4th of March; 17:46. — gojo satoru.
"Oh, who is a good boy?"
A vicious growl sounded out, animalistic and threatening, drowning under the annoyed timbre of a certain black-haired student, "I suggest you back off unless you want to lose fingers. They don't take well to being petted."
Gojo Satoru thought watching his two adorable students, old and new alike, bicker might be one of his favourite past times. There was a specific sort of sadistic satisfaction that tugged on the sides of his mouth at the faint pulsing of Megumi's vein in his forehead even when the kid tried to school his features into one of impassiveness.
But the way his student's knuckles turned white, the way the precious Divine Dogs stood at attention around the new exchange student from Kyoto, made Gojo feel like he might kiss Gakuganji for his ploy, after all. Only might, because despite the piqued interest in where this might be headed, he wasn't quite into old, wrinkly men who smelled like decayed grandeur. So, maybe no kissing.
But hey — as far as he was concerned, the sentiment alone was something worth noting.
Gojo leaned back; the tiles of the old school building's roof non-existent underneath the perpetual film of Infinity coating his fingers.
It was no secret that any of the old farts in the headquarters were leeching to gather information on Tokyo Jujutsu High's first-years and their amazing teacher: himself with his high standing in the Jujutsu world, Yuji's bodily curse and the impending doom imminent over all of Japan at best, Megumi's technique and the perpetual stand off against the Zen'in clan and their desire to steal his student away.
Not that any of it mattered.
They could attempt all they want to try and spin the rigged wheel. If Gojo Satoru had anything to say about it, and oh, he did — somebody like him always did — then there was going to be hell to pay.
"Ouch, hey— what the hell, Fushiguro?"
But until his new exchange student actually gave him reason to intervene, Gojo was more than happy to watch the way you had pulled away your hand at the last second, the sharp teeth of Megumi's black wolf grazing the flesh of your fingers with maliciousness that usually were only reserved for curses that seemed to personally have wronged him.
Gojo's eyes narrowed with interest, his smile turning a bit sharper. Oh, this was going to be really interesting.
"I told you to keep away. You just really suck at listening."
Megumi called his dog back with a flick of his fingers and really, he didn't even have to — a silent command would have sufficed, too.
So you watched the posturing, the exaggerated movement of his hand, the way he threw over to you the hint of a condescending look, and you couldn't help the way you thundered over to him, fiery eyes and a grimace on your face from the slight pain of the dog's snapping jaw.
"You," seething, you pointed at him. His dogs sat patiently, albeit still posed to defend, next to his heel, "Don't think I didn't notice that, you prick."
Fushiguro Megumi ignored the way you shook your finger in his face, turning away to continue his training, "Don't you need to get to Shoko-san's already? Hurry then."
Gojo couldn't help the boisterous laughter leaving his mouth. Maa, this was brilliant.
13th of March; 09:02. — fushiguro megumi.
"Yo, Megumi! You're up for a mission. Solo. Except not."
Megumi's eyes narrowed as he watched the carefree grin of his teacher, the hands shoved in his pockets, "Who's the not?"
"Just, you know, your favourite person in the world."
"With her again? She's impulsive, never listens, and half the time I'm cleaning up after her screw-ups."
Gojo's hand played with his strands of hair, and his sunglasses caught the light, "Aw, come on. She's not that bad. Keeps you on your toes. Makes you use full sentences. You know, the likes!"
Megumi thought he might strangle his teacher.
"I work better alone."
"Yeah, yeah, but then that vein in your forehead doesn't twitch, and that's hysterical."
"You enjoy this way too much."
Gojo's smile was slow and wide, "Obviously."
13th of March; 20:12. — fushiguro megumi.
Fushiguro Megumi thought that when he realised what type of mentor Gojo Satoru would be, he had met the quota of absurdness in his life already. Then, he enrolled into Tokyo Jujutsu High and found that his bar was set too low, and there were many other people capable of pushing it higher.
Much higher.
The shenanigans of Inumaki Toge and Panda put aside, Maki and Yuta by extension were the only second years he really respected. His own classmates, though—
Though, if Megumi had to really categorise any of them, Kugisaki Nobara barely counted, for she came at him and Yuji with condescension from the very beginning. It wasn't hard to adjust to something so straightforward, letting her complaints go through one ear and come out on the other side.
Then there was the other thorn in his side, Itadori Yuji, who was fairly agreeable, wearing his heart on his sleeve, steadfast and solid, so Megumi's line of what he could tolerate was not crossed that often.
If anything, Gojo had the bigger nerve to flit around Megumi, fussing in a way that bordered between sweet patronising and his deep duty of care. Seeing as how he was supposed to learn from his teacher, that too, he could ignore.
For the most part.
What he did not expect was for another person to test his tolerance, and to test it so well at that.
"You know, if you smiled once in a while, people might stop mistaking you for the world's biggest Debbie Downer."
Barely ignoring the whispering voice right next to him, Megumi thought that he'd rather follow Nobara into the depths of hell (her weekly trips through the entire shopping avenue, from start to finish and then back again) than have to be paired up with you any longer.
Usually, Megumi had no difficulties letting stupid comments whiz past him; god knew he'd had enough practice, so assuming a stoic expression should have come easy to him: smoothing out his brows, allowing his eyes to reflect the amount of how much he didn't care, mouth as still as possible — really, it wasn't supposed to be difficult. But then there was you, whose grin never seemed to falter, who knew how to poke at him and have his blood pressure rise up, who seemed to cross him at each junction, who didn't know what it meant to stay still and hatch out a plan.
So, Megumi told himself that the twitch in his eyebrows and the annoyed press of his lips together was merely because he was bothered with this mission, but the words escaping him were more than proof that it was less about the assignment and all the more about you.
Under his breath: "And if you shut up once in a while, people might stop mistaking you for an idiot. Now be quiet."
The infuriating thing about this all wasn't the fact that he felt prompted to respond in likes. No — it was the fact that you didn't seem half as annoyed as him; that you exhaled a quiet laugh, almost victorious in having riled him up enough, that somewhere along the line, there was a competition on who would win each clashing of heads, who could one up the other, who would have the last laugh.
