonance again.” you said, reaching for the Kyomei-fuda.

“Resonance, schmesonance.” he shrugged, crouching beside the moped, checking the tires. “Don’t worry. I’m getting good at dying with you.”

Well, either way, the talismans won’t work and everything blows up, or you just die without the helmets. You swung a leg over and settled in behind him, your knees brushed the sides of his thighs and your hands -awkward, fumbling, unwilling, came to rest on either side of his waist.

“Closer.” he said, without looking. “Wrap your arms around me.”

You certainly had no wish to look at him just then; your hands had caught the thin fabric of his shirt, and you felt the slightest shift in his breath.

“Do you even know how to drive one of these?”

He tilted his head just enough to glance back. “I’m Satoru Gojo.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s the only answer.”

And then he kicked off. You kept your eyes shut, stiffing arms around his waist, feeling every shift of muscle under your palms as he steered them out of town and onto the road. Which was either comforting or completely fucking terrifying, depending on how much you trusted him.

“Hey, open your eyes. You’ll miss the view.” Satoru Gojo called over his shoulder.

You didn’t care about the view. You cared about not dying, but cracked one eye open just in case. His hair snapped wildly in the wind, shoulders were loose, posture so relaxed it was practically insolent. There were no voices, no horns, no dull thud of tires on pavement. Just wind, motion, the green slopes rolling past and the steady rhythm of his breathing where your chest met his back. Yes, the wind hit first - a cool slap across your cheeks that pulled at your hair and kissed the back of your neck with fingertips of air. It yanked the breath right out of your lungs, not in panic now, but awe. Your eyes fully opened. The road ahead curved like it had been carved by someone who loved beauty more than logic. Grass swept the edges in lazy waves. Somewhere to your left, a crow rose from a fence post, wings wide and black and perfect against the pale-blue sky. Loosening your grip slightly, you looked up, aware of a smile blooming across your face.

There’s something you’re chasing and you don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s silence or clarity or just a version of yourself that doesn’t always feel like she’s got dirt under her fingernails and ghosts at her heels. You breathe in, and the world breathes with you. There’s nothing sacred about this stretch of road. And yet, in this moment, it feels holy.

You feel alive in the way people only do when they forget to be afraid. And maybe that’s what this is. The absence of fear. Not because the danger’s gone, but because you’ve surrendered to it. Because you’ve realized, somewhere between second gear and that last curve, that control is a myth. That maybe there is a kind of beauty in trusting something or someone enough to let go.

But did you trust Satoru Gojo?

Hidarimura greeted you with a handsome sunset and houses that recalled the ones you’d seen near Bodaiji Temple, back when you were dragged into the Heian era. These homes seemed untouched by time, much like the people who lived inside them. The village was small ,hidden deep in the mountains, and you figured you could walk the whole of it in twenty minutes. The moped’s engine had likely disturbed whatever quiet had reigned here, because one by one, the villagers began to emerge from their homes, gathering in silence, all of them staring fixedly at you and Satoru Gojo. It mattered not whether they were elders or children, girls or boys - they were all watching you. It put on your guard, but the man walking beside you found it so amusing he simply started waving at everyone in sight. You might’ve turned and walked straight back into the mountains had the moped not already died behind you. The farther you wandered into nothingness (with no real sense of purpose), the more villagers gathered, trailing quietly behind.

“They’re really committing to the whole horror movie welcome.” you murmured, eyes sweeping across the slowly growing crowd. Old men in layered yukata. Children gripping the hems of their mothers’ sleeves.

“Do not break eye contact.” Satoru Gojo said. “They can smell fear.”

From the larger house emerged a man dressed in a hakama and a woman in a yukata, both flinging their arms wide with theatrical flourish and all but running toward you.

“Finally!” the man bellowed. “The chosen ones have arrived!”

“We’ve been waiting,” the woman in yukata said. “For generations.”

“For generations,” the man echoed, in case you’d missed it the first time.

You looked at Satoru Gojo and he looked at you. Before you could agree on the terms of mutual disappearance, the couple had reached you - far too invested in the drama they’d clearly been rehearsing for decades.

“You’ve come for the Kagari-bi no Men, haven’t you?” the woman asked.

“Haven’t you?” the man echoed.

“Are you Kuzunoha?” your voice came out unsteady with anticipation. You couldn’t be bothered that you’d answered a question with a question at this point.

“Oh, no no.” The woman laid a hand to her chest, as though she’d just been paid the finest compliment in the world. “My name is Ayaka Shinohara, and this-” her hand drifted outward, slow and no less theatrical, toward the man beside her, who was echoing her every last word like a parrot, “-is my husband, Taiki Shinohara.” She paused briefly, then stepped closer, her gaze dropping to the ground with sudden, deliberate sorrow. “Unfortunately, the last Kuzunoha was the one who arrived in our village a century ago. She never named a single person as the keeper of the masks. Instead, she asked that we guard them together, as a village, until the chosen ones came. That’s you, by the way.”

A whole village, sworn to protect two masks no one had touched in a hundred years, now looking at you like the prophecy’s punchline had finally walked in. And apparently, it walked in on a moped.

“I suppose,” Taiki Shinohara said, sweeping his hands in a smooth arc, “you already know what must be done.”

“What must be done.” his wife echoed.

“You know,” Satoru Gojo said to you, “I’m starting to think we missed their rehearsal.”

Your lips twitched, stifling a laugh. “That’s correct,” you nodded. “Though we didn’t expect to find the Kagari-bi no Men so soon, so I’m not sure when the next full moon is for us to perform the ritual dance.”

“The moon will be full tomorrow night. We’ve already prepared lodging for you. You,” her hand pointed to you, “will stay in that house.” Her arm shifted to the right, toward the home beside the one they’d just stepped out of. “And you,” her hand turned to Satoru Gojo, “over there.” She nodded to the left, past their own doorstep. “Those performing the ritual must not see one another before it begins.”

Silence.

“Before it begins.” her husband echoed again, finally stirring.

“Okay,” you said too quickly, too cheerfully, shrugging. Because it meant that for an entire day, no white-haired, blue-eyed nuisance would be talking your ear off. A luxury you hadn’t been able to afford in… how many days now? “We shall respect the sacred rules.” you added not to sound too excited about it.

“The sacred rules.” Satoru Gojo repeated holding a laugh. Okay, that was actually funny.

A whole crowd trailed after you toward the little house the strange woman had pointed out earlier. The feeling was odd - you felt like an outsider treading upon human soil, and the way they watched made it seem they were witnessing some sort of miracle. They parted just as swiftly on the threshold of your cottage, leaving you alone at last with your long-awaited solitude, one you had no intention of crawling out of until the following day. Yet solitude, much like trains, carries the troublesome habit of prompting reflection.

Reflection, perhaps, on how you convinced yourself you held no trust for Satoru Gojo, yet stood prepared to entrust him with your life come tomorrow, fully aware that in an instant it could simply burn away. Or reflection on whether Satoru Gojo, with unsettling ease, could commit his own life into your keeping, knowing well that a similar fate awaited him?

Chapter Text

“Hold your arm up,” Ayaka Shinohara says. “A little higher.”

Her hands move as though she’s done this a thousand times, wrapping your body in layer upon layer of the yukata’s gentle fabric. She smooths the sleeve across your shoulder and steps back to look at her work. “Good.” she purred, more to herself than to you, then reaches for the next paler and thinner piece,  trimmed with indigo lines.

“You were taught how to wear this sort of thing, weren’t you?” she asks, carefully pulling it around your frame.

“Sort of.” you answer. Years of wearing traditional attire (because your clan recognized no other) had granted you one more useless skill your hands had not forgotten. You could still dress yourself even now with your eyes shut.

“You don’t look like you enjoyed it.”

“I’m more into comfortable clothes.” you say.

“Understandable, though i think this suits you.” she lifts your arm again, checking the alignment of each layer, then lets out a satisfied “hmm.” Taking the obi from the bed, she gave it a few brisk shakes, twirling it lightly in her hands before beginning to wrap it around your waist. Why such formality was necessary remained unclear - whether one performed the ritual in ceremonial attire or in slippers and pajamas hardly changed the outcome. Still, you chose not to argue. She fastens the knot, fingers pressing briefly against your spine, then steps back to examine the final structure with an approving nod. You’re officially swaddled. The robe breathes well despite the layers, but the pressure across your ribs reminds you you’re not meant to move freely anymore. Good thing the ritual dance doesn’t call for breakdancing.

“Ah-ah!” she said as you started to turn, intending to glance at your reflection. “I’ll finish with your hair first, then you can look.”

She then begins combing through your hair with a wooden brush. You’re not sure what blend of oils she used, but it smells like plum and some sort of herb. It smelled really nice.

“Tsukuyo Hakuren wore her hair the same way,” Ayaka Shinohara says softly. “When she danced with Amegiri Seizan.”

“She also used this style for official ceremonies,” you reply. “It was standard for upper-class women in the early Heian period.”

The woman continued brushing, unbothered. “Do you think they were in love?”

Oh, because people simply had to romanticize absolutely everything the moment partnership was involved. You were nearly certain the next question would concern marriage, which was impressive in itself, considering it had been over twenty-nine hours since anyone in Iga had mentioned rings, weddings, or love.

“I mean,” she continued, sectioning your hair with a gentle sort of focus that feels entirely incompatible with the conversation. “They had to be. They were chosen. They created the ritual together and then the Seal.”

Okay, well, you should consider this and the fact, how much you don’t want to have this discussion with a woman currently in charge of placing very sharp hairpins near your skull.

“She was also happily married.” you say. “To another sorcerer. Died young, after the completion of the Seal of Heaven and Earth. There’s no record of any romantic relationship between her and Amegiri.”

