Chapter Text
The first time Yuji walked through Shinjuku after the final battle, it didn’t feel like a victory, more like stepping on an unhealed scar. The one who bled and festered deep in his soul, a burden he wore on his shoulders every day, a constant reminder of the sacrifices made and the lives lost.
The city looked jagged, like a broken wound split open or a skeleton rising against the horizon, with skyscrapers bent like ribs of some enormous corpse and streets cracked and sunken with glass glittering like splinters of bone and flesh in the pale daylight. Still, there were people around, men in helmets with bright construction vests operating heavy machinery. Women carrying clipboards, barking orders, and cleaning out the rubble in the cacophony of rebuilding. Equipment groaned as it hauled away debris into trucks for repurposing, while makeshift shelters scattered the area, providing temporary relief to those working tirelessly to restore the city to its former glory. But no amount of hammering or cement-mixing could cover the fact that this place had been utterly gutted, that the carved-out terrain was a place where titans had crashed and burned, where enough blood was spilled to etch deep wounds in the ground beneath their feet.
Yuji walked alone, steps echoing against the asphalt that still carried scorch marks. The smell of char lingered faintly—smoke soaked into concrete, into soil, into his memory. It had been months, but Shinjuku to him still reeked of loss, of sweat, tears, and bloodshed in the face of total destruction.
After everything ended and the Jujutsu Society came out into the light, people started calling the days after an era without curses. Not that it was the truth; curses still existed, just weaker, so much weaker that they were barely a threat compared to before, if not more widespread. He knew why that was but refused to admit it out loud; it seemed like a disservice to the dead to feel relief that the cursed energy of the population was so easily dispersible. The newspapers were full of relief, full of hope and stories of survival and rebuilding. Politicians were smiling stiffly on TV, promising reconstruction, proclaiming that life would return to normal, as if the world had not radically changed, as if the supernatural was not dragged kicking and screaming into the mundane, where it had to adapt to exist. It was hard to hide the truth when entire city districts crumbled. Terrorists? Yeah, like people would believe that.
Yuji couldn't stand the phrase "Without curses." It made it sound like all the pain and death had been worth it. Like Gojo-sensei's demise was just another price paid, an extra step toward peace, like desecrating his body and using him as a weapon for the last time was an affordable sacrifice. As if they could tally it up on some invisible ledger: so many dead for so many saved, and wasn't that balance worth celebrating? He could not look at the newspaper headings without scoffing or feeling the guilt squeezing his lungs so much he could hardly breathe. No matter what others said, he was the catalyst of it all—the one who was a chess piece moved in a centuries-old game of fucked-up curse users. If Sukuna was the king to Gojo-sensei's queen, then he was only a pawn to Kenjaku's bishop. And pawns were always the first to fall in a game of power and manipulation, no matter how significant their role may seem in the grand scheme of things. The weight of it all was heavy, and no matter how much Yuji tried, he could not wash away the blood on his hands.
Yet, people were so quick to forget. They rebuilt, healed, and moved on as if nothing happened, because it was easier to focus on the future than on the past you could not change or influence. And it gnawed at him that his friends, Fushiguro, Kugisaki, Yuta, Maki, and everyone else who fought so hard alongside him, were so quick to move forward without acknowledging the pain and trauma they had endured. Maybe it was because he was the odd one out, growing up in the normal world, but he couldn't understand how they could just brush it all aside as if nothing happened. It was isolating to feel like the only one still haunted by the past, unable to fully let go and move forward like the rest of his comrades.
Yuji sighed and stopped at what used to be an intersection, his red sneakers crunching over the glass shards scattered on the path. He remembered looking at this on the TV screen back in the basement when the battle was at its ugliest—Sukuna's roars echoing, buildings folding like paper, and Gojo's laugh cutting through, steady, certain, even in the chaos as he stood there bleeding from the numerous wounds, looking more alive than ever before.
Now the intersection was just rubble; the blood was washed away, and there were no echoes of that voice that haunted him in his dreams. Never again would he hear it, and that only made him feel more lost than ever before. Yuji shoved his hands in his pockets, telling himself not to cry, because he had already shed enough tears when nobody saw it. But the grief came like the smell of blood and smoke—creeping into his lungs when he least expected it, leaving him aching and hollowed out. He looked at the sky, swallowing the pain that threatened to consume him, and wondered if he would ever forget or forgive himself.
He tried to move on; he really did. Most mornings, Yuji was out in the city helping with reconstruction, trying to alleviate his own guilt by carrying concrete slabs other men couldn't lift, or pulling twisted metal from smashed houses, and cleaning out the collapsed structures from the roads. Over time, people occasionally recognized him—whispering his name, pointing out his scars or his unusual hair color, and commending him for his volunteer work. Some even thanked him, and that only left a bitter taste in his mouth.
'Thank you, Itadori-san,' a woman said once, bowing low with her little boy beside her. 'Because of you… My husband came home.'