You sniffed; voice full with amusement and a certain bite, quieter than before, "Wow, that almost sounded like a full sentence. Careful, Fushiguro, or else someone might think you're concerned about what other people think of me."
"You're insufferable. Quiet."
"Mhm, but you're still listening."
Leaning forward, Megumi ignored the way you lingered close, ignored the tone of your voice — low, offhanded, like you meant nothing by it or maybe that you meant something by it — and peeked around the corner of the hallway; sharp eyes used to the dark.
A weird, grotesque feeling swung in the air; pregnant with charged particles. What should have been an alluring, sultry atmosphere for the love hotel was turned into an eerie caricature of all the shame bundled up in between the sheets of the beds, all the heartbreak hidden behind each creak of floorboards, lost love, bitter what-ifs.
Two of the Grade Three curses rampaging through the isles had already destroyed half of the east side of the building, the other two lingering close by.
"Alright, this is what we're going to do—"
A gust of wind whirled around debris, and cut off Megumi's sentence. There was a flash of your weapon infused with cursed energy, followed by a crash against the wooden beams of the wall as the deformed bodies of the curses slithered around the corner right towards him, maw wide open.
For fuck's sake—
13th of March; 22:38. — fushiguro megumi.
Megumi was certain he was going to hand in a complaint.
"You're so boring. What does it take for you to finally ditch that unimpressed look? I mean, I did take out three curses before you even finished your fancy hand signs, you know?"
Yeah.
Definitely handing that in to the principal and maybe, he would have a chance to circumvent Gojo's incessant obsession with forcing him to team up with you for the various missions he gets sent on. He had mentioned it a bunch of times to his teacher already — disliked the way you were so messy with how you dealt with your curses, seemingly no thoughts planned, no care for the damage left behind. But to no avail.
If anything, Gojo regarded him with a smile that really said more about what an asshole he was than it being successful in placating Megumi. But alright, Gojo's agenda usually was an enigma, so there was also nohope of getting through to him once he had set his mind on something.
And it wasn't like his teacher was known to explain his reasoning.
Megumi thought that maybe this was punishment. Maybe Gojo really did feel resentment taking care of him for all these years, and now he was left to deal with the strain of handling…you, and all your chaos.
He stopped walking, a heavy sigh brewing deeply in his chest at the cheerful way your voice nagged at his collar, his dirtied pants, his ripped uniform on the right shoulder, "They were Grade Three. A trained dog could've handled them."
Your eyebrows raised up, and you were quick to slink in front of him. His narrowed eyes lowered to follow where your finger was digging into his shoulder, right where the fabric had ripped because you couldn't wait two seconds to hear out his strategy, instead swinging into the action like you didn't care to have an advantage by analysing anything.
You blinked sweetly, finger pressing right into the cut hiding beneath the shredded material and it stung, "Your cute shikigami didn't, so I'm not too sure about that, actually."
"They have better instincts than to waste their time trying to impress me," Megumi pushed away your hand and walked past you; his headache announcing itself alongside the hiss escaping your mouth, "Must be nice not knowing the difference."
Oh, if only he could give in.
21st of March; 16:22. — you.
"Look at us, working so well together, eh, Fushiguro?"
"You nearly got me impaled. Twice."
"Oh, you'd miss the excitement if it wasn't for me. You're welcome for that."
Megumi's look of disgust made you cackle, "Your idea and my idea of excitement don't match up. I suggest a hobby to live out your recklessness. Preferably one that doesn't involve me and far away from here."
"But then who would save my ass? Admit it, I grew on you."
"Like mold, maybe."
2nd of April; 14:58. — you.
When you transferred, you thought blending in was going to be no problem. Your entire purpose was not to change anything in anybody's life, nor to influence any on-going schemes. If anything, that would be the worse outcome, your existence useless in its point of service for you were just an outside observer, trying to catch any slipped up information. Easy enough, right?
You'd heard a lot about the strongest modern sorcerer of this time: the grief he brought Gakuganji first and foremost, for your principal was incredibly youthful in the way it took hours for him to stop grumbling.
It wasn't like you really had any personal desire to meet him— seeing Gojo Satoru fight in action would have been thrilling, in the way you would watch something unexplainable and awe-inducing happening right in front of you, something akin to a supernova.
But essentially, you also cared little in seeking it out if not prompted. You were here because you were ordered to; because the authority carried by the Jujutsu Headquarters was founded in experience and power, because their word was law.
Or so it went. That was what Gakuganji loved spewing, and it wasn't that you necessarily disagreed, it was just that you weren't known to care for it a lot. But then again, it wasn't their concern, so long there was enough intimidation and results to be showed. It probably could have been any of the other first-years in your school, it should have been, because you weren't exactly somebody who blended in super well, you were too on the nose for it, but the excuse you'd been sent over on was that your cursed technique could only properly be trained by the teachers in Tokyo Jujutsu High.
That was a lie.
One you didn't really care to uphold more than necessary. Truth was that your cursed technique had no adequate teacher nor was it a family heirloom to be able to scour clan records for. It existed and you had to deal with it, simple as that.
But then, the teachers in Tokyo Jujutsu High would know that, too.
So rather than it being an actual excuse, it was merely a way to save face. Rather dish out a lie like that, as unbelievable as it may be, than accuse anybody — doing that would lead to showing one's suspicion and that would prompt a reaction; they would have been, for all intents and purposes, asking for retaliation.
It was too much hassle to plan a counter for it, so slap a label on something and call it a day.
Chances were that your appearance had been noted as such — a way to do some reconnaissance, but the way the first-years and their teacher behaved hinted that they either didn't, which was unlikely, or they did and just didn't care, which was stupid.
In any way, you didn't care to complain, either. It was going to interest nobody in Kyoto Jujutsu High, so you just had to deal with it in any way you saw fit.
"I think I'd be a capybara."