“Maybe they kept it quiet.”

“Or maybe two of the strongest jujutsu sorcerers of their century had more pressing matters to deal with than writing love letters during a full moon ritual involving fire.” You hadn’t meant to sound curt or harsh, but you were certain you knew better thanks to years buried in books and archives, absorbing every scrap of information about the legendary sorcerers whose fates had captured your interest back in your teenage years. Had there been any mention of romantic involvement, you would have remembered it. However, your words didn’t offend Ayaka Shinohara, which offended you because the woman hadn’t taken them seriously.

“You sound like you don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

“I believe in structural integrity and well-maintained barriers.” you reply. “And in not projecting fictional romance onto long-dead colleagues.”

She laughed softly.  “You and your husband talk the same way.”

Well, fuck?

“He’s not my husband.”

“Ah.” Ayaka doesn’t pause in her work. “Forgive me. I assumed, given the way you speak to each other.”

“There is nothing between us.” you said, after a very long sigh.

“That’s probably for the best. Sorcerers with resonance aren’t made for each other - it tends to cause ongoing natural disasters.” She laughed, as though it were funny. It wasn’t.

It was actually a mercy she hadn’t seen the way your face twisted, as though you’d tasted a sour lemon. The universe, in crafting you and Satoru Gojo, had made one thing painfully clear: whatever fate bound people by the red thread on their little fingers, it had nothing to do with the two of you. You’d have to be a complete fool to challenge that. Who needs love when you might go up in flames in an hour and a half?

“Has anyone else performed the ritual during the century the masks have been in Hidarimura?” you asked, sincerely hoping to steer the conversation toward something less nauseating.

Ayaka Shinohara hummed, running a comb through a freshly separated section of hair. “Not since the Kuzunoha passed. She told us the ritual is only to be performed if the masks begin to react to a disruption in the seal, which started happening about four months ago. That’s when we began preparing for your with Gojo-sama arrival.” She then stepped back to assess your hair from another angle. Your scalp was starting to feel overly dignified. You were now convinced that whatever hairstyle Tsukuyo Hakuren had worn, she’d probably died just to get out of it.

Within a few minutes, Ayaka finally stepped aside to let you see what she’d spent the past hour perfecting. She said you looked stunning, said the yukata, that concealed the scar on your collarbone (the one Satoru Gojo left during your first encounter), looked beautiful on you, and that the hairstyle framed your face with elegance. But all you saw in the reflection was a teenage girl who had once been ready to carry the weight of her clan and might have walked beside the Honored One as an equal. Your clan would have been pleased. Which is a bad sign. The reflection looks composed and calm - unlike you, since your heartbeat had grown so quick you could feel the pulse in your ears, and your fingers betrayed a tremor. The closer the moment of the ritual came, the more the weight of it settled into place.

Taiki Shinohara knocked at the door once the moon had climbed high into the star-pinned sky, announcing that all was prepared. The path to the place where the ritual was to be held was lined with torches on both sides, flickering gold against the dark. A light breeze stirred the flames this way and that, and the shadows had already begun their dance, as though preparing you for what was to come. Each step came with effort, though not on account of the yukata, which felt lighter than it ought to. A flood of thoughts trailed you like a shadow down the path you were meant to lead. What if nothing worked, and Kazuki never learned the truth about you? What if the one to falter wasn’t Satoru Gojo, but you? What if the ritual failed entirely? You weren’t afraid of dying. But you didn’t want another life on your hands - especially one that still mattered in the world of jujutsu.

Who would visit Mika?

“This is fine,” you whisper to yourself. “It’s fine. Just a dance. With Satoru Gojo. Who I haven’t seen in a day. And who absolutely isn’t going to trip, mess up the pattern, or accidentally set me on fire. Because he’s very responsible.”

You wish you could believe those words.

Up ahead, the silhouettes of Hidarimura’s residents had already begun to appear - none of them willing to miss what was, in their eyes, a momentous occasion. Spectacle was guaranteed, regardless of the outcome: either they’d witness wonders wrought by the masks, or two people going up in flames. Woohoo. What fun.

You crossed the threshold. Satoru Gojo was already standing upon your “stage,” likewise dressed in kimono, hakama, and haori with his azure eyes fully uncovered. You felt your heartbeat begin to settle into its proper rhythm, the thrum in your ears quietly fading away…definitely not because of that idiot.

The closer you drew to him with your uncertain steps, the brighter the torchlight mirrored in his eyes - fire and ocean caught in quiet conflict. To your surprise, he said nothing at first when he saw you: no smirk, no grin, none of that infuriatingly self-assured look he so often wore that was pissing you off so much. He just stared. It was alarming, really.

“Well,” he murmured once you were close enough to hear, “look at you. All elegant, regal and slightly terrifying. It’s suspicious.”

“Suspicious?” you say after a pause because you didn’t even know how to react.

“Yeah.” he gestures vaguely in your direction. “You’re trying to distract me. You know, throw off my performance. Weaponized beauty. It’s an unfair advantage.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” the sorcerer tilted his head. “At least my last memory of you will be you looking gorgeous and clearly suffering.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I am, actually. You’re just stressed.”

“Gee, I wonder why.”

He looks around the torch-lit clearing. “It’s the Captain goat, isn’t it? You’re still not over that goat.”

You might’ve laughed, had it come from anyone else. But since it was Satoru Gojo…

“Please focus. I’d rather not be blamed in the afterlife for getting the guy the whole world’s counting on killed.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,  boss-sama. Since I’ll be wearing the Kyomei-fuda, I’ll activate Infinity before the flames have a chance to reach me.”

You stared at him and he stared at you.

“That way,” he continued, “if you fall, trip, miss a beat, or combust spectacularly, I can look untouched while you flail in flames.”

“I see you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I’m just being ten steps ahead.”

Ten steps my ass, you thought. At that moment, Ayaka and Taiki Shinohara stepped into the center, plainly prepared to deliver yet another speech before the start. This probably was their hour of glory.

“Tonight,” the woman began, “under the watchful gaze of the moon, the chosen ones shall perform the sacred rite of resonance-“

“-which is very dangerous, and should not be attempted by amateurs, children, or persons prone to fainting.” her husband cut in.

Awkward silence. Someone in the crowd sneezed.

Ayaka Shinohara cleared her throat and continued. “Yes, thank you, dear. Those who stand here tonight-“ she pointed at the two of you, “-have been chosen not for their history, but for the resonance that binds their power.”

“Also,” Taiki Shinohara added, “they’re not legally responsible for any structural damage caused tonight…just in case.”

Awkward silence…again.

“Let this be a moment of reverence. A communion of lineage. A reminder that even power must bow to harmony.” the woman said.

Her husband raised a finger. “And please note that anyone attempting to record this ritual on their phone will be publicly shamed and asked to leave.”

You rather doubted anyone in this village used phones at all, if they didn’t outright consider technology the devil’s handiwork. Taiki Shinohara, satisfied with his contribution to order and decorum, gave the crowd a nod, which would’ve carried more weight had he not immediately tripped over the hem of his own hakama. You watched his arms flail in silence, Ayaka catching him by the elbow.

While you and Satoru Gojo were instructed to put on the talismans and the married couple was meant to step aside, the man awkwardly hurried back to the center once more.

“Oh.” he said, squinting at the crowd. “Also, if you are holding food, please eat it quietly. Especially if it crunches… thank you.”

The man was turning the ceremony more and more into a circus. But to his credit, the atmosphere had eased somewhat. Two young women approached you, each holding a wooden box in her hands. Carefully, they opened them - and there, resting against folds of ivory-colored silk, lay the very masks you had come all this way for. At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary - typical Noh masks, plain enough - if not for the way your back tensed, the tremor running down your spine. The energy sealed within them pressed down on your technique, talisman or not.

Your mask was white-lacquered with curved red markings and golden flourishes along the edges. Small ornamental pins arched from the crown, glinting dully under firelight. Its lips were painted a deep crimson and curved into a sly smile. Satoru Gojo’s mask was ink-dark with rusted gold and ochre patterns like burned leaves. It suited him in the most aggravating way.

At the same time, retrieving the masks from their silk beds, you placed them upon your faces, moving in unison despite the fact that the ritual had not yet begun. The moment the lacquer kissed your skin, everything changed. The wild energy emanating from the mask swept through your body, and for a moment, you thought you sensed the presence of a woman - her technique, in strength, rivaled perhaps only by the one standing across from you. Satoru Gojo’s gaze, in contrast, remained unchanged. His eyes (being all you could see) held amusement and ease.

The masks were in place, which meant the fire should ignite around you any moment now - a sign that the ritual had been granted passage. Your breathing grew shallow with anticipation, and the longer nothing happened, the more certain you became that you’d soon feel your clothes begin to burn.

Little by little, a small flame began to kindle around the two of you, soon blooming into a ring of gold fire. The villagers had fallen utterly silent, their presence fading to a vague blur at the edges of your senses. You both raised your arms, beginning the dance, and you noticed that with each movement of your bare feet, a trail of fire bloomed behind you, fading just as swiftly with the next step, only to spark anew in your wake, leaving your skin untouched. The silk of your sleeves whispers against your skin as you cross the circle, your steps crossing Satoru Gojo’s, neither colliding nor resisting. One step. Two. Your feet met the soil without hesitation now, each movement guided more by instinct than thought. You could no longer feel the crowd at your back. Their attention, their judgment, their curiosity - none of it touched you now. Only step, breath, movement. Step, breath, movement.

