The screen of her phone lit up with an incoming message, an unbidden source of light cutting through the dark cocoon of her frosty bedroom. Utahime turned away and pulled a pillow over her head so she would not have to see, hear, or know anything.
She felt broken. Her trust in the world: shattered beyond repair. Her pathetic powerlessness: debilitating. If she could, she'd whither away in the darkness of her room until nothing of her remained.
"Are you alright, Utahime Senpai?"
No, I'm not. You know I'm not.
"Yes, thank you, Nanami. And you?"
"I'm so glad to hear it. I'm fine, Senpai."
No, you are not. We all are not.
Family, friends, colleagues, everybody had called, frantic with worry for each other's wellbeing at first, then increasingly calmer when word got around that there were very few casualties on their side despite the shocking destruction of the Tokyo school grounds. Shoko had sent Utahime photos of the damage accompanied by a whole line of bawling emojis this morning, too exhausted to talk after caring for the wounded all night.
Utahime herself had a few bruises, scrapes, and a sore head that buzzed when she moved. A light curse had slammed into her, toppling her over. That was it. The curses who had come her way had all been harmless. Even her students had seen more action. It felt like a cosmic joke to her, being that useless while others had fought until their hands bled.
All day, Utahime had racked her brain for the right words with which to comfort Shoko. The result: "There was nothing we could have done."
Was this hackneyed phrase the only thing she had to offer her heartbroken friend? It was such an obvious lie, there were plenty of things they could have done. She, as a senior student, should have intervened the very first time Shoko had mentioned that Geto was acting strangely. She should have followed her gut, which signaled its discomfort loud and clear after every chance encounter with Geto on the school grounds. She should have gotten Yaga involved, all the Elders if necessary, she should have raised hell until they did something. They would have told Gojo. No, she herself should have told him to take care of his best friend who was spiraling into darkness. She had hated everything about him back then, but he would have listened to her, she was certain of it, with that goofy, expectant grin he wore when he looked at her, just waiting for his chance to rile her.
Instead, she had looked the other way, focused on making Kyoto her adult home, feeling superior to those kids and their troubles, relieved to get away from the discomfort both young men gave her, for different reasons.
"And the others?"
"Everybody is alive," Nanami had answered politely.
I'm asking about Gojo, don't you understand? Of course he's alive, but how is he?
Everyone had called but not a single person had mentioned Gojo Satoru, not one. That was the Jujutsu Society for you: Too desperate to declare the crisis was over and too eager to move on and pretend things had not changed when in truth, nothing would ever be the same.
Was she any different from the rest of them though? Utahime removed the pillow from her head and kicked down the blanket, staring into the darkness. She had pondered calling him several times from the safe space of her apartment but she had not been able to muster the courage. If she couldn't find the right words to comfort Shoko, what could she possibly offer to him? Just the platitude that there was nothing he could have done? Well, that too was a lie, even if she might wish it wasn't.
Gojo could have done many things differently but he had chosen not to. He had done his duty.
It was that detail that saddened her the most about this human tragedy. A year ago and before fate had thrown her into his path again, Gojo would have acted differently, she was certain of it. Somehow, the old Gojo would have made the impossible possible: He would have captured Geto alive and petitioned or blackmailed the council for a life-long prison instead of a death-sentence. Or he would have let Geto get away. Maybe he would have run away with him.
In any case, Geto would have lived. And almost more importantly, Gojo wouldn't have had to kill his very best friend.
Swallowing down the despair that made her want to groan, cry, scream, rage all at once, Utahime fumbled for her phone. It was almost eleven o'clock at night. She was bone-weary but she hadn't slept a wink ever since coming home. Her blood was still up. The stench of dissipating curses lingered on the back of her throat however much water she drank, burning plastic, rotting garbage, ozone and sulfur. Withering away in the darkness of her bedroom? What a self-centered thought. This wasn't about her and her failings. This was about the Jujutsu Society's very foundation. If their pillar of strength crumbled, how would they survive?
"Sorry to bother you, Uta, but have you heard from Gojo?"