Like lingering amongst the first-years here in Tokyo Jujutsu High and hope that you'd find something interesting to note down for Gakuganji to analyse later. If there was something amongst this conversation of deciding on your spirit animal worth writing down.
Nobara, who had been lazily scrolling through her phone, looked up, one sleek eyebrow of hers quirked up, "A what now?"
Sprawled on the ground with his limbs extended like a star fish, Yuji's eyes tracked the clouds, envisioning different shapes onto the white fluff travelling in their lane on the wide blue.
"You know, one of those giant guinea pig things. They're just so chill," he explained, hands coming up to hesitate for a second — how did one even imitate a capybara? — before forming a big blob and hoping that his words conveyed enough of a picture to make up for the lack of gestures. Out of the peripheral of his eyes, Yuji watched the uninterested look in Megumi's eyes and wondered if his friend would be able to do a shadow puppet of a capybara.
Nobara snorted. "No. You're like a full-blown chimpanzee."
"No way, I'm so chill—" Yuji sat up swiftly, eyes wide, but the girl interrupted him, waving him away her manicured fingers, "Always climbing things, making weird noises, eating like you've never seen food before…"
Yuji was almost offended, if it weren't for the fact that she wasn't exactly wrong, either. "But chimps are scary. They, like, bite people's faces off!"
"So does Sukuna," Nobara looked at him with an expression that told anybody in immediate proximity exactly how little brain cells she thought he had, "Don't try to play innocent with your 'I'm a chill guy!' when you literally have a face-munching demon playing house in your body."
"He's not me, though!"
She shrugged, shoulders touching the tip of her hair with the movement, "You share rent. That counts."
Itadori Yuji grasped his uniform, the material bunching underneath his hand before his fingers let go of the jacket, one by one. It was only a moment, but your eyes, trained on the pink-haired student possessing the King of the Curses, were observant, catching the way a strange, detached expression flitted over his face. Hollow, dissociated eyes that seemed so far away.
Digging your heel into the ground, you tried imagining what it could be that he was feeling out in that moment, what Sukuna could be saying, what horrible things he could be taunting Yuji with in the personal space of his mind that nobody could access. The things Yuji kept hidden behind an exterior that beamed like the sun, locking the force of the demon behind rattling doors.
You wondered whether Yuji's body remembered the things that Sukuna did.
As quick as the expression having made its way over Yuji's face, it was just as quick that he whirled around to face Megumi with mock offence. Yuji's finger pointed towards the other first-year, who looked like he'd rather not be here, listening to the non-sense the others were arguing about.
"Megumi! Come on, man, you gotta be on my side, right?"
Megumi, whose body had been slowly turning away, inch by inch, halted, and his eyes closed, his chest moving with a sigh escaping him, "I don't even want to be on anyone's side."
Yuji's mouth almost formed a comical downturn,"I miss when we were friends."
"I miss when it was quiet."
"Don't worry, Yuji," Nobara threw her leg over the other and leaned back, "He's only pissed because his fashion sense sucks."
Your eyebrows raised at the eye roll of Megumi's; it was offensive in its own right, the way it conveyed the exasperation sitting deep in his soul, "I don't care about fashion. Or this conversation."
Nobara nodded to Yuji. "That's exactly what someone without drip would say."
Yuji nodded back. "He'd totally be a hedgehog."
A snap of her fingers towards the pink-haired, "Oh, that's such a good read. All spiky on the outside, and so soft on the inside. Yuck."
"I'm going to leave."
"Running away again, huh?"
Maybe you were not supposed to influence any ongoing schemes, but you couldn't help yourself.
When there was somebody in front of you who seemed so incredibly closed off, like anything pelted off him like rain on an umbrella, it was so very tempting to be the one who could bring out the twitch in his eyebrows, the clicking of his tongue.
It was a race, the way you ran to see who could piss off the other faster. So that he could drop this pretentious holier-than-thou attitude, thinking he was better than everybody else because he played the part of a brooding hero so well, because he refused to partake in conversation that retained his youth.
"What?" his voice was quiet, composed, and he could have fooled you had he not stopped mid-step.
"They're just joking around, grumpy-pants. That got you all bothered?"
Megumi's shoulders were tense, a small quiver running through his muscles, like there's something repressed running beneath his skin. The curve of his jaw hardened, and through gritted teeth, he spit out, "No. But you're starting to."
There was a certain charge in the air; a reluctance to accept you in their midst, like a bystander, too easy to be forgotten. They had already settled in a comfortable exchange of energy, and here you were, disrupting it — a new current of electricity that nobody really knew where to direct it through. Yuji was the type to be accommodating, friendly and open; who didn't have a problem to pull you in. Nobara, who saw you had no interest in entertaining her whims, grouped you together with the rest of the first-years but not necessarily that rejecting.
Megumi, though. Megumi was the one who distrusted you the most.
To his defence, you were an intruder. He might not know it outright, but the protective barrier he had risen around himself and almost around the other two as well gnawed at you. There they were: those three, belonging together, one playing off the other, the two chaotic kids needing to be reined in by the rock in the midst of crashing waves.
It almost made you jealous. Almost. If Megumi didn't want to trust you, then so be it. You weren't banking on that, anyway, you just…liked riling him up.
Nobara had nudged closer to Yuji, her hand facing his, palm up: "Ten bucks says he threatens to summon his dogs or whatever in, like, five seconds."
"You're on," Yuji whispered back; his hand meeting hers in a quiet clap.
You mirrored Megumi's eye roll from earlier, made sure to put in all the mocking you could, "You always take everything so seriously. Jeez, no wonder no one invites you to anything fun."
Megumi's knuckles were the second thing to follow to express his displeasure, the annoyance bubbling in his veins, the way the tips of his shoes almost wanted to turn around, "You done?"
Scratching at his ego, you knew your words were sharp. That he also had valid reason to fight you — if anything, you might start respecting him more if he just finally snapped. If he just finally gave you a reason to believe that he believed what he was saying, that he wasn't full of shit.
"Just wondering how long you can pretend like you're not dying to prove something."