Gradually, the tension that had lingered in your body and settled in your mind began to dissipate, and at some point, you realized you were even beginning to enjoy the process. You circled each other, arms raised, loуered, sweeping - inches apart and so close at the same time. Your arm lifted in time with his. Your back curved, your head tilted, the sleeves catching the air with every pivot, every turn, each fold brushing softly past your wrists. The scent of plum oil lingered, mingling with the burn of smoke and cooled night air. Not once did your feet stumble. Not once did your bodies misalign. You moved again, and again he followed, or maybe he led, or maybe neither of you knew which. And so it went until the very end, when you finished the ritual with a bow to one another. You straightened both and the flame around you hissed, drew tighter, then shrank into the earth with a sharp pull of air, folding themselves into stillness.

Satoru Gojo raised one hand to his face and pulled the mask from his features. His hair was a bit damp near the temples, a few strands stuck to his forehead, it seemed like he was there but his mind was somewhere else while his eyes trained on you. You could see the sheen of sweat near his collar, the looseness in his shoulders now that the rite was complete, the way his chest rose and fell in short of relief. He reached his hand, thumb beneath your chin, and lifted the mask gently from your face, his gaze dropped down to your lips first then back to your eyes, which were still adjusting to their accustomed sight.

“Oh! Oh my goodness! That was incredible!” Ayaka Shinohara shouted from somewhere off to the side, clapping her hands and stepping toward you in short, fast strides, sliding back into her theatrical persona. “You both were absolutely…oh, Taiki, did you see that ? I nearly cried!”

Taiki, meanwhile, wiped a quick tear from the corner of his eye and nodded. “That was beautiful.” he said, half-sobbing.

“Thank you,” you replied, hastening to rid your hair of the excess pins. “Now that all has gone well, we’ll take the masks and be on our way home.”

“Oh! Please, stay for an hour or two - we’ll hold a celebration for such an occasion,” she said, grabbing your shoulders as though that might convince you. “We’ll light a bonfire.”

“There’ll even be music!” her husband added.

“I don’t—”

“Sure.” Satoru Gojo cut in, giving a shrug. “We can stay an hour.”

You meant to argue, but Satoru Gojo had already found another way to shut you up.

«Come on, boss-sama. Just one hour and we leave.”

By the time you had changed into something more comfortable, the villagers had already lit the bonfire and thrown themselves into celebration. Some danced barefoot without a care, others poured sake with unsteady hands, while a few played worn instruments. The children ran in circles around the fire, laughing too loud for the hour.

“You’re not thinking of sneaking off, boss-sama?” Satoru Gojo stood behind you, his sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms and a ridiculous flower tucked behind one ear.

“I might be.”

“Come dance.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m tired, you look ridiculous, and I have no interest in twirling around a fire like a delusional pilgrim.”

“Stop being so serious all the time. Come on, let’s dance.” You noticed he still hadn’t taken off the talisman, but (regrettably, and to your own quiet surprise) you’d forgotten to remove yours. The moment your hand reached for the cord, Satoru Gojo caught your wrist and was already pulling you toward the dancing crowd.

“Let me go.” You began shaking your arm to break free from his grip, but he held you firmly enough to make resistance pointless, so deciding it would be the wiser and more dignified course, you focused instead on keeping your feet rooted to the spot.

“Not until you dance.”

“You’re forcing me.”

“I’m persuading you.”

“Against my will.”

“Which is surprisingly easy, by the way. For someone so scary, you fold fast.”

“Because I’m trying not to break your arm.”

The sorcerer deliberately ignored your threats and, to his credit, managed to drag you into the dancing, already slightly drunk crowd. To avoid ruining the celebration and murdering Satoru Gojo in front of an entire village, you were left with no choice but to imitate something loosely resembling a happy dance.

“I hate this.” you shouted, loud enough for him to hear you over the blaring music.

“No, you don’t.”

“I hate you.”

“You hate that I’m right.”

“I hate your smug face.”

“Okay, now you’re just listing things you secretly love.”

You really hated him.

“You are the worst person I’ve ever met.”

“You need to meet more people.” he grinned.

There was a reply, something mean and well-aimed, but your brain had decided to shut down basic operations under pressure. And so you chose to yield, for now, until the hour passed, so you could remove the talisman and keep him from holding your hand any longer.

When the music faded, the children had gone to sleep, and the tipsy villagers were already slouched by the fire with their eyes half-shut, and the talisman was no longer on your wrist, you sat by the flames, staring at a sky crowded with stars… until Satoru Gojo’s face, peering down at you from above, decided to obstruct the lovely view.

“You planning to praise me for a job well done, boss-sama?” still grinning.

When you didn’t respond, he sank to a seat beside you, which made you scoot half an inch to the right. You wondered how much longer the two of you could sit like this - him, watching you and waiting for an answer, and you, refusing to acknowledge him at all. But, it must be said, no matter how little you liked him, he’d done well - and you had two choices: either praise him for a job well done or thank him for not frying you both.

“You did good.” you said eventually, keeping your eyes on the sky.

He shifted slightly, arm resting loosely over his bent knee.

“…sorry, what was that?” he said.

“I said you did good. Don’t make me say it again.”

“But you already said it twice.” he tilted his head. “Want to say it a third time and throw in a kiss?”

You sighed and closed your eyes for a moment.

“You did good, too, by the way.” the sorcerer said, removing the flower from the tip of his ear.

“I would’ve been the only one consumed by the flames if anything went wrong, so we both did it for my survival mostly.”

He chuckled and looked at you. “We both know even my Infinity wouldn’t have held up against an artifact that strong, boss-sama.”

Deep down, you knew it was true. And that what he’d said before the ritual had either been a joke or an attempt to keep you from dwelling on the weight you believed you were carrying then and concentrate on the ritual itself.

“So you just handed your life over to me that easily? Didn’t even stop to think I might be the reason it ends?” you said finally looking back at him.

“That’s not really how I thought of it.” he said. “I mean, yeah, it could’ve ended badly. But it didn’t. So I guess I was right.”

It still didn’t make any sense to you. Though, had there ever been any meaning to any of it to begin with?

“That’s very reckless of you.”

“Meh.” He shrugged. “Women secretly like reckless men.”

“Thank God you’re not my type.” you scoffed.

“That’s okay.” He nudged a small twig into the coals with his foot. “You’re mine.”

“Ew, stop,” you said, after a brief stupor seized you, shifting awkwardly in place.

“All I said was you’re my type.”

“And I said ew.”

“Which is rude,” he muttered. “You could’ve just said thank you.”

“For what?”

“For having excellent taste.”

“Your taste in woman is objectively questionable.”

“Yeah.” Satoru Gojo said. “you.”

At this point, you could no longer tell why you were still speaking to him at all. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Oh, I can. I just don’t want to.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” you said, rising to your feet. “We agreed to stay for an hour, but it’s almost three in the morning. We need to get teleported home.”

Satoru Gojo, meanwhile, had risen as well, idly twirling the flower still in his hand between his fingers before tucking it into your hair, just above your left temple. You reached up to take it out.

“Leave it.” he said, eyes a little lower than your face. “Looks good on you.”

The remaining villagers handed you the masks before your departure, bidding you farewell as though you’d lived among them all your life. The moped you’d bought was left behind as a parting gift for Taiki Shinohara. The third artifact had been secured. The road ahead remained long, but one thing had become clear.

Satoru Gojo - strongest of all sorcerers - had once again proved he needed none of his usual power to survive the impossible.

Satoru Gojo - the man who stood beside you through the ritual.

Satoru Gojo - the man who entrusted his life to you.

And the man you had, without realizing it yet, begun to trust a little more in return.

Chapter Text

The day had settled into a sullen gray. Thankfully, you’d managed to slip out of the usual four-hour training with the old farts from your clan, claiming Gakuganji had sent you on a mission. Whatever. It wasn’t even a good lie anymore, but the elders didn’t know what day of the week it was most of the time, so it usually worked. Risky? Yes. Worth it? Always. Especially when the alternative involved an old man yelling at you about “back in his day” while trying to kick you with a hip that squeaked.

And so, with your legs propped up against the wall and your head hanging off the edge of your dorm bed, you resolved to devote some time to a book on ancient artifacts. A noble pursuit. But Mika, by all appearances, had plans of her own. She barged into the room without knocking that was hardly unusual. Sometimes she did it just because. Sometimes out of boredom. Sometimes when she needed something from you. And sometimes, like now, you couldn’t tell what she was after. She’d been acting strange for a week straight, and whatever this was, it didn’t feel like any of the usual reasons.

You lifted the book slightly, narrowing your eyes at her in suspicion as she wandered aimlessly around the room. She said nothing, and you lowered the book again to resume reading. Five minutes in, Mika started whistling some tune - though it was near impossible to tell what it was, given she didn’t hit a single note right. It was enough to make you lift the book again.

She walked past your desk, then back again. Then over to the shelves. Shifted a candle an inch to the right. Stared at it for two seconds, then shifted it back. Then she opened the wardrobe, closed it, kicked it gently, opened it again, because obviously the wardrobe didn’t learn its lesson. You watched, patiently, because you are a gracious sibling, born of noble blood. It seemed like nothing new - just the usual things any sibling might do to get under the other’s skin. But there was one problem: it was your job to be annoying.

“You’re being really weird.” you said at last, a final pronouncement handed down from the throne of your bed.

Mika made a “mmmMMMMmmm” noise, which only deepened your annoyance. She was doing it out of boredom, obviously. Totally not because she was hiding something. There were no secrets between you and Mika. You shared everything, once, even, a toothbrush. By accident, but still…

So why did she keep glancing at you like she was waiting for you to read her mind and guess the thing she was very clearly, obviously not saying?