Surprised, Utahime blinked at Shoko's message. Her friend knew she had lost Gojo Satoru's trust months ago when she had chosen the defense of the world against evil curses over a fling with him.
More than a fling, that bitter voice inside her head admonished her, did he not propose to you? You didn't only lose his trust, you also trampled on his heart.
Yes, haha, he proposed, when he was delirious from poison and blood-loss, her reasonable voice shouted angrily. Do you really think you could build a life with the likes of him, even if he were serious?
The likes of him...? There was no such thing, Gojo Satoru was one of a kind. The kind of man a woman like her should have nothing to do with because it would inevitably end badly.
"No," Utahime typed. "Why do you ask?"
Utahime stared at her screen. No answer. Maybe Shoko had fallen asleep in the meantime? Maybe she was busy with tending to the wounded again? Their medical facilities were chronically understaffed because the Jujutsu Society liked to pretend their active Sorcerers never got hurt in the field. Just as they liked to pretend nobody suffered from the emotional strain of doing their jobs.
She swung her legs out of bed, slipping her feet into the fluffy pink slippers she had bought on sale just last week. They were bunny shaped. Their cuteness had done the trick, for a few hours, she had been able to pretend the world wasn't going to shit. She got an equally fluffy and just as pink jumper from her wardrobe, wrapping herself in its oversized comfort so she wouldn't catch a cold while she made herself a cup of tea. The heating did not function properly since yesterday, but her landlord was away with the family: It was Christmas after all.
The festival of love and joy. Har, har.
Utahime sat down on her creaky couch, the hot cup of tea between her hands. Her parents' Christmas card was on the table before her, the colorful image of the silly cross-eyed reindeer bringing tears to her eyes. Cinnamon. Its nose smelled of cinnamon if you rubbed it. Aunt Narumi had also written a Christmas Card, a very stylish and expensive one with lots of gold, and most of Gojo's aunts had signed it with their elegant, neat handwritings.
"Our paths may have crossed just briefly but your footsteps still echo in our minds. Miss Iori, we wish for your continued happiness and success in life."
Frankly, it had surprised Utahime that they still bothered to be nice to her, she hadn't done much to deserve it. She had betrayed them too when she had helped a potentially dangerous woman and her child escape the Gojo Clan's sphere of influence. It wasn't long since she had told Gojo to his face that she'd do it again. She would but she would also never stop to feel guilty about it.
Putting her cup down on the table, Utahime picked up a pen and paper and began to draft a letter to Gojo's family.
###
Someone rang her doorbell at 11.53 pm. It couldn't be...?
It was.
"Gojo," she breathed, stepping aside to let him in, glad there was a wall at her back to steady her, noticing a little foolishly just how tall he was and that he wore no blindfold, his hair looking windswept, his face pale and drawn, his mouth a hard, pinched line.
Bringing the scent of decaying leaves and wet grass with him, he brushed past her without even a glance or a word of greeting, his hands buried in the pockets of his black trousers. He kicked off his black boots, slipped into a pair of slippers his size and went straight to the kitchen. Like he lived here.
Frowning at the rest of the slippers that were neatly lined up waiting for visitors - she could have sworn she had put his oversized ones away months ago? - Utahime closed the door and bent down to straighten his shoes. They were very dirty, a whole lot of mud sticking to the bottom.
An atypical stillness around him like a dark cloud, Gojo Satoru had seated himself at her kitchen table, his eyes hefted to its surface, his large hands folded in front of him. His very dirty and scraped large hands. His nails were chipped, all of them. There was dirt on his face too, and in his white hair.
"Let me clean that," Utahime got a soft wet cloth from the kitchen.
Gojo didn't react when she sat down next to him but his Infinity wasn't up and she was able to clean the worst of it, wincing in sympathy whenever she touched one of the bleeding cuts. Some of them were quite deep and she got some disinfectant and salve from the bathroom. Throughout her efforts, he just sat there, unmoving. Did he even blink? A few sideway glances revealed that his wondrous blue eyes were red-rimmed, with dark shadows around them that indicated a prolonged sleeplessness.