He moved his head and you caught a glimpse of his eye; the heat in them that he tried to desperately squash, the cold that he layered on top of it, the iciness with which he regarded you, and you returned the look, challenging him.
"I'm not pretending."
"Oooookay, wow. That's, uh, super healthy tension here," Yuji laughed, a nervous undertone swinging in his tenor, and he got up from the floor. There were a few blades of grass stuck on the outside of his pant legs, and a few floated to the ground when he stepped up, ready to intervene.
Your relaxed stance didn't falter.
Because you knew. Because Megumi knew. Because both of you knew he wasn't going to do anything. Because he didn't have courage enough to give in, because he'd rather swallow the annoyance than act on it, because he'd rather burn than to show his feelings and be vulnerable, than to stand by what he believed.
Because he was a coward.
He left instead, and you watched the way he walked away, the way he shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, deep, like they were a bottomless pit that could swallow all the frustrations he felt.
"Don't trip over your own brooding!" you called after him sweetly, and his shoulders tensed even further, before he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.
You clicked your tongue, feeling unsatisfied because goddamn, did he have to make it so hard to get him to explode?
"You think you're being so cute," Nobara said, and despite her voice sounding syrupy, there was snark swinging underneath it, cutting through the silence that ensued after Megumi left.
You shrugged. "He can't handle jokes, that's not on me."
"Oh, we were joking, alright."
Yuji sent you a look, unsure, hesitating. He didn't want enemies, not when he wanted to get along with his classmates, and you had no interest in forcing him to, so you left as well.
3rd of April; 02:14. — you.
Your hands moved steadily, the black ink seeping through the thick pale slip of paper with every brush stroke. It had to be deliberate, so the creation of talismans usually were a slow business, though it also didn't help that the scripture was far from modern. Old and twisted from teachings long forgotten.
The brush dragged through ink and painted intent, and with each swing of the bristles, you exhaled out, the room cold as it seemed to use up the heat and energy to create a hidden message behind the charm.
You whispered confines into existence, orders; a veil of false reality settling on top of the ink slowly at the last of your brush strokes. Shimmering, the talisman looked like it had embers glowing inside of it, the edges of the paper slip singed dark.
Quickly, you wrapped an unassuming thread around the charm, tying it up, then — a bead of blood pressed right on the seal.
Clicking your tongue, you licked the welling of another drop of blood off. There wasn't much to inform Gakuganji of yet, but you were expected to send a status update anyway. In your eyes? a complete waste of good, thick paper. The world was getting expensive, after all.
5th of April; 16:11. — fushiguro megumi.
"Oh no, you don't."
"Megumi, you wound me. I haven't even said anything yet."
"Gojo-sensei. With no respect at all, you're coming in here with her."
"If he's wounded, I'm heartbroken, Fushiguro. How could you say that— hey, don't ignore me."
Megumi shut his book, "There's plenty other people you could send."
"Eh, I figured you two would make a good team. You know, balancing each other out, but also your people skills needs some training," Gojo shrugged, nonchalant, but the way he leaned against his door made Megumi think that really, this was just another one of Gojo's shrewd teaching methods.
"He'd definitely get it down if he stopped thinking he was better than everyone else."
"I don't think I'm better. I just don't care enough to play along with you," he bit out.
A clap of Gojo's hands and a gleeful smile, "See? Perfect chemistry already. You may call me Master Matchmaker from now on."
"Over my dead body."
"Aww, come onnnn—"
"No."
5th of April; 19:02. — you.
"Stop moping, Fushiguro."
"I'm not moping."
You grinned, leaning closer to him, "Mhm, I'm not so sure of that. You look like you need somebody to cheer you up."
He threw you a sour look, before turning his head to look out the window again. The car ride was strained. Itawa, the manager issued by Tokyo Jujutsu High, was gripping the steering wheel silently. Itawa didn't have anything to say, as per regulations, and Megumi and you didn't see eye to eye.
Gojo had announced the mission that both of you were to fulfil, gleefully putting both Megumi and you in a team together. It was clear that he was enjoying the way Megumi bristled in the face of spending more time on missions with you than he was already forced to. You weren't exactly sure why; maybe he suspected you and liked to keep you in check with his trusted, experienced student.
But maybe he also just enjoyed seeing him sweat. It was difficult to tell with Gojo and the blindfold that concealed far more than his eyes.
Megumi, though, had his dissatisfaction ooze from his every pore with a force that could have rivalled any lash out of cursed energy. You couldn't help but wink at him when you caught his eye, the smile growing wider at the darkening of his eyes and the hard set of his mouth.
To his fortune, it wasn't a difficult mission. Iwata had already relayed to you both the details:
The shopping mart in Yurakucho had suddenly sealed itself under a spontaneous veil, civilians having gone missing. The windows had reported back to the Jujutsu Sorcerers about a cursed womb presence, and sooner than later, Megumi and you had been dispatched for elimination.
When you stepped out the car, the street was empty; the civilians that had occupied the space before not needing to see curses to notice the change in the atmosphere, the danger lingering in the air. It wasn't supposed to be a high Grade curse, but with cursed wombs, it was difficult to tell.
The veil drawn on seemed to almost glitch like it was unable to keep up the facade of a normal shopping mall; the false reality cloaking the building sporting tiny rips in its fabric.
"It will be easy to find its weak point since it's not a strong curtain. It will take but a moment," Iwata assured, and true to his word, it did not take long to create a hole in the spiritual structure for you both to slip through it. But when you and Megumi entered the curtain, you hadn't expected for it to be almost harder to breathe than outside, as if the air was carrying more fluid than it should, like you could be drowning any moment. Without a word, the divine dogs appeared around Megumi's legs, at attention.
The automatic doors were broken, the glass cracked like something had escaped rather than broken in. There were tiny splinters covering the face of the floor and the jagged edges caught the fluorescent light flickering behind it, throwing indiscernible shapes on the floor.
"Creepy," you muttered as you stepped on the shards, faint music swinging in the air accompanying the strange static of the place. It tasted weird, too, when you had opened your mouth to speak.