She picked up your hairbrush, inspected it without any rational reason, then set it down. You watched her do it. She watched you watching her do it. The stare-off lasted a solid ten seconds. You blinked first, well, because you’re only human…

In the end, you drew a deep breath and acknowledged that under such circumstances you certainly couldn’t focus on the book, whose lines you’d reread for the fifth time since she entered the room. You hadn’t noticed you’d started chewing on your lower lip again, a sign that your patience was nearing absolute zero.

“Mika.”

Silence.

“Mika.” you said louder.

“Hmmmmm?” she chirped, swaying side to side. Jesus Christ…

You slammed the book shut with a thud. “You are five seconds away from being expelled from this room.”

She looked at you blankly, as though utterly failing to grasp what the issue was. “What’d i do?!”

“What. The hell. Is wrong. With you?!”

“Nothing!”

“Arrgghh!” you exclaimed, irritated, shifting from lying down to sitting upright. “You’ve been acting weird ever since you got back from that mission a week ago. Did something happen out there?”

She gave you a smile where her upper teeth showed, but the eyes said: no thoughts, head empty.

Now, your face held nothing but the look of suffering. “Did you hit your head?”

“No.” Mika said, plopping down on your bed beside you, swinging her legs over the edge. “But if I had, that would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”

“Mika,” you said slowly and carefully. “What happened on the mission.”

“Stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Mission stuff.”

The urge to bash your own head against the wall grew exponentially.

“Mission stuff.” you repeated after her. “Wow, i feel so fucking informed.”

“Glad i could help.” she said staring at the ceiling.

“Oh my God-“

“Okay, okay!” she said. “You’re so nosy! Why can’t you let a girl have her secrets?”

“Because you suck at keeping secrets!” you half-shouted. “You clearly want to tell me, I just don’t understand why you’re torturing both of us first.”

Mika pressed her lips together and drew a breath, steeling herself to finally tell you what this was all about.

“I met someone,” she said, exhaling sharply.

“You met someone.” you repeated after her again.

“Yes.”

The meaning behind her words was perfectly clear to you, and yet you allowed yourself a few seconds to let it settle. Mika had met someone she apparently liked so much that her brain had ceased all proper function. Then you felt yourself panicking.

“Please, tell me he’s not a non-sorcerer. If our clan knows-“

“He’s not,” she said, trying to soothe you. “But it wouldn’t matter either way. He…” she broke off, that idiotic smile creeping back onto her face. “He’s wonderful. He’s kind, funny, ridiculously handsome, clever, and he wants to protect people. Just like I do.”

You stared at her, mouth half-open. “You don’t give a damn about people. You hate jujutsu.”

“That’s you, sis. You’re the one who hates jujutsu and doesn’t care about people. I just hate our clan.”

Unbelievable. Years of shared history. A thousand nights whispering secrets under the covers. And somehow, you’d never realized that your twin had spent the entire time hating a different part of the same hell.

“See,” Mika began again, “they just paired us up on a mission last week, and while we were working, things sort of… clicked, you know?”

You didn’t know.

Your mind shut off somewhere around “paired up on a mission last week.” Everything that followed blurred into a blah blah blah .

Paired up on a mission last week.

Last week.

A week ago.

You did the math. The past week, the mission pairings had been with the Tokyo branch. You’d been assigned to Haibara. And Mika..

“Oh my God!” you shouted.

Mika was still talking.

“Oh my God.”

She was describing his smile now.

Now, granted, you had nothing against the Tokyo branch in theory. But in practice, they were nosy, rowdy, and walked around with a permanent superiority complex, which was ironic. And if that wasn’t enough, they also had Satoru Gojo. So, naturally, the bar was very low.

“Oh my God!” you went again. “No! No, no, no, no!”

Mika froze for a second. “What? What??”

“You idiot.” You stood up so fast the world went dark for a moment, but that hardly mattered now. “You actual, confirmed idiot.”

“Okay.” she said carefully. “I feel like this is the part where you ask me who it-“

“Geto Suguru!”you shouted, accusatory finger already pointed like she was about to be sentenced. “Are you out of your mind?!”

“I don’t think so,” she said thoughtfully. “But I did spend a full minute watching him tie his hair back, so it’s possible I’ve sustained some mild brain damage.”

You could feel your sense of order, your generational responsibility, your hard-earned indifference - everything collapsing under the weight of her romantic delusion.

“He’s parents have zero of cursed energy.” you said.

“So?“

“They won’t accept that. If anyone in our clan finds out, you’ll get it first  and they’ll make sure he’s sent on a mission he’s not likely to return from. They’ve done worse for less.”

“They won’t find out!” she moved closer to the edge of the bed, lowering her voice to nearly a whisper. “I haven’t told anyone - not Utahime, not the others. I’m telling you because you’re the only one i can trust.”

“What about him? What if he runs his mouth to someone? Especially that white-haired idiot friend of his, whose mouth hasn’t shut since the day it first opened?”

“Suguru promised he wouldn’t tell even him, though he wanted to. He knows our clan and understands the risk.”

“So now we’re relying on the discretion of a teenage boy. I feel so safe already.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Mika went on. “We’ll be careful. I can act like I hate him in public-”

“That part should come naturally.”

“-and we’ll keep everything hidden. Maybe forever. But I don’t care.”

She was actually smiling like an idiot again. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the crease between your brows.

“You’re sure it’s him?”

She turned her head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve never been in love before. You don’t even know if this is that.”

“Well,” she said slowly, “he made me laugh, and then when we fought together, he trusted me without asking questions. Not like a teammate. Not like someone who needed me. And I wasn’t scared. I felt safe.”

You sat back on the bed and let your head fall back against the wall. “We are so unbelievably screwed.”

Mika rolled over, her cheek squished into your blanket. “You’re not screwed. I’m the one who’s gonna get disowned and possibly punished.”

“Don’t be stupid. You know I’ll come after you, no matter what. So if they want to lay a hand on you, they’ll have to get through the clan’s founder technique first and they’re scared shitless of that.”

She reached out without looking and patted your leg with one pitying slap. “That’s the most sister thing you ever said to me.”

You swatted her hand off. “I’m serious. You’re playing with your life. With his, too.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said, a little softer now. “But when you’ve spent your entire life being told what not to want, and suddenly you find something that feels like yours it’s hard not to hold onto it. Even if it’s stupid.”

You hated when she said things that made sense. You had no defense against that. You tilted your head to the side and stared at the ceiling for a while. The cobweb in the far corner was back, probably had been for days. You should’ve cleaned it, and you would’ve, if your sister hadn’t just detonated the last surviving illusion that at least one of you would end up normal.

“So what, it’s been a week now that you two’ve been talking?”

“We text every day. He says good morning, asks how my day is going, and wishes me luck if I’m heading out on a mission.”

A short laugh escaped you, and you simply shook your head.

“It’s not like I wanted this to happen. We just got along, okay? And he’s so smart. He talks about jujutsu the way other boys talk about sports. And he listens when I say things. Not pretend-listening.”

“That’s called basic human decency, Mika. It’s not love.”

“You don’t get it.”

“No. No, I do get it. You’re the idiot. That’s what I get.”

Your words didn’t faze her, on the contrary, Mika laughed, and this time, she looked at you. “One day you’ll fall in love too, sis. And I hope I’m there to see it, so I can keep poking you with an ‘I told you so.’”

You scoffed. “I’m never falling in love. That’s the plan. Die cold, die strong, die with my technique intact and my reputation unsullied.”

“And what about Satoru Gojo?”

You frowned. “What does that idiot have to do with anything we’re talking about?”

Mika pursed her lips into a bow, struggling not to laugh. “Well, you know, Utahime mentioned that after the first day of the Goodwill Event in Tokyo, she saw him leaving your room late in the evening.”

It stunned you for a moment, and for the briefest second, you felt a flicker of shame, as though something truly had passed between you and him in that room. “First of all, he came in even after I told him not to. Second, we were just talking.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious, Mika. He was just as confused as I was about why our sparring turned into an apocalypse and wiped out half the training grounds. I can’t even punch him in the face without consequences, how exactly do you imagine anything could happen between us?”

“So you don’t like him?”

“Correct.”

“You DON’T like him.”

“Yes.”

“You absolutely, without question, do not like him.”

“That is the position I have taken, yes.”

Mika gave a long, slow nod, then reached over, grabbed a pen from your desk, and scribbled something on the back of your artifact book.

You looked at her confused. “What are you-”

She turned the book around. In all caps, underlined twice, with a little heart next to it:

“DENIAL: STAGE 1.”

You gasped in a horror. “My new book! I’m going to kill you!” by the time you’d gathered yourself to chase after Mika, she was already halfway out of your dorm. “You’re writing on a first edition-“

“Love you, mean it!” Mika shouted from the hallway, cackling.

Today was the day. The day you willingly walked into a situation you had no business being in. You had agreed three days ago, which was already three days too many for the weight of this idiocy to sit comfortably on your conscience. Mika had asked nicely, then tearfully, then with blackmail. The last part had worked - she knew too much, you had no choice. Which is why you were now sitting in the most deserted corner of Tokyo, third-wheeling your sister’s secret romance. Unofficially, you were there as cover, in case the two of them were discovered. Officially, you were there because Mika insisted you “just had to meet him” and “see for yourself that he’s not a threat,” and “stop being so paranoid.” The delusion was contagious.

“Let’s get this over with,” you said, arms crossed as you sat across from them. “What are your intentions with my sister?”

“Goodness…” Mika covered her face with a hand, shame was beginning to bloom across her face.

The young sorcerer wasn’t the least bit offended by your question, which frankly was insulting, because you meant every word, you could tell he was amused by it. Why were all the Tokyo students born with God complexes and bulletproof confidence?

“You want the short answer or the long?”