Yuji squirmed at the praise, not even knowing what the woman was talking about, then bowed back clumsily and muttered something polite, yet as he walked away, the words rattled inside his skull. Because of you. He wanted to scream, 'No, it was not because of me; it was because of him. I have no right to be thanked for, not when I am guilty, one who sinned and was too weak…' It was Gojo-sensei who had stood tall when the rest of them were on their knees. Yuji was alive only because the man had believed in him from the start, had smiled at him, and had said, 'You're a good kid. Strong enough to be worth saving.' But that was a lie; he was not strong or worth saving, yet he survived, and Gojo-sensei broke his promise to win. However, the world had already decided on its story. Gojo was gone, Yuji was alive, Yuta was praised, and the living made better symbols than the dead, especially when the audience did not know all of the story.
He hated it and hated himself too for being the one left standing when he didn't feel deserving of it. Nobara called it survivor's guilt, knocking him on the head when he started to mope, as if Fushiguro was not in the same boat. Like two peas in a pod. But Megumi never showed it like he did. Instead, he kept his head down and focused on himself, on healing and forgetting, managing what was left of the Zen'in clan with an iron fist; only Yuji was left floundering, not really knowing where to turn next and what to do with his life.
Sometimes at night, when everyone was sleeping, he lay awake in the dormitory, which felt too large with so few of them left, and fantasized. Dreamed of blue eyes hidden behind tinted glasses and a voice that had always sounded like it knew the answer. Thought about the hands shoving him forward when he faltered and of laughter echoing through school corridors. Remembering one person who was always there with his silent support. Only then, when it vanished, did Yuji realize how much Gojo did for them, how much he allowed them to have, when others only wanted to use them as stepping stones.
He dreamed of what-ifs. What if Gojo-sensei had lived? What if they'd found another way? What if Yuji had been strong enough to stop Sukuna sooner? And buried deeper: what if Gojo had known? About Yuji’s stupid crush, the flutter in his chest whenever that blinding smile turned his way. About the admiration that had sharpened into longing, into the shaky realization that he didn't just want to be like him, the strongest—he wanted him. All that time he spent with the man bloomed something in his heart that was forbidden and dangerous. But as Yuji lay awake at night, thoughts swirling in his head, he couldn't help but wonder if Gojo had seen through it all along. If he had known and chosen to ignore it for his sake, because it was pointless, he told himself.
Gojo had been… Gojo. Untouchable, larger than life, carrying a weight on his shoulders Yuji couldn't even imagine. It had never been real and never could be. He was too young to even dream about it. But that didn't stop his heart from clenching every time he remembered how Gojo used to lean casually against doorframes, sunlight catching in his hair, coloring the whiteness with almost blue hues, or how his muscles rippled in the tight shirts he wore when they trained in the dojo. Or their last moments together before everything went to shit. If Yuji thought about it too much, he would be mortified by his own bravery or desperation. Maybe he said too much in those few minutes, but that evening his instinct told him to go find Gojo-sensei. It had gotten so bad that he was pacing around in his room, clenching his fists until blood flowed, because he knew it might be the last time he could see the man without any other distractions. And he was right... It was the last time before everything forever changed...
Their hideout was underground; it reminded him of those days he spent in Gojo-sensei's basement, with the four walls made of bricks and a TV to keep him company. This was similar, utilitarian, designed to last in emergencies, and if the world-ending threat was not it, Yuji did not know what was. He sat in his small room, on the hard bed, next to the dresser, the yellow light and stifling filtered air doing nothing to calm his restless mind. Guilt. Longing. Love. It ate him alive, churning in his blood, and he could do nothing but swear in his head, because what he wanted to do was pure foolishness and... He was a coward.
Yet, after an hour of frustrated arguments back and forth in his head, Yuji stood and, without a conscious thought, opened the door, going outside. It was late. He knew that he should be sleeping, as the last evening was intended for rest instead of constant training, and that maybe Gojo-sensei was also resting. Yet he slinked through dim-lit corridors, knowing exactly where his feet were taking him, reaching the one hallway he had no reason to even be close by.
At that point, Yuji faltered, all of his bravery vanishing, leaving him jittery and feeling stupid for being there in the first place. But the humming power behind the door beckoned him closer; Gojo-sensei was awake, because the taste of that minty, ozone-filled energy the man was surrounded with felt as restless as his own. He probably felt him too because when Yuji lifted his hand to knock, the door slid open.
'Yuji. What are you doing here?' Gojo inquired, tilting his head with curiosity, but the curve of his lips was too precise, his small incisor teeth glinting in the low light. Something in that posture made Yuji freeze. At first, he thought it was the tightly coiled energy he always gave out or the way he smiled—wide and sharp. But there was something else in there tonight, a subtle slackening of muscles, a ripple of lost control, exposing the side Gojo usually kept hidden. His feet were bare and eyes still hidden by the blindfold, yet his usual uniform had been replaced with a soft, threadbare shirt and track pants. The casualness of his attire only made him more dangerous, like a predator out of his usual armor, stripped bare to the bones. Suddenly, Yuji's throat dried up, and he looked down, trying not to blush at the sight. However, his treacherous heart hurt, and his breath hitched; the most horrifying thing was the sudden wetness in his eyes.