Megumi nodded but kept quiet, barely glancing at the screens of TVs mounted on every wall, a product advertisement looping over and over again — the same smile, the same pour of coffee.
He would never buy this specific brand of coffee machine. Not now. Not ever.
Instead, Megumi moved through the first floor; eyes sharp, trained on the surfaces of the place. They were weird, some were too clean, others were smeared with dark brown substance. It was humid, too, like there was a storm brewing.
Feeling out the situation, you sent a low pulse of your cursed energy out, meant to ricochet off the walls and tell you the density of everything that existed within the confines of this place, but the sound echoed outwards and came back to you distorted, like part of it disappeared. Your eyebrows furrowed.
His voice sounded far away, even though he stood right next to you, "We should split up, cover more ground. There's three floors, after all. Who knows which one the curse calls its new home."
"I'm hurt, Fushiguro, wanna get rid of me so early?"
Megumi swallowed his sigh, "Yes, but it'll also be faster that way."
"I'll take the upper floor then, Your Majesty."
You whirled around to get started, but his scoff held you back, "You're so impatient, hold on for a moment."
"You don't need to give me a goodbye kiss, Fushiguro, I think i'll manage just fine without it."
He threw you a look that you decidedly chose to ignore and said, "Take this."
Catching something sleek and black, you took a closer look at it. It was a short ranged communication system; a wireless ear piece that had you raising your eyebrows at him. Prepared much, was he?
"I thought I felt it before but just earlier, when you activated your technique — it felt weird, like— like the building's reacting to our presence. Not just cursed."
"Yeah," you said, eyes trained on the ceiling and the flickering lights, "I think it may be feeding on the energy. I sensed far less on its way back than what I sent out."
"Yeah."
You sent him a kiss through the air when you parted from him, because you thought the way his usually impassive face contorted in a grimace was a good memory to own, and then took the emergency stairs. The escalators were dead, and you hardly believed that the curse was going to help you out by allowing you to take the faster way.
The second floor's sign post indicated the toy's section to be up ahead — or at least, that was what it was supposed to be. Instead, you were met with shelves that had been cleared away, the toys scattered all over the floor like debris from a fight that dominated the room beforehand.
There were cracks on the floor and your eyes tracked them upward to talismans on the ceiling and sticking to the pillars on the edge of the room. Hand-drawn with shaky lines. The ink hadn't dried yet, and one such drop followed gravity and splashed on the linoleum floor.
It wasn't ink, you realised when you saw the thinned out edges of the liquid on the ground, it was blood.
Cursed energy swirled around the slips of paper, tugging on your senses like an invisible leash. It called for you, asked you to come witness, to come watch, that there was nothing else for you to find and do on this floor than to come look at the centre of the floor and see the wide circle set on the floor.
Messy, but red.
It pulsed, and you couldn't blink as you watched the circle writhe, like it was almost alive.
Megumi's voice startled you when it came out of nowhere, "This looks—ke a ritual of— sort. Still— active."
You stepped back automatically, looked away from the circle, the siren call broken. Despite the static cutting through his words, you couldn't help but offhandedly notice the way his voice sounded through the ear piece, and it sent a weird shiver down your back. Had it always been that deep?
Furrowing your eyebrows, you pressed the in-ear piece deeper, "This shit's weird. Almost made me step in."
You shook your head to clear up the heavy air settling on your senses, and tried to keep your cursed energy locked in, taut around your body, not allowing it to leak from your skin, but it felt like the cursed womb tasted it anyway. A shudder in the air, sudden and subtle. Like a breath drawn in by something enormous.
"It doesn't feel like an ambush," you said, "It's like it's waiting. Like…it wants us inside the circle?"
Megumi's voice cracked through the in-ear, "I swe— don't get any du—ideas. Stay put, I'm— com—"
You weren't stupid.
No way in hell would you just oblige the desires of a curse, but you also didn't want to wait on Megumi and risk allowing this thing, wherever it was, to haze your senses. Not when you could feel the delightful shiver in the air at your attention.
It really was a better idea to find the cursed womb fast before it could manifest fully, anyway. Sorry, Fushiguro.
5th of April; 20:38. — fushiguro megumi.
Megumi's head was already hurting.
He had to hurry because there was no telling what your next move was. If anything, he could count his blessings that up until then nothing worth mentioning happened, that you both were able to decently communicate and investigate the floors.
But then he threw a talisman from his sleeve and flicked it into the circle and the paper caught fire midair, the red turning blue from the force of energy swirling in the circle before the charm was slapped into the floor. It left a decently sized dent from the force and the cursed energy rippled outwards; the air swinging heavily and even though there was no breeze, Megumi thought that he still felt movement caressing his cheek.
There were more than just the blood markings on the floor; deep in the open cracks, there were sigils buried, carved.
So no, he had absolutely no faith and did not want to take a chance on whether your resistance was sufficient enough not to step into the damn circle.
His Demon Dogs were already ahead of him, fast, barely hindered by the debris on the floor; the energy that had pooled in his palms slowly dwindling. He set out to follow, taking the stairs two at once, but when he just entered the second floor—
A scrape, a soft whimper, shushing.
Even though the overhead light buzzed as if a swarm of flies kept bumping into the light source, even though there was a faint thrumming, even though Megumi's ears were strained to catch all the tiny noises, high alert, it faded when those new sounds registered in his mind.
Megumi found them off the side, tucked behind a fallen aisle of grotesque looking toy cars. A teenage girl, eyes wide and sharp with her arm looped tightly around an older man's shoulder. There was sweat glinting above her upper lip, and her fear was palpable on his tongue, sharp and tangy.
From one second to another, uninvited, flashes of—
A hospital bed.
Rain against the window.
Limp limbs.
Gone.
I'm saying you can't.
He snapped back to reality like a rubber band, the air heavy and stale. Megumi shook his head, and the inside of his hands felt clammy. He closed them to fists once, hard, with intent. A reminder.
This wasn't the time.
The girl didn't cry when she looked up at him: odd, like he was the odd one out. He wasn't odd, he belonged here, he was meant to do this. He had to, or else—
Stop. Stop. Not the time.