“I want the version where you convince me not to knock both of you out and drag my sister back to Kyoto by the hair.”

“She’s joking,” Mika said quickly. “She’s joking. That was a joke. She’s being funny. Hahaha. So funny…”

You WERE NOT joking. Your face had never known laughter. Mika, recognizing the incoming storm, wisely fled to the restroom under the flimsy pretext of needing to “powder her nose.”

“Huh. You’re nothing alike, even though you look so much the same,” Suguru Geto remarked.

You leaned in toward the table and folded your hands atop it. “Listen,” you began. “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got nothing against you, despite your friend being a complete idiot. And I understand that things are only just beginning to take shape between you two, but you clearly don’t grasp how much you’re risking by agreeing to meet with Mika like this.”

“You don’t know what the people in our clan are capable of,” you went on, when young sorcerer gave no reply. “You don’t know how fast they’ll erase something just because it makes them uncomfortable. You might think I’m being cruel. Maybe I am. But I’m only saying it because I love my sister and want to keep her safe. Walk away before it’s too late or someone gets hurt.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” he said said after a long silence. “It’s good to know Mika’s not the scariest one. I figured you were only like that in battle, when I watched the chaos you and Satoru stirred up a couple months back.”

“We’re not talking about Goodwill event.“

“I know.” he said, smiling politely, his voice composed and calm. “You’re not trying to protect me, obviously, you’re protecting your sister. Which means you want to know if I’ll take the brunt of it if all of this comes to light.”

And so, ladies and gentlemen, here sits the full package - tall, strong, handsome, brave, and now, oh joy, clever. Smart enough to clock the real question, and just idiotic enough to answer it. You arched a brow, making it clear he’d hit the mark, and that you awaited an answer.

“I would.” Suguru Geto said simply.

Noted: clever and an absolute lunatic. The most insane part is that you felt how completely,  stupidly, infuriatingly sincere he was. God, Mika had a type. And now that type called “willing to die for a girl he’d known for a month.”  A rare breed.

“You realize how ridiculous that sounds.” you said.

“Yes.”

“And you’re still saying it.”

“Yes. Mika told me everything. I made my choice.”

“And you’re telling me not a single one of your friends has any idea what’s going on?”

Suguru Geto shook his head. “Not a single one.”

You didn’t buy it. He could see plainly that you didn’t.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Of course, it’s hard to keep anything from Satoru, you know, Six Eyes and all that. He can tell something’s up, but you don’t have to worry about it. He’ll never ask first if he knows I don’t want to talk about it. Not unless he thinks I’m in danger.”

“Technically, you are in danger.”

“Yes, but only if I count your clan as a threat.”

You stared at him and he stared at you. Where’s the catch?

“So you’re not afraid.” you said.

“Of being hurt?” Suguru Geto’s brow shifted. “Yes. Of being punished? No.”

“I’m failing to see the difference here.”

“See, one’s a consequence,” he said. “The other is a cost.”

You weren’t sure if you liked the fact that you understood it.

“Don’t you think it’s a little early to talk like that?”

“Probably.” the young sorcerer shrugged. “But you asked so i answered. People don’t need decades to recognize what matters to them. Sometimes it’s a conversation. Sometimes it’s a mission. Sometimes it’s a moment where you’re not looking for anything, and then you realize that this matters. And you either admit it or lie to yourself. I’m not the lying type.”

Every answer Suguru Geto gave was rational, honest, logical, well-reasoned. And yet - why were you so afraid? Why did every calm word from his mouth make you feel like something was already slipping out of your reach? But you still chose to accept his answer. To accept him.

“If this ever stops being mutual,” you said. “If you ever so much as make her feel like an afterthought - I don’t care what the principal of Tokyo says about your potential - I’ll bury the story so deep not even Six Eyes will be able to dig it back up.”

“ I could say I hope it never comes to that,” he said, voice even, “but we both know better. So I won’t. But I can offer this: I’ll be honest with Mika. Always, start to finish. That’s the minimum I can promise.” he made a pause. “And I know how much she wants this to work - not just with me. With us. You and me. So” he extended a hand across the table “truce?”

Suguru Geto feared nothing. At least, nothing you could name. Not jujutsu, not your clan, not the pale dogs of death themselves. He sat with the composure only boys born to win could afford and yet he held Mika’s future in both hands, like it was weightless. Confidence, it seemed, was his natural resting state. And conviction ,maddening, absolute conviction, bled from every word he spoke. And the more you watched the way he treated Mika, shielding her from trouble without so much as a second thought, the more he earned your trust and respect.

You shook his hand that day. You believed Mika. You believed Suguru Geto.

You didn’t know it was the last time you’d ever be able to.

Chapter Text

“So… you’re saying… you see those things…”

“Curses.” you corrected Kazuki at once, fingers anxiously laced together in your lap. You hadn’t meant to cut him off, not really, but more than anything, you didn’t want him looking at you like you’d lost your mind. And if choosing the right word could help him understand that you were still of sound mind, then so be it.

“…Right. Curses.” the man scratched at his forehead, fixing eyes firmly on the floor. He’d been doing everything in his power for the past twenty minutes not to look you in the eye. “So you’ve been seeing them since you were a kid.”

“Yes.”

“And this is… a common thing? I mean, there are others?”

“Yes.” you nodded, into the emptiness, because he still wouldn’t look at you. “There’s a whole society, more or less. Schools, hierarchies, politics, clans.”

“Jesus…” Kazuki said, exhaling slowly.   “And when you said you worked in sales…”

“I lied.”

You could see him working through it, trying to slot that blunt confession into the version of you he thought he knew.

“So all this time you’ve been out there destroying monsters?”

That old fear crept back in again. The same one that had first driven you to lie, convinced you could bury the past so long as you stayed far enough from jujutsu and those who lived by it. The urge to lie pulsed through your chest once more, feeding you false signals dressed as instinct, whispering that it was for the sake of self-preservation. For the sake of not losing Kazuki. For the sake of your one-way train to a life that might still pass for normal. Lie, you said to yourself.

“Not exactly. I left school in my final year and haven’t really done much of it since. I mean, if I see a curse, I won’t just walk past it, obviously… but it’s not exactly my main line of work, let’s put it that way.”

“Then what do you do?”

Lie.

“Well…at the moment, I’m helping the strongest sorcerer gather artifacts to restore an ancient seal.” you said, choosing your words with great care. “One of the ancient ones, created by two of the greatest sorcerers of the Heian era. Dangerous both to those without cursed energy and to those with it. For reasons still unknown, it began to weaken, and ever since, I’ve been sensing shifts in the energy, and now it’s necessary to…” you saw Kazuki was barely keeping pace with the avalanche of information crashing down on him all at once. “never mind. Let’s just stop at the part where I said I’m helping to restore the seal. Less of a headache that way.”

His expression gave no clear sign of whether he understood any of it or if he had already made up his mind about everything entirely. But after a brief pause, he let out a short laugh.

“And the strongest sorcerer would be, I’m guessing, the one and only Satoru Gojo, who is, of course, no assistant at all.”

“Right.” your voice grew thinner and uncertain with each truth you spoke. In that moment, Kazuki finally met your eyes, and his gaze held long enough to unsettle you. Only now, it seemed you no longer had the courage to hold it back.

“You know.” he said finally. “I used to think you were secretive because you had trust issues. That maybe you just didn’t open up easily. Which, fine, I could respect that. I figured, give it time. No pressure. But this?” he rubbed a hand down his face, as if the act of staying calm was starting to physically exhaust him. “This is not a little omission.”

“Kazuki, I’m telling you this because I want you to know that it used to be a part of my life too. A part that’s touched me again, even for a little while. But once I’m finished with the seal, everything will go back to the way it was.”

“You say that it’s temporary, like it’s just a phase you’re passing through on the way back to… what? Sales?”

“I didn’t want to drag you into it.” you said avoiding the question. “That was the whole point of keeping it from you.”

“You didn’t want to drag me into it.” he repeated. “But you were still planning to marry me. You were planning a life with me, and part of you thought you could just keep the other half buried?”

“It’s exactly because I know now I won’t be able to keep the other half buried that I’m telling you this now.” your eyes flicked over to him.

“And how long were you planning to wait, huh?” he asked. “If that thing in the supermarket hadn’t happened… would you have ever told me?”

The truth is, you wouldn’t have said a word if he hadn’t caught Satoru Gojo on top of you in the middle of a heap of snacks and soy sauce bottles at the store. Your naive little soul had genuinely believed you could handle the apocalypse quietly and then carry on pretending nothing of consequence had happened. It always worked. It had always worked.

Lie, you said to yourself over and over again.

“I was going to tell you.” you said. “But it never felt like the right time. Because there isn’t a right time. There’s no pleasant way to explain that the thing you thought was sleep paralysis at sixteen was actually a low-grade phantasm trying to eat you. So yes, I kept moving the goalpost. I thought once this mission is over, or once I know for sure how stable the seal is, or once I’m done being dragged back in… then I’ll sit him down, and say the words.”

“And what?” his voice this time was sharper. “You thought I’d take it well?”

“Honestly? I didn’t think and I haven’t been thinking about how you’d take it. Because this is simply what is. It’s already there, and whether I like it or not, it’s not something I can fix or change in myself. All I ever feared was that you wouldn’t believe me or that you’d start looking at me differently.”

He was trying not to let whatever sentence had just formed behind his teeth slip past them. That restraint, more than anything, told you he was close to the edge of something he hadn’t expected to find himself standing on.

“I do see you differently now.” the man said at last, and it sounded more like a verdict than anything else. “But what bothers me is that you’ve spent the past three years building a life with me while preparing for the possibility of walking away from it.”