"Do you want to take a shower?" She asked cautiously, extending a comforting hand to put on his. He shivered. Somewhat flustered, Utahime got up to pour him some of the tea that was still warm, choosing the panda bear cup for him. Cookies? She had some self-made ones left in a jar, not very fresh, but they had to suffice.
"Here," she wrapped his hands around the cup. "You'll get warm in no time."
He stared down at the tea like he had never seen such a thing in his life and her heart wrenched in worry - just before it hopped erratically a few times when she realized with something akin to shock that he was here, he was really here, in her kitchen.
Didn't I tell you? The usually bitter, now triumphant voice jubilated, he needs you, he's never stopped needing you!
Don't be a cow, the voice of reason cut in, he probably had a whole series of girlfriends after your break-up, he probably just got lost on his way home. He doesn't need us, he doesn't need anybody.
"Cookie?" She held one up to his face. Like an obedient child, he opened his mouth, bit into it, chewed and swallowed.
"Good?" She tried a smile, pushing the rest of it into his mouth, brushing away a crumb from the corner of his lips. "There are more if you want them."
When she rattled the jar, he turned his eyes on her for the first time. They were cloudy and unfocused, unguarded, bewildered and distrustful - the raw pain shining through them was too much to bear, she had to look away. Dammit, he shouldn't walk around without a blindfold for too long, it is too much of a strain, his head has to be killing him! She jumped up, busying herself with looking around her small living room for something suitable, finally pulling the long ribbon from her hair.
"Close your eyes," she stepped behind him to wrap the fabric around his head, securing it with a knot. Makeshift but it would do for now. She let her hand linger on the top of his head for a moment. What is it you need? Silence? I should call Shoko. She might know.
Knowing her phone was in her bedroom, Utahime sat back down, feeling awkward, a sense of guilty helplessness rising inside of her. Why had he come? With a heart wrenching sigh, Gojo extended his long fingers to take a cookie from the box. One after the other disappeared into his mouth. Then he drank the tea, slowly, sip by sip.
"Satoru...," she cleared her throat.
He sprang up, turned around and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving his giant slippers outside the door.
Utahime blinked after him, shrugged with a sigh, then collected the cups to put into the dishwasher, cleaned out the tea put, cleared the crumbs off the table and stowed away the empty cookie jar. She fedged his shoes from the entrance and cleaned them thoroughly with a brush, putting them on a bit of newspaper to dry, then took a few minutes to clean her sink until it sparkled.
Deafening silence from the bathroom. On tiptoes, Utahime scampered over to put her ear on the door. Nothing.
"Satoru, do you need anything?" When no answer came, she opened the door a crack. Maybe he had teleported away?
No. Naked and shivering, he sat on the floor of her shower, his arms slung around his body, his head hidden between his knees.
"You dummy," she exclaimed, rushing inside, her first impulse to throw a towel over him. But she noticed that his hair was still dirty and that the disturbing scent of dead, rotten things had only gotten stronger, so she reached into the shower instead, turning the nozzle to the side until the water was the right temperature, then hunkered down to wash his hair.
He tilted his head back obediently and she took great care to massage the shampoo into his scalp, staring at his angelic face for signs of discomfort, the slipping blindfold, the eyes he held tightly shut, watching for anything but this resigned helplessness. Her pajamas were getting wet, water was seeping into her sleeves, running down her own body. She didn't care. There wouldn't be a lot of warm water, she had to hurry, so she used the foam from the shampoo to rub onto his back, feeling the tension in his shoulders, the tremors that wracked his large frame.
A sob escaped her lips. He echoed it with a muffled, pitiful sound.
"Make it go away, Utahime. Make it go away," he rasped like his throat was bleeding.
"How?" She slung her arms around him.
They were on the bed the very next instance. She gasped at the impact, his considerable weight pressing her deeply into the mattress, making it hard to breathe. His hair was dripping cold water and shampoo on her, her own clothes were uncomfortably tight and clammy, it was too dark to see anything and for a moment, she panicked because she had thought she knew Gojo Satoru, but this did not feel like him at all.