He crouched in front of her, his eyes flitting over the old man, falling into the old routine of analysing. Detached, categorise the threat, deal. The old man was barely conscious, but still breathing; the rise of his chest shallow and weak. There was a thin line of blood trickling down his temple. Then he allowed his gaze to wander over to the girl again.
"You hurt?"
She shook her head, her fingers digging into the old man's — her grandfather? — shoulder, deep, gripping the material. The pressure in the air felt like it was coiling tighter, ready to rip — something about the floor was moving wrong, and he couldn't risk wasting a second longer to let them linger here.
"Okay. We're getting you out, so on my command, you run. Keep him moving. You don't stop until I say."
5th of April; 20:52. — you.
Megumi's voice hadn't sounded out anymore. You briefly wondered whether something happened, but when you turned the corner, it escaped your mind, because right there in the centre of the aisle: the cursed womb.
It wasn't hiding anymore. No, worse: it had built a body.
Twisted metal of broken shopping carts; the limbs of mannequins attached to each other, bent like the joints of spider's legs, and in the middle of it, curled up in the protection of its centre was a blob of flesh, deep green in its colour, moving like it's molding. There were something like bones sticking out of its side, like ribs, expanding, trying to breathe. Trying to imitate.
It was not human and yet it craved it so.
At its feet was half of the torso of a store employee, and there were obscene sounds. Slurping, drinking. A few metres away was another store employee, already dry, the skin ashen and wrinkled.
Eyes widening, you realised what was happening.
When you tried to speak into the communication piece, Megumi's voice finally pushed through.
"I've— two civilia— we—" it cracked horribly in your ears and with the brewing of electricity in the air, your hair stood up on its end, "—start evac— protocol."
"Forget that. We don't have time!" you pressed the in-ear so hard, it hurt your ear canal, and you heard a sharp "What?!" coming from him, but you couldn't entertain him, you needed to make him understand, "I found it, Fushiguro. It's some goddamn department store mascot made from some mannequins and—"
You paused when you heard heavy breathing, "And people."
You continued, because he wasn't talking, and you needed him to know, "It's feeding, and I'm not going to lie, it looks ready to burst."
There was a low groan coming from the curse, echoing through the walls. The shelves creaked as they started tilting on their bases, not from motion but from bending. A bad feeling unfurled in your stomach, your fingertips tingling. This was not good.
"We don't have time," you decided, because he wasn't saying shit and you had to stop the curse from fully manifesting, "We need to collapse the upper floor. Drop it with everything we've got, bury the curse, halt it — whatever it is, we need to do it now."
"—not bringin— roof down on—eople!"
You cut through his words, urgent when you heard the Demon Dogs running towards you, "Then get them out faster, because there's no way in hell that I'm waiting."
5th of April; 20:55. — fushiguro megumi.
Megumi's hands were frozen near his blade.
His eyes darted towards the girl and her grandfather — she was still crouched behind him, her breath heavy, painted dark with fear. Their eyes met for a split second and he knew she understood enough from his words.
"We're not sacrificing people," he said, almost snarled, turning away from the girl who looked at him like he was her only salvation, and his shoulders were heavy, threatening to crumble from an invisible force. Whether it was the responsibility he shouldered or the ever-growing output of pressure and energy from the cursed womb, he could not say.
"—risk let— manife—"
He hissed, "Yes," because it was true. Because he'd, "—rather that than dig two corpses out of the rub—"
The shifting of the building cut him off. Aisles buckled and turned, warping like wriggling worms, intestines that were in the middle of digestion. When the empty shelves started stretching outward, hungry, he whirled around, mind set.
His hand gripped the girl's arm hard, his fingers pressing in with frustration, urgency, anger, and he knew the girl winced underneath the harshness of his touch, but he couldn't be worried about bruising her or her old man, when the alternative was them dead. Deleted from this world, under his watch.
"Move. Move," Megumi grunted, and she stumbled over her legs, and then, a shift in the comm line. A sharp click. A decision made.
Megumi's eyes snapped up—
Impact.
A burst of cursed energy tore through the roof, fast and brutal, a calculated cave-in. The concrete groaned, jarring, as a blast erupted from above with an ear-deafening volume. Cracks formed along the ceiling above them like it was chasing the bolt of a lightning strike.
His instincts flared, hands crossing in a familiar gesture.
"Nue!"
The shikigami appeared in a gust of wind. Wings spread wide as it flew straight up towards the ceiling, its body crashing against the bulk of the collapse. It sounded like a thunderclap, the way the force split, the scattering of debris, the fracturing of ceiling away from the civilians.
The girl was crying softly behind him, and Megumi hated the sound. He hated that his chest squeezed, a reminder that he could have failed, he hated that he was in charge, he hated the fury coursing through his veins that you decided to forego his plans, that you put him in a position like that.
He hated you.
5th of April; 21:12. — you.
Megumi's divine dogs surrounded you, growling, threatening, but you weren't going to do anything, anyway.
There wasn't a point anymore. It had been the perfect time — the concrete was about to rain down onto the cursed womb, suffocating it, but then Megumi's goddamn flimsy convictions came in between. Now, the cursed womb was gone. Escaped. God knew what damage it would cause now.
The silence should have been deafening, but the ringing in your ear from the explosion was too loud, the heat on your skin too strong, your throat too dry.
His voice, unhindered from the lack of static interference now that there was no curse in sight anymore, was too loud as well, cold, "They're alive. Not that you'd care to—"
The communication piece crunched under your boots.
5th of April; 22:43. — iwata.
The car ride back was silent, even more so than before. This wasn't just Fushiguro Megumi and the exchange student from Kyoto not getting along —this was a failed mission. This was the culmination of stubborn heads and clashing ideals, and Iwata thought that he could drown in the thick tension simmering between you both.
When the curtain dropped, there was cursed energy lingering in the air, but not as remnants of an exorcism. Active, swirling, faint. That was the signature of a curse that had been here and was now gone.