“Kazuki-“

“You were keeping one foot out the door the whole time. That’s what this is. You made me part of your life, but only the part you could afford to lose.” Kazuki’s hands betrayed the weight of what he was holding in: curling now and then into fists, shifting with restless gestures as he spoke.

“I didn’t prepare to leave you.”

“But you did prepare to live without me.”

The worst part was that you couldn’t say a single thing in that moment. You couldn’t argue, couldn’t offer any kind of rebuttal, though you knew it was exactly what Kazuki wanted most to hear. But today, we’re telling the truth, aren’t we? And your silence spoke it loudest. It stretched long enough that, from “your new apartment”, you could hear the front door open down the hall, letting in the sounds of the family living directly across the way.

“You said there are plenty of sorcerers like you.” he went on. “so why is it you who’s helping him? Why can’t he handle it on his own if he’s the strongest, or ask someone else to do it?”

“None of the other sorcerers are all that well-versed in the artifacts tied to the seal,” you said, shifting awkwardly in your seat. “I mean, sure, they told us about it back in school, but no one really went into detail. Most of the training focused on other things.”

“So the strongest sorcerer in the world doesn’t have access to a good librarian?” Kazuki crossed his arms over his chest.

“He has access.” you sighed. “What he doesn’t have is patience and time, because that man is too busy saving the world every day.”

His fingers drummed once against his bicep, then stopped. “And the supermarket incident?”

“An accident.” you said. “A stupid accident, because for reasons I still don’t fully understand, our techniques clash so violently that the moment we’re near each other, they both shut down and if we so much as touch, everything around us suffers for it. And back at the supermarket, he was just being annoying, I got annoyed, we both grabbed the same bag of snacks at the same time, and then half the aisle tried to kill us. End of story.”

“Do you think he can be trusted?”

Million dollar question, ladies and gentlemen.

“He’s reliable. In the sense that if he says he’ll do something, he will. If he says he’ll win, he will. And if he says something isn’t safe, then it probably isn’t.”

The answer didn’t exactly line up with Kazuki’s question, but it would’ve been foolish to pretend Satoru Gojo hadn’t performed a survival ritual with you just two days ago and ensured neither of you came to harm. Foolish, too, to claim you didn’t trust him at all. But to admit, in front of him, that you trusted that white-haired idiot even a fraction more than your own fiancé? That would’ve been a complete disaster.

“I’m sorry.” you said aloud without meaning to, mostly out of shame for your own thoughts. “I really am, Kazuki.”

“Okay.” he answered, which caught you off guard. “I mean…okay as in, I need time. I don’t know how to respond to this right now. I don’t even know what it means, really. Give me a couple of days, I… I’ll call you. I need to think about it.”

All you could do was nod in reply and rise from the new sofa that Kazuki and his mother had picked out while you were in Iga, for the home that was meant to be yours. You could already see the mental lists forming behind his eyes: pros, cons, flags, fallback plans. That was who he was.

You saw yourself out. Kazuki didn’t even bother closing the door behind you, apparently figuring that if you held some supernatural power, you could manage to lock it yourself and perhaps even fly home in under two minutes. That outcome had been expected and it was only natural he’d want time to process everything. It was, by all accounts, the best of the possibilities you’d considered.

What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was coming home to find Satoru Gojo and Taro seated on YOUR sofa in YOUR apartment, playing video games like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. Not that anything could really be described as “unexpected” anymore, considering the way your home had long since given up the illusion of personal space. Somewhere along the line, it had transformed into a community center with a mild curse infestation and a recurring white-haired squatter problem. There was no way the universe was going to hand you one monumental crisis of a conversation and then let you wallow in solitude like a normal adult. That would’ve been far too merciful. Instead, it handed you Satoru Gojo and Taro. So you saw no point in asking how they’d gotten in or why it was your place they’d chosen.

They only turned when the door behind you closed.

“Oh!” Taro said, his attention flicking back to the game. “I thought you were with Kazuki.” not that it mattered because neither of them was supposed to be here anyway. “That was quick. Everything okay?”

“Peachy.” you set your shoes neatly in the rack and placed the bakery bag on the coffee table, just so you could look them both square in their shameless faces. No shame found.

Taro quickly adjusted his glasses with a finger, poking out a tongue slightly in deep concentration. “You brought pastries?”

“I’ll take a raspberry one.” Satoru Gojo reached into the bag with one hand and pulled out a raspberry tart, while the other continued to click leisurely across the joystick.

“Why are you here?” you said after a long sigh. The question was directed at the white-haired catastrophe currently helping himself to the tart you were fairly certain you’d bought to chase away the aftertaste of that unpleasant conversation with Kazuki. How did he even know there was raspberry in it? Wait, that doesn’t matter.

Satoru Gojo paused the game (prompting an indignant “hey!” from Taro). The tart vanished between two long fingers, then a crumb settled on his lower lip. “You told me to come today.”

“I did not.” not in your right mind, at least.

“You did, actually.” the sorcerer brushed the crumb off his lip with his thumb, looking at you to tog with your nerves. “Even used punctuation. I think that’s sexy.”

“He’s fun. You’re fun.” Taro giggled, motioning between you two. “This is fun.”

“There’s nothing fun about this. I know I didn’t text you that” seeing his face again so soon had not been on your agenda, not for a long while after coming back from Iga. No way. You would’ve told him to show up in, what, five days? A week? Or better yet not at all.

The sorcerer stuck a second tartlet between his teeth and pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through something before shoving the screen in your face.

[Sent 2 days ago, 8:50p.m.]

So when are we going after the next artifact? 👀

[8:53p.m.]

don’t leave me on read

[8:54p.m.]

[meme of waiting mr. Bean]

[8:56p.m.]

tomorrow then

Boss-sama [8:56p.m.]

no! come over like day after tomorrow or whatever and we’ll talk about it.

He wasn’t lying. Worse: he wasn’t even being annoying on purpose. You’d actually sent that. Apparently, in the wake of all that ritual nonsense, you’d fired it off just to get him out of your hair and promptly forgotten its existence. Not even touching the fact that he’d saved you in his contacts as “boss-sama.”

“I was wounded by the ‘whatever’ part, by the way.” Satoru Gojo drawled. “after everything we’ve been through-“

“We’ve been through noth-“

“-but at least it wasn’t another death threat.” he shrugged, returning his full attention to the pastry, while Taro was laughing quietly at your expression.

You flopped onto the couch beside Taro and leaned against the backrest. Looks like figuring out where your love life’s headed will have to wait ‘til tomorrow.

“By the way, what’s the next artifact supposed to be?” Taro adjusted his glasses again and started poking you in the cheek with his finger.

“A sword.” you said, swatting Taro’s hand away what he took for encouragement. Poke. Poke. Poke. “called Furinkazan no Yaiba.”

You were aiming for gravitas, but it was hard to sound impressive when your right cheek was being physically assaulted by a bespectacled gremlin.

“Is this the one with the wind and fire stuff?”Taro sniffed. “I think I read about it once when I was looking up that old onmyōdō forum.”

“Yeah.” you muttered, trying to ignore the sound of tart chewing beside you. “It’s the one that was forged in the Heian period, originally intended to balance the four elements, but only wind and fire responded to the ritual. The other two-“

“Earth and water refused to bond.” Satoru Gojo finished for you.

You blinked once. Did he actually do his homework and read up on the artifact? 

“They sealed it using a fragment of the original incantation Amegiri Seizan used for the heavenly lattice.” he went on. “Not a full invocation, just enough to lock the elemental resonance.”

You paused. You blinked. Then you double blinked. Fine, whatever. You weren’t impressed. You were just… stunned by the absence of his usual idiocy. That’s all.

“Well.” Taro said, trying to sound casual “that’s… actually kind of cool. Can i come with you this time?”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No.” you repeated, because Satoru Gojo’s voice didn’t get the final say here. Taro could manage to injure himself in his own house, even if you bubble-wrapped the entire place. You weren’t about to drag him off to the middle of nowhere and throw his life on the line. Not with who (or what) was guarding the blade. What if you lost focus for a second and something happened to him?

“Why not?” the young man puffed his cheeks. “I can see curses, can’t I? And technically I’ve already helped, like, a bunch of times.”

“Yeah, by staying home, digging up the intel I need or hacking into surveillance systems. Plus, the sword’s not guarded by curses - its spirits. And neither I nor him,” you jabbed a finger toward Satoru Gojo, who paused mid-bite on yet another tartlet and gave a low snort, “can see those.”

“That’s discrimination against people with normal energy levels. You know, just because I don’t have fancy cursed chakra-”

"Not up for debate." you cut him off. Taro was young, blood running hot and hungry for trouble (no surprise there),  but how do you explain to someone who’s never lived through any of it that if you gave every last one of the sorcerers a shot at walking away from jujutsu for good, they’d take it without blinking?

Would Satoru Gojo take it?

“There are spirits involved.” you went on, turning your focus back to the issue that had you rapidly losing the will to live. “Spirits that don’t play by curse rules. Spirits that respond to intention and spiritual residue and god-knows-what-else depending on which legend you read. And the one guarding this sword according to these legends is... let’s just say, not the type to forgive a clumsy footstep.”

“Sounds like someone I dated once.” the white-haired sorcerer muttered.

You ignored him. The last thing you wanted was to know anything about his personal life or the women he’d been involved with. Ugh, hard pass.

“And according to the legend that spirit is?” Taro asked.

“Taira no Masakado.” you and Satoru Gojo said in unison.

Silence.

“…I’m sorry, I think I blacked out for a second.” Taro said slowly. “Did you just say Taira no Masakado? Headless samurai?”

“Yes.” you nodded.