'I...' His voice cracked. 'This...' He shook his head, staring at the floor. 'I'm sorry if I intruded; I shouldn't have come…' Yuji whispered, turning around, his chest squeezing so tightly he almost choked on the lump in his throat. He tried to leave, humiliation burning up his neck, but a warm hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks, pulling him in. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Soft, long fingers brushed against his cheeks, and Yuji realized they were wet. 'Don't cry for me.' The words were gentle, but the tone was curled low, thick with something tightly leashed beneath it, only to break him further. 'I don't deserve those tears. Everything will be okay, Yuji. I promise.'
He blinked hard, but the tears kept falling, and Yuji felt stupid because he had no idea why he was crying in the first place. Maybe because tomorrow might take everything away? Or because he was afraid that Gojo, his teacher, his protector, the man he trusted with everything he had, was looking at him like he was someone precious and going to fight for him… and them all. It was unfair.
Yuji's heart lurched, and he cursed himself for being selfish, for surviving, for wanting this moment to last forever. He swallowed, barely managing a whisper. 'Are you not nervous about tomorrow?' The question burned on his tongue like acid, but he needed to know, to reassure himself that he was not alone in his fears. There was a pause, then came a quiet, almost uncertain admission. 'Yes and no.'
And that didn't sound like the voice of a man who constantly joked and teased, who stood above them all with unwavering confidence. It was softer, a little fragile, not matching the strongest standing in front of him. It was a voice that revealed vulnerability, a crack in the facade, a side his teacher had no reason to show to him. Before Yuji could stop himself, he looked up, and his hand reached upward, fingers brushing the edge of the silky blindfold. There was no barrier in his way, and Gojo did not stop him. His face remained calm and unreadable, as if daring him to see what was hidden.
Yuji pulled it down with breathless courage, and the fabric slipped off, pooling around the pale neck. The blue eyes beneath it burned like a blue fire, bright and sharp in a way he had never seen. It wasn't just power, but hunger, a raw and aching kind that promised ruin. Yuji could feel their presence on his skin, dissecting his every thought and emotion with a precision that left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. It was too late to back away. He already had Gojo-sensei's undivided attention, which made him feel reckless in ways he couldn't explain.
'I know, I'm stepping over the lines…' Yuji smiled, teardrops clinging to his eyelashes, voice trembling. 'But… good luck tomorrow, Satoru-san.' The name felt heavy and forbidden on his tongue, but he said it anyway. Abandoning all his reservations, Yuji stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Gojo's frame. The smell of him hit him first—clean, faintly sweet, like sugary confections yet electric and cold—and it made his heart race. The solid strength and warmth beneath his fingers burned in his memory, a sensation he knew he would never forget. Yuji was aware that feeling this way was reckless, naive, and completely wrong, but he couldn't stop himself from doing so. He wanted to hold him like this, just once.
Gojo stiffened at first, and for a moment Yuji's stomach dropped, rejection seeming imminent, because it was inappropriate to act this way, even if they always have been touchy-feely in their daily life. This felt different, not innocent, more focused, edging on something that could be read wrong, and they both knew it. After a few seconds, Yuji felt a slow, shuddering breath, and strong arms encircled him. Gojo hugged him back, fiercely, as if he needed it too. 'Yuji…' he whispered, his head landing on his shoulders, fluffy hair tickling his cheek. 'Thank you.'
Yuji bit his lip so hard it hurt; he could have sworn he felt a slight tingle on his neck, a brush of breath too close, a phantom kiss, or perhaps it was just his imagination. At that moment, he wanted to confess, scream, and bare his soul to the man who had always been there for him. But he held back, because it was not right, and the moment ended. Gojo let go, and he saw the imminent shift in his expression. The amusing smile returned, his eyes turned cold, deep pools of frozen lakes formed, walls were rebuilt in seconds, and a mask was reapplied.
'Go to sleep, Yuji. Kids need their rest.' Gojo's voice was light, and his toothy smile wide, almost cruel, erasing everything that had happened moments prior. It hurt, but Yuji knew that it was foolish to hope. Gojo-sensei nudged him into the hall with effortless ease, and the door closed quietly behind him.
He did not know how long he lingered there, frozen, fist clenched and blood thundering in his ears. His cheeks were hot, his throat raw, and his body trembled with unspoken emotions. Those few minutes inside that room tore him apart in ways that were hard to describe. After finally stumbling to bed, Yuji could not sleep. He lay there on the blanket, staring into the ceiling, replaying the feel of Gojo's arms around him. The sound of his voice when it was not wrapped in jokes. His heart refused to calm down, because finally he had seen Gojo not as the strongest, not as a teacher, or a weapon, but as a man, whom he had glimpsed only a few times before. And it hurt how much it mattered, because the final battle was coming, and it would decide all of their fates…
The next day ended in heartbreak. A silent scream locked in his throat, a promise broken, and no one knew, nor would they ever. And so Yuji carried his grief and love like a secret—heavy, unspoken, burning in his chest long after the rest of the world had moved on. It was his own personal curse, hidden away together with the rest of his sins.