The first-years looked worse for wear, but it wasn't just the rips in their uniform — it was the look in their eyes: the resentment, the anger, the guilt, the unsaid words sitting on their tongue, ready to be spit out.
Iwata's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He really did hope that his car would not become their battlefield, that he could drive just a teeny tiny bit faster so that he wouldn't be around for when both of you decided to hash it out.
5th of April; 23:07. — you.
You entered Tokyo Jujutsu High's protective barrier together. Well, as together as Megumi walking a few steps behind you was. It was cold, the weather reminding you that spring was barely amongst you, but you refused to rub your arms in an effort to warm yourself up. You didn't want to show weakness in front of Megumi, not when you could feel his gaze trained on you from behind; the accusation lying behind the heavy attention.
You pressed your lips together.
The curse was gone, barely traceable for you anymore. When the curtain fell, Iwata had called Gojo at once, though the white-haired teacher had been busy doing god knew what, so you had to relay to Iwata what exactly happened. It was a pathetic display of how much you messed up when both of you started talking over each other, but then Iwata had kindly requested alone time with each of you to go through the details.
Embarrassing.
It wasn't even your fault, but the tip of your ears burned anyway at the incompetence they must have seen when you couldn't stop yourself from responding to Megumi.
Right when your paths diverged, he spoke, voice cold and repressed.
"You dropped a floor on two innocent people."
You couldn't help whirling around to meet him face to face — his' was shadowed, the moon barely illuminating anything. In the silence of the world, your steps sounded hard and deliberate, "You let it escape."
The look in his eyes grew darker, "I made a call and you ignored it."
"No," you shook your head. It was far simpler than that, but of course he wouldn't see it. "You ran from the fight, like you always do, and I didn't."
"Ran? I didn't call to drive them home and tuck them in. We just needed to get them out, but you almost killed them," he scoffed, his hands balled into fists. There was a tremor in his shoulders, one that he tried to suppress with gritted teeth, "and all i'm hearing is that you don't give a damn."
It angered you — the easiness with which he accused you of not caring. Him, who willingly threw away the way Jujutsu Regulations had always been, who played it safe because of what? Because he was scared? Because he couldn't handle making a choice that was supposed to be the one you had to go for? Curses first, people second. Because in a world where people died, to ensure there wasn't more to kill them, was more important.
You had seen the look in his eyes before when somebody died. It wasn't anger, it wasn't pain. It was something quieter, sharper. Regret. Like he could have changed the outcome if there had been more to him than what he was. The way he steeled himself and searched the rubble like he was hoping to find a better version of himself buried under the wreckage.
He thought that made him better. You almost snorted, because it didn't. It just made him dangerous, because he was going to hesitate again. And again. And again.
So yeah, it angered you beyond control the way he threw your principles in front of you and stepped on them when his entire spiel was a lie. It was bullshit.
Your finger dug into his chest, an accusation and a challenge, "There won't be anybody left to give a damn about, because that curse is hatching out somewhere. Who knows how many more people are going to die, hm? Those lives less precious than the ones you saved?"
He looked at you like you grew a second head, but something flickered behind the confines of his eyes, something that he swallowed over and over, that he tried to hide. He slapped your hand away, a sharp sting where your skin met his, and his voice sounded rough when he replied, full of resentment, unbelievability because —, "Who made you god? You don't get to choose who dies, whose life doesn't matter."
"That's the thing, Fushiguro. You wanna keep pretending you know that that's what the job entails, but you don't live up to it. You've never lived up to it. Noble hero, my ass, you're just a coward with a clean conscience."
His hand had snatched the front of your clothes so quickly, you barely had time to react. Nose pressed against yours, his eyes harsh, wild. The uniform strained underneath your arms and you could feel the warmth emitting from his body, the faint smell of him after this long day, sweat and hidden desperation.
The heat of his anger and his hair brushed your forehead, "Say that again."
You narrowed your eyes at him, not moving away. If he wanted to invade your space because he couldn't handle the truth, then you'd meet him right there: "What, you think restraint makes you better? Want me to say it again so badly? You're just scared to admit that you've already made peace with casualties."
A humourless laugh escaped him, his fingers tightening on your blouse, "Funny. I can say the same thing about you—"
"No, but that's the thing: I don't have a problem agreeing with it. I'm telling you right here, right now that yes, I'd sacrifice those two to keep others safe," you interrupted him, watching his face, the flicker in his eyes, the angry twist in his mouth, the grimace that he couldn't hide behind an impassive wall anymore, "But you— you keep doing that, you know? Acting like you don't care because you talk quieter."
Fuck the stoicism that he wanted to cling to, the control he didn't want to give up — you wanted him to get angry, wanted the squeeze of his hand around your uniform to evolve, wanted him to finally tip the edge over and be honest, no performances. He was teetering there, you could see it. It was clinging onto every fibre of his being, pushing him, asking, challenging him. Then— a harsh exhale, his breath warm against your skin in the cool of the night, and he let go.
"If you think that's what it is, then you don't know shit."
You allowed your shoulders to drop, a sigh heavy in your voice, "I think you'd rather break your own bones than admit what you want, Fushiguro. You're not sparing lives, so I don't know who you're kidding. You're just dodging the part where you have to live with who you become."
He walked past you, silent, the gravel underneath his boots filling the air like it was supposed to take over for him.
There he was, running.
You aimed the words at the air in between you both, the ever-growing distance, "At least, I make the calls I can live with. You make the ones you hope no one remembers."
5th of April; 23:59. — fushiguro megumi.
Fushiguro Megumi felt sick to his stomach.
His dormitory door closed shut behind him, quietly. It was deep in the night, his window looking outward to the side of the moon, painting everything in a soft blue hue. It was silent, but it felt charged, like it was waiting for him to make a noise. He didn't want to.
His face felt weird.
He tried to fix it, to go back to the way he looked, the way he always allowed his face to look, but it wouldn't sit right. His eyebrows felt so heavy, the neutral set of his mouth too numb, his cheeks too hollow. The mask he had gotten so used to putting on didn't want to hold. It kept sliding off, and he tried again, but again, it fell into a grimace.