“Tried to start his own kingdom?”

“Yes.” Satoru Gojo nodded.

“The one whose head wouldn’t shut up even after it got chopped off?”

“Yes.” you both said again. In perfect unison, unfuckingbelievable.You stared at him and he stared at you. Taro stared at you both.

“I like legends of samurai ghosts.” Taro said eventually. “You remember i wrote a paper on Masakado in college?”

“He gave it a pun title.” you told the sorcerer. “Losing Your Head Over Politics.”

Satoru Gojo chuckled. “You gotta drop by Tokyo Jujutsu High sometime. I think the kids could learn a thing or two from you, Taro. Or maybe pick up a few things yourself, if you're up for it. I can introduce you to everyone.”

You did not like that sentence. You don’t like the fact that Satoru Gojo decided he could just barge through your door and drag you and the one person you actually care about straight into his mess of a life. The fallout of that little intrusion? Kazuki might now see you as some hellspawn.

The fallout of his actions…

And your own dumbass choices.

And even though you didn’t say it, didn’t so much as twitch in warning, there was a pointedness in the way your jaw held still, in the way your nails pressed into your palm, that any mildly observant person might’ve taken as a sign. Satoru Gojo, of course, noticed everything. Taro, naturally, didn’t notice a thing.

“For real?” the young man practically bounced with excitement. “You think I could go?”

“Sure.” the white-haired idiot said shrugging. “We’ll swing by, take a quick peek at the archive, you can meet the principal, probably fight a giant frog, I don’t know...depends on the hour, really.”

"Can i wear a uniform?" Taros' glasses fogged sencing his excitment.

You, meanwhile, counted to three. Then to six. Then to somewhere around thrity. You were fine. Totally fine.

Taro’s cheeks were still flushed pink as he squeaked. "I mean, obviously I wouldn’t really wear the uniform, unless it’s like, optional. Or if they have a spare one in my size."

“Uniforms are reserved for actual students.” you said, aiming for calm neutrality while glaring holes into the side of Gojo’s smug, tartlet-stuffed face.

"I'm sure we can make an exception for Taro. Just for one day." Satoru Gojo said, perfectly aware of how badly you wanted to strangle him right now and giving absolutely zero fucks about it. Then, he dragged a single finger across the rim of the tart plate, picked up the last crumb, and popped it into his mouth. You stared at him. He licked his thumb.

While you were busy choking down the nausea from what you’d just witnessed, the four-eyed, glasses-wearing gremlin was barely containing a surge of glee, completely forgetting he was supposed to be on his way to meet one of your clients, the ones who wanted you to fetch them an artifact somewhere near Osaka. That’s how you learned how the pair ended up on your couch by the time you got home: Taro had swung by to grab some work files, and it was Satoru Gojo (apparently the one you’d arranged to meet) who opened the door for him. So you reminded him about the meeting he was already late for and quite literally dragged his ass out the door.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” those were the first words out of your mouth, laced with a coldness entirely unlike the voice you’d used before the door had clicked shut after Taro.

Satoru Gojo rose from the couch, stretching with a lazy arch and letting out a sigh of pure satisfaction. “Letting the kid live a little.”

“No.”  you said. “What you’re doing is dragging him into something he has no place being part of.”

“He has eyes, doesn’t he?” he replied. “He’s already seen too much to pretend he hasn’t.”

“You think just because he’s seen something, he needs to see more?” you crossed your arms over your chest, barely holding your fury in check.

“I think pretending he’s not already involved is a bit naive, boss-sama. He’s not stupid.”

You knew the exact distance his cursed technique would start reacting to yours, and right now, he was two steps away from it. So he took one and you stubbornly kept standing still. His eyes flicked to yours like he could already hear your thoughts assembling the sentence before it left your mouth. That slow burn of irritation crawling up your spine had nothing to do with resonance and everything to do with him standing there in your living room, radiating peace and chaos in equal measure, like he hadn’t just invited someone you actually cared about into the lion’s den without asking.

"He is not invlovled in it."

“He is. Ever since you let him into your home and raised him till he moved out on his own. He’s already in it for one simple reason.” each step brought him closer, and again you caught that same familiar scent of lilies that you hated so much. “Because you’ve always been part of this world.”

“Don’t give me that fate bullshit.” you snorted.

“I wasn’t going to. I’m giving you fact.” and that was worse. Somehow, that was really really worse.

“That’s a hell of a thing to say.”

“Yeah, well.” he shrugged, “truth’s kind of a bitch. But we’re telling the truth today, right?”

“Truth.” you said, keeping your voice low, “is that I’ve spent years keeping him safe from the kind of shit you swim in daily. I don’t get to erase what I’ve already seen, but he still has a chance to not to experience any of it.”

"Says the woman who dragged him straight into a world where he’s helping you chase down artifacts directly tied to jujutsu."

Every word, sharp as a blade digging into some half-healed wound, dragged the two of you closer with each step, until both your techniques finally fizzled out. Right now felt like the perfect fucking time to smash that infuriatingly calm face of his while hurricane tore through your chest.

“You keep talking about keeping Taro safe.” Satoru Gojo said. “But we both know that’s a smokescreen. This isn’t about him. This is about you being scared.”

“Scared?” you scoffed. “Of what?” you stepped close enough that the air itself felt ready to spark, like the whole room was seconds from going to hell again. “I’m not scared of a goddamn thing, because…you know what? I don’t owe you shit. Not an explanation, not a single fucking justification for anything I’ve done. Of all people, you don’t get to judge me. Not after the drama you and your friend pulled.” you’d already lost track of what even started the fight, but you kept tugging at that thread anyway, pulling until it frayed, until it spat out every bit of anger and bitterness you’d been holding onto from everything that was happening because of this man since the day you met again in Kyoto.

“Ah.” his grin got wider. “There it is. I’m starting to think your anger has nothing to do with me offering Taro a walk through the school, boss-sama.”

“This is not-“

“Is this because of Kazuki?”

You could be wrapped in iron chains at the bottom of the Mariana Trench and this man would still spot the moment your heartbeat stumbled. “What?” Gosh, there’s no word that could describe how much you hated him. “This has nothing to do with Kazuki”

“Did you tell him the truth?” the sorcerer leaned in and the scent of lilies now laced with mint hit you straight in the face. “And he didn’t take it the way you were hoping, so now you’re pissed about it and obviously blaming me, huh?”

“Oh screw you.”  you hissed it just to end the conversation already. You stepped back, then made the deliberate choice to go around him: no contact, no conversation, no interest in either.

What you hadn’t accounted for, of course, was the fact that he moved too. It was nothing more than his fingers closing tightly and unerringly around your wrist, that alone was sufficient to send the car alarms wailing from the street outside, and set the television screen, frozen on the paused game, into a violent stutter of flickers.

It was so abrupt that at first you couldn’t grasp what had happened, but the moment he yanked you in close enough that your chest pressed flush against his, only then did it begin to register. Satoru Gojo had truly gone and done it. He’d decided your time, your private life, your personal space, your damn apartment weren’t worth even a passing thought anymore. And now, apparently, neither was the little detail that your techniques colliding could rip the entire world apart. You jerked your arm, but his grip was iron but neither harsh nor soft, just immovable. Your other hand rose, meaning to help you up but he caught that one too.

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” you hissed, shaking out your arm.

“I wanted your attention.”

“You already had it.” full attention of your hatred.

“Well, now I have all of it.”He pressed your back against the door (which, evidently, was still where you’d ended up standing) leaving not a sliver of space between you save for his body and the door itself, which almost screamed with the violent aftermath of your techniques. “And you were leaving, i didn’t like that.”

The fucking audacity.

“You don’t like a lot of things. Doesn’t mean the world’s going to pause and wipe your ass for you.”

He gave a little hum, equal parts amused and unbothered, his breath tickled your skin for a second. “Well, that’s what you’re for.”

“I will bury you.” which was a rather ridiculous claim, considering you were pinned so tightly you could not even raise your knees to smash him in the balls.

“In tarts? Please do.”

Somewhere out on the street, the dogs had already taken to barking in packs, and the books on your shelves had joined hands (metaphorically, or perhaps not) and begun a cheerful little round dance through the air.

“Let me go.”

“Why? Are you uncomfortable?” He was smiling. Smiling, like he had not pinned you against the door with a single-minded stubbornness that tested every bit of your patience.

“No. I’m thoroughly enjoying being pressed against my own door by an oversized child.”

Satoru Gojo tilted his head. “Oversized in all the right ways, though.” his hair brushed over his forehead, the rhythm of his breathing matching yours beat for beat. It was maddening, utterly maddening, the way he stood there without actually closing the scant distance remaining.

You ignored his latest attempt to pluck at the strings of your restraint and instead turned your attention to freeing your right hand, which, blessedly, came loose with little effort, as the sorcerer had loosened his grip somewhere in the middle of his dramatics. The victory was short-lived, by the way. You’d barely started to raise your hand (on a direct and noble path to slap him right across the face) when he caught your wrist again, this time pinning it just above your head.

“You’re mad because you’re scared. You think if I keep getting close, you’ll forget all the reasons you’re supposed to hate me.”

You laughed dryly and sardonically. “I don’t need to forget, since you either remind me of the reasons daily or hand me new ones.”

Pillows, that ought to have remained in their rightful place on your bed, had already flown over your heads. The curtains swayed with the urgency of a brewing storm, though the sky outside held not a single cloud. He didn’t seem to care.

“I think it’s a form of affection, coming from you.”

“I’m going to bite you.”

“That’s also affection.”

“Let. Me. Go.”

“You’ll yell at me again.”

“I’ll yell at you regardless.”