His breath came in short, angry bursts. His huge hands grabbed her loose hair, pulled her head back and shoved his tongue into her mouth aggressively.
Stop, she wanted to shout, stop, we're not in this kind of relationship!
But she couldn't speak, so her hands fumbled for his ears instead, her tongue pushing against his tongue, forcing it out of her mouth, spit dripping down onto her face as she pulled hard, forcing his head away from hers. Feebly struggling against his overwhelming strength, she took large gulps of air, trying to wedge a knee underneath his body for a kick to the crown jewels.
He growled like an animal.
Suddenly paralyzed, the hair all over her body stood up, a cold, expectant shiver running down the length of her. Part of her remembered a dream, a rough possession, pent-up lust, a mindless, animalistic frenzy. She also remembered her reaction to it - the pleasure of surrender.
"This is what you want?" She whispered sharply, opening the zipper of her wet jumper with shaking hands. "You can have it."
His hands cupped her breasts, began kneading them through the wet, chafing fabric of her pajamas. She dug her fingernails into his naked back, suppressing a whimper. He was rough and impatient, pinching and rolling her nipples between his fingers, sending bolts of lust between her legs and wrenching a moan from her throat. His hot flesh was pressing against her core and she began moving her hips to rub herself against the length of him, reasonable thought becoming difficult, impossible. In her chase for more friction, she arched her back and he ripped down her trousers to her knees, his fingers barely confirming her slick readiness before ramming himself into her. She threw her head back, her eyelids fluttering shut from the excruciating mixtures of pleasure and pain at the invasion. So large. So full. So deep.
She had slept with Gojo Satoru several times, but this? He had never... fucked her this cruelly. The stimulation was merciless, her orgasm already building, but it was like he wasn't even aware of whom he was slamming into. She tried to see his face, but it was too dark. She tried to say something, to beg him to relent a little, to confirm it was him, Gojo Satoru, and not an ancient ghost with a horrible grudge, but she could only moan helplessly, clutch at his back, and come so hard her legs jerked and shook with the force of it. With her pussy walls clenching around him, he swelled to an even bigger size before he began to jerk and shudder, continuing to push into her harshly until he was spent and done.
Her abused pussy throbbed and pulsed with several aftershocks, pleasant, playful ripples. How sleepy she was... she wanted to turn to the side and pull a blanket over herself, but he was smothering her, collapsed and sprawled on top of her like a dead man.
"You're too heavy," she pressed against his shoulders.
He stirred, tried to move, finally managed to roll off her. Hot semen gushed down her legs, setting her cheeks aflame. They should have used protection, she was no longer on the pill. But her last period wasn't too far back, so it shouldn't matter. Especially because there wouldn't be a next time.
She extended a shaking hand, finding him curled up tightly.
"Satoru," she asked into the dark, her hand hot on his cold skin. "Why did you come here?"
"I thought you could make it better," he sounded bitter and hollow. "But of course you can't. You can't do anything."
She had let herself forget that Gojo was a known asshole. She had also let herself forget that she had hated him for the entirety of her twenties and more, for good reasons.
"Get out," she said, surprised at how calm she sounded. And when he didn't budge, with power behind her words: "GET OUT!"
She wasn't sure whether he had managed to collect his clothes and shoes. The thought of him teleporting somewhere naked and shivering was satisfying. And at the very least, that orgasm had relaxed her enough so she could finally sleep.
When she woke up the next morning, she had a message from Shoko, sent at 5:46 am.
"Sorry, I fell asleep last night! Gojo hasn't brought in Geto's body. If you happen to see him, tell him the higher-ups demand proof or he's going to be in massive trouble. It's urgent."
"He probably buried him," Utahime typed, her heart clenching painfully.
"Of course!" Shoko sent a few enthusiastic emojis, "I knew you're the one who knows him best!"
Know him? Utahime put the phone down and laughed mirthlessly. "I don't know him at all," she said into the cold darkness of her bedroom.