His breathing sounded weird in his ears, too, like it was far away, like this wasn't his body, like Megumi wasn't human and he didn't belong here. Did he ever? When he was out there, standing in front of people and curses, did he? Had he done enough to deserve existing here, safely tucked in his dorm room whilst the curse roamed free out there?
The death of more people, on his hands—
He opened his mouth and exhaled. His body listened, but if he hadn't known that it was his body right now, he might not have recognised it as himself. The intake of breath, his chest expanding, the smell of orange lingering in his room from earlier, the silence. It was so silent.
You ran.
Something — somewhere — tightened, and then everything rushed in at once, like it was scared that if it didn't come say hello now, it would never get its chance to. His hands lifted up into his line of sight, and they were trembling, slightly. He pressed them into his eyeballs like he could squeeze the guilt out this way, like he could dig them deep enough to enter his brain and stop it.
His voice was barely more than a whisper: "I didn't freeze."
He didn't. He couldn't have. He made the hard call. He did. He— you let it escape.
"I didn't."
Nothing in his room answered. What would it say, if it could? Would it agree with Megumi? Would it think that he was a coward, too?
He shook his head, hard enough that the strands of hair clung to his temples, damp. He hadn't noticed that he was sweating. Or was it tears? He didn't know. He wasn't sure. There was pressure building in his chest, up in his throat, trying to claw out, to rip free from his skin.
It barely registered in his mind when his his hands came together and cursed energy lingered between his palms, nor when the soft fur of his Divine Dogs brushed the hands, the tentative swipe of their tongue on his skin.
The moonlight caught in his eyes, and for a second he thought he saw himself reflected in the window amidst the black and white fur surrounding his head.
It didn't look like him.
6th of April; 00:19. — you.
You were exhausted to the bone.
Your chest felt like somebody had taken a hammer and chiselled your organs around until all the anger had fizzled out, until only fatigue was left, muscles aching, deeply; throat scratchy and raw from the shouting.
Megumi's face kept flickering through your head; the look in his eyes, the way they didn't harden, the way they looked like a kaleidoscope, fractured in a million pieces. The way they dropped. Just a bit, just enough.
Fuck. Had you been too rough? Too sharp?
You hadn't wanted to pick a fight — not really. You just…you couldn't take the way he stood there like the weight didn't touch him. Like he wouldn't turn around and then not care if there were civilians on the line that he didn't know and hadn't promised to save. Like he had any right to accuse you of anything.
But why couldn't you ignore it?
It wasn't like that was your first time meeting somebody whose principles were all weird. Hell, you didn't even mind that, if only he stood by it. But he didn't, and something about that bothered you.
He needed it, right?
Because if you didn't push him that hard, he would just continue hiding. Because if you didn't slap him awake, his restraint might get everybody killed. Because maybe you wanted a reason to respect him, to believe he was someone worth following. Someone who, if he really tried, could stop pretending and step up, stop being a shadow of what he could be.
No. You had to. Because if you didn't, nobody would. Because he was the heir to the Zen'in clans technique and he was wasting it. Yeah, that must be it.
Why does it matter to you? Why does it keep mattering?
You got into bed and ignored the question like it wasn't sitting there beside you in the dark like it was something alive.
6th of April; 04:52. — gojo satoru.
Gojo Satoru stepped into the broken shopping mall deep in the middle of the night.
The scent hit him first — burned plastic, the water-logged fertiliser from the gardening section strong in the air, the blood faint but still there, like it soaked into the bones of this mart. Residues of cursed energy hummed low, traces of them visible to Gojo's eyes, though it was dissipating with the hours passing. Gojo thought it almost seemed shy the way it was trying to hide from him, like it was ashamed to stay.
He huffed, an exhale whirling around the dust from the collapse, "Could've been worse."
The circle with the ritual completely cracked in half, the shards on the floor, the bodies of the employees — yeah. Definitely could have been worse.
Gojo moved through the mall like a ghost, his footsteps light, his posture relaxed and easy. His Six Eyes were everywhere, scanning the remnants of the talismans, tracking the remaining energy across the linoleum and the shattered shelves.
He didn't have to look where the curse had blown away to, he already knew.
Instead, he knelt beside the dried streaks on the floor, his fingers brushing the scorch marks from a lightning strike.
Megumi.
There was a small smile pulling at the corner of Gojo's mouth, sharp, "Sloppy, Gumi-chan."
The kid was still too soft.
Though, of course, if it had been Gojo Satoru, he wouldn't have needed to blast the roof to exorcise the curse. He would have just killed it from the get go, and whoever was stuck in the mall would've been able to get out safely, afterwards. Not that he would have stayed around for that. That was what Ichiji would have been for.
He did admire that about Megumi, his ability to deeply shoulder the guilt. He thought it made him human, and that was always a good sign. But Gojo resented it, too. The world they lived in didn't reward hesitation, or holding back. It didn't reward worry about whether your hands would be stained.
It punished it.
But that was how kids were supposed to be and to an extent it relieved Gojo, but it also twisted something in his chest. If they didn't grasp it soon—
He didn't want to scrape off their remains.
Gojo stood up, slow and fluid, a dance he had done before a thousand times. The air shifted around him and then he stood in front of the half-born, desperate curse. Tracking it was easy, teleporting to it even easier.
"You had your chance," he murmured, picking off non-existent lint off his sleeve, his voice bored and almost cruel. "You made it to the edge of something special. Congratulations."
He raised his hand, "Now disappear."
A pulse of cursed energy, no technique even needed, and it was gone like it never existed at all.
A deep sigh escaped him as he stood in the silence of the outskirts of Tokyo, surrounded by shadows of a fight that wasn't his, but became his, anyway. Like it always did. That was what he was for. He handled what his kids couldn't. Not because they were weak and couldn't deal the finishing blow, not because they failed when they should have succeeded.
But because they were learning and that was his duty. For as long as they were — he'd work himself to the bone cleaning up their mess.
Now, on to destroy that talisman you had written up to send off to Kyoto.