His breath brushed your cheek again like a secret you weren’t supposed to hear. You could practically feel the curve of his damn smile against your skin. You jerked your face to the side, and his nose bumped yours. Stupidly soft. Your pulse thrummed traitorously. The only plan that took shape in your mind, should he cross the line, was to strike him over the head with your own.

“You always talk like this when you’re flustered.” he murmured.

You couldn’t reply, because your breath caught somewhere between your throat and your spine, not with the way your heartbeat was trying to punch its way out of your chest and slap him in the face for you.

At that moment, when it seemed the very universe could no longer bear the collapse of your techniques and might at any instant descend upon the nation with a tsunami or a tornado, Satoru Gojo, at long last, took a step back and released your hands. For half a second, you stayed frozen in place. You took a breath. Then another.

“Get out.”

“I’ll leave you-“

Praise be to every God mankind has ever knelt before.

“-just for a bit. I’m going to grab another batch of tartlets, then we need to talk about how we’re gonna reach the spirit of Taira no Masakado.” the sorcerer said, pulling the blindfold down over his eyes.

“When I said get out, I meant I don’t want to see you.” you clarified, for what little composure remained was hanging by the thinnest of threads.

“All right, all right.” he said, making his way to the door.  “I’ll go.”

“Thank you.” you gave yourself a mental slap, because seriously, why the hell were you still bothering to be polite to him?

“But I’ll be back.”

“Unthank you.”

He had no right to act as though he knew you.

He had no right to step into your home and carry himself as though it were his own.

He had no right to behave as though there were anything binding you two, beyond the Seal.

He had no right.

Chapter Text

This was, without exaggeration, the dumbest plan you’d ever agreed to.

There were several reasons, none of them redeeming.

First: the plan was his.

Second: his ideas, historically, were terrible.

Third: this harebrained scheme involved provoking a vengeful spirit by donning the very relics he left behind, then politely inquiring where, pray tell, he had stashed the sword he was sworn to guard.

Stupid idea, wasn’t it? Absolutely fucking idiotic.

But you stole the helmet anyway. The very one unearthed a century ago by some enterprising moron who’d decided  grave-robbing a samurai for resale was a clever retirement plan, flipping the relic for millions on the black market. Spoiler: the Minister of Defense had it right now. And you very nearly gave yourself a full-blown panic attack trying to steal it back from a defense contractor’s palatial estate. Honestly, your ass clenched so hard during that heist, it could’ve cracked a diamond. 

You weren’t even certain this would work. Six Eyes or no Six Eyes, infinity or no infinity, jujutsu energy ran on the same low, dirty frequency as every other curse- none of it meant shit in this case. Jujutsu energy spoke in the register of the wretched and the dead.To reach anything higher, to commune with frequencies that rang above the mortal scrape of sorcery, you had to be born with it. Medium, God..that sort of pedigree..

Which, in turn, made one thing rather exquisitely clear: Satoru Gojo, in short, was neither. Which was refreshing to know for the record.

In short, it had all come to this: you found yourself standing within the grounds of Kanda Myojin Shrine, where, supposedly, the spirit himself might yet linger and perhaps the sword he had once sworn to guard. The shrine was closed to the public at this hour, though that had never stopped either of you before. 

You handed the helmet to Satoru Gojo upon arrival, just as agreed. That had been the deal - he would wear the helmet, and you had taken it upon yourself to provoke the spirit by donning the warrior’s prayer beads.
Truth be told, seeing his face again (especially after your last encounter) was not on your list of preferred experiences. But had you failed to show, you’d have done nothing but prove his point. And you were many things. But a coward? Hell no.

He took the helmet from your outstretched hands, examined it, weighed it in one hand, and then attempted to spin the thing on one finger, like a basketball.

No comments. Okay, one comment.

“You tryna piss the spirit off ahead of schedule?”

His response was a spin attempt number two. “If I were trying.” he said, “I’d do this.” And then the man attempted to wear the helmet sideways. “There. How do I look?”

“Like someone whose head is about to be forcibly removed.”

“Sexy, though?”

NO! We're not saying anything out loud, thanks. Not in this lifetime.

“Do me a favor and don’t talk directly to the onryō.”

“Why not?” his steps fell in perfect rhythm with your own as you made your way toward the marked point of the shrine.

“Because I’d like to survive the night and, preferably, obtain the coordinates of the sword’s whereabouts.”

He gave a casual shrug, because the man could apparently shrug at anything, no matter how absurdly perilous.

Kanda Myojin sat shrouded in something dense, something that went far beyond the emptiness of mere darkness. It was an absence of sound, of light, of everything you’d come to know as familiar.

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” your gaze turned away from his frustratingly casual posture and back toward the main grounds, 

“Occasionally.” he admitted.

“At least pretend to act concerned about the situation at hand.” you muttered.

“Oh, I’m very concerned.” he replied, tipping the helmet back slightly so you could better see his eyes glittering with amusement, “I’m concerned that the spirit might not appreciate just how good this thing looks on me.”

You simply kept walking. In moments like these, it was prudent to remind oneself that patience was a virtue. But you were fairly certain virtue had already left the building with him spinning Masakado’s helmet, and your patience was rapidly packing its bags. Fortunately, before it had the chance to board a flight to god knows where, you had already arrived. 

"Alright." you said. "We’re here."

Drawing the prayer beads from your bag, you wound them with care about your wrist, each loop coiling with grace of a serpent claiming a branch. Satoru Gojo, meanwhile, at last saw fit to set the helmet upon his head as it ought to be worn, then took his place at your side.

“What are you doing?” the sorcerer inquired, tilting his head to one side the instant he caught sight of you lowering yourself into the ground.

Your knees met the cold earth, and soon after, the rest of you followed, hands folded with sincerity as you lowered yourself into the saikeirei, the deepest of bows, until your forehead nearly kissed the unforgiving ground. “Trying to balance out our insult with a little respect. Something I’d suggest you do as well.”

“Tch.” he clicked his tongue, mirroring your movements. "I thought the whole point was to make him mad.”

“That’s why you’re here.” you muttered under your breath, well aware he had caught every word. “I’ll handle the part that will win us his favor.”

You stayed bowed for a good ten seconds, letting the silence spool out, willing it to bite, praying that somewhere in the dark the stubborn old spirit might finally yield and take the bait. A minute passed. Then another. And then your back began to ache.

"Do you feel anything?" you were relying on whatever vestige of a sixth sense Satoru Gojo still possessed in your presence. Though his techniques fell silent near you, perhaps some reflex yet lingered.

“Other than my knees going numb? Nope. Not even a whisper.”

You straightened your back and blew at the stray fringe, sending it from your face. “This is stupid. I told you the plan wouldn’t work. Spirits and gods do not answer to provocation.”

"You’re right, that's enough respect." said Satoru Gojo, rising at last. He rolled his neck to one side, a sharp crack sounding as he pressed into it with his palm, then to the other, with equal violence. “Plan B.”

Do you even want to know anything about the plan B?

No.

Is this plan going to be dumber than the previous one?

Satoru Gojo took three steps back , gave the helmet a reverent tap with his knuckles, then lifted both arms… and began to rap on the top of the helmet.

Yes.

Tap. Tap. TAP TAP TAP.

"Oi! Masakado-san, wakey-wakey!"

You were horrified. You were amused. You were baffled. You wanted to die.

Tap tap tap.

Pause.

TAPTAPTAPTAP.

“Masakado-samaaa.” the man sing-songed. “We come bearing questions and need your help, old man."

You stared at him.

"Come on, boss-sama." TAP TAP TAP.  “Play along.”

Fine. You were here. You were in it now. And as the old saying went: if you’re already neck-deep in shit, might as well start swimming. So you started gently jiggling the prayer beads. Uh-huh. Jiggling. 

He tapped louder.

You jingled louder.

Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap.

Jingle. Jingle. JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE.

“Taira no Masakado!” Satoru Gojo called. “Descendant of royalty, bane of traitors, spirit of vengeance, proud lord of the Kanto plains-” he paused. “-we offer unto you these humble prayers and this absolutely fabulous headgear. Come forth, great one, and, uh-” then he looked at you. “-grant us your ancient samurai wisdom.”

You had no wish to dwell on how it might appear to an outsider. The truth was plain enough already. It looked pitiful and utterly wrong in every conceivable way.

“Hey!” you shouted, your patience already hanging by the barest thread, ready to snap at any moment. “Get your ancient, decrepit, sagging ass over here, you-”

POP.

The sound of a bubble bursting came with a foul, sickly light appeared before you, swirling slowly, ominously gathering form until....

A head. Its eyes, cold and dark as obsidian, stared accusingly from beneath thick, furrowed brows. Taira no Masakado had arrived, and judging by the severity of his glare, the spirit was already thoroughly displeased.

“Well, well, WELL!!!” boomed the floating head, its long whiskers streaming outward from a beard thick enough to hide small wildlife, without any trace of body or even the grace of a neck.“It’s about bloody time someone did it properly! The last lot just stood around whining and asking if I was angry. Of COURSE I’m angry. I have no torso!”

Satoru Gojo blinked. “Huh. A head...”

Masakado rolled his disembodied eyes. “Yes, thank you, Six Eyes. Brilliant deduction. It’s not like I’m painfully aware of my current state, drifting endlessly through the ether with no neck support and no sword to cuddle.” the head sputtered in outrage before turning its burning gaze toward you. "And what is this? You allow a mere woman to meddle in the affairs of warriors? Has the world fallen so far into ruin?"

EXCUSE. YOU.

Taira no Masakado drifted idly in the air about you, jaw working on some non-existent morsel, until his gaze caught upon the prayer beads in your grasp. “Tch. You do realize those are prayer beads, not a necklace, woman?”