Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Obito wakes up reaching his hand out for someone that never reached back.

Rin’s smile flashed before his eyes. Speaking words that he couldn’t hear as she reached for his hand. He had wanted to ask her then, if he deserved forgiveness, if he deserved to be here at all- here, in the Pure Lands, with her and everyone else- Rin’s face, then, was distorted and smeared. As though someone had dragged their hand to an ink mark that has yet to dry. Her expression blurred with the edges of ink. She was speaking to him. Replying to his question.

Obito was underwater. He must be. Her words were slurred and barely legible. Resounding with the echoes of the waves of the ocean, mixed with Rin’s soft voice.

What did you say? he wanted to ask. Underwater and drowning with the weight of Rin’s words that he couldn’t quite hear. His consciousness drifted farther apart than it had when he had died for Kakashi.

Obito wakes up on a concrete rooftop. Solid beneath his hand. The earth upon his fingertips and the sea drowning him no further. He was half-delirious. His mind had not yet resurfaced from the depths below. The world around him absorbed in a red haze that was disturbingly comforting.

He puts a shaking hand upon his body. Finding it solid and whole and not a crumpled heap of ashes as it was supposed to be. His hands similar shades upon each other. A human’s hands, those were. No longer those of the Juubi’s jinchuuriki.

He exhaled, his breath trembling under the weight of his mind going haywire. Questions filling it faster than he could answer. Faster than his sharigan could observe. A steady stream of, When? How? Where? What? filling his head and making it hurt.

He didn’t want to think about the why.

There were multitudes of why’s. Obito didn’t have all day to list them all out. Packaging them into a neat novel for the world to see and judge. He had spent an awful lot of time doing an awful lot of things and during that awfully long time, and he had learned that it was best to not look behind at the carnage he left.

Rule one of committing heinous crimes, never remember them. Let alone list them all.

Madara didn’t teach him that. Obito spent an awfully long time wading through the murky depths of his guilt and ’what ifs’ in the short break between ruining lives and the world to learn that. Madara, most likely, would have had killer advice. If he deigned to give it, which he hadn’t. Having a thesaurus worth of crimes under his own belt from his practically immortal like time alive. Perhaps he never wanted to think upon the ‘why’s either. Only focusing on the “what we need to do now” and “what step of the plan are we on” and “how to fix Obito’s fuck ups of this one part of the plan”.

Obito wondered, briefly, if Madara also had seen Izuna and then was promptly left to dry out on some concrete rooftop. Going delirious with his chakra going against his body.

Chakra. God, his chakra. It was going mad. Just as mad as Madara. Striving to burst out of his body with its intensity. Wanting to escape its pathetic host. Growing stronger with each intake of air. As Obito’s ”why, why, why” reaches its zenith with each breath taken. His chakra was going out of control. Spiraling into a tangled web that was an excellent resemblance of whatever Obito’s current mental state was.

No wonder he was delirious.

He makes a move to stand up. No invisible hand to help him now. The motion tugging at old wounds that Obito thought he’d never have to feel again. Obito thought he’d never have to deal with anything again. Suffering and pain included alongside being alive.

If Obito were any less trained, he’d stumble. As he were now, he was long used to making his body ignore itself and move. His body hadn’t protested like this in quite a while. Or perhaps it had become white noise along with other things that Obito learned to toss out and hope don’t bite him later.

The rain met his face as he steps forward slowly. Mocking him, surely, as it dripped down, down, down onto the earth. He breathes in again. His sharingan worked harder than it should’ve to catalog everything around him. Tall, towering buildings, flashing signs, and flashing images. The indistinct chatter below of a large crowd. The sheer scale of it all.

That’s not Konoha, Obito thought. His eyes moved from place to place at rapid succession.

That’s not anywhere.

“De… detergent,” something said. Obito’s neck snapped towards it faster than he should’ve.

Faster than his mind could process anything at all, Obito crashed into the monster he’d come to face with. Hands moving to grab at something- a kunai- anything- as his chakra soared and soared with his heightened stress.

Not human, it was an understatement to describe it in its hideousness. Deformed and shaped as though a child had taken upon a block of clay and tried to make the beginnings of a human but never got farther than the idea itself.

“What are you?” Obito asked. His voice deceptively calm. Sharp wood sprouted out of his hands into a poor man’s blade as he pressed it against the thing’s body. The neck was hard to locate on such a body, so Obito went for the next best thing in the thing’s eyes. Or what he assumed were eyes. Good model shinobi actions, he thinks. Young Kakashi would approve.

“Dete… rgent.” That was all the thing said. Or was capable of saying. Making a move to toss him away from it. Its muscles bulging unnaturally as Obito stabbed one of its hands down. It made a wounded sound. Garbled amidst the steady downfall of rain.

There were footsteps, then. Breaking through the jumbled moan of the thing beneath him. Obito’s muscles tensed. His chakra pathways straining with effort as his Sharingan whirled to life. He hadn’t felt this exhausted pulling on his Sharingan in a while. Since the first time he activated it.

He saw the exact moment two others barge onto the rooftop. A man with slicked hair and an odd suit, and a boy in a black uniform.

Their fashion was an odd one. But in this place of strange towers and stranger things, Obito felt that perhaps he was the odd one here.

The man, eyes hidden beneath a green pair of goggles (were they? They were too small for that, much smaller than Obito’s own pair of goggles, left behind when he died), moved his head to stare at Obito. Accessing him.

They weren’t shinobi, Obito noted. Even if the man stood like he was prepping for a fight. Stance practiced, from years of toil, no doubt. Shinobi posture was different from that of a fighter’s. While fighting was a big part of them, shinobi was mostly linked with stealth. They blended into the scenery, hidden away.

The man and the boy were anything but. They stood and made themselves known.

“What are you?” the man asked, his voice was tense. Shinobis don’t do that, emotions. Good shinobi hide their tones beneath a false mask of amicability until the moment they have to stab you in the chest. Or where they knew combat was inevitable and they gave their last, weak, effort of trying to stop it through intimidation.

What are you, the man had asked. The same question Obito had asked the creature. As though he knew that Obito wasn’t human.

Obito hadn’t been human in all the ways that mattered for years now. But he didn’t think the man meant it like that.

“What are you?” Obito asked, almost blandly. His hand, out of view, readying to use Mokuton if need be. Placing a hand on the concrete rooftop and feeling for the plantlife beneath.

“Nanamin- is he-” the boy (pink haired- Kakashi’s brat had pink hair. Bold and vibrant. Screaming for the whole world to hear her name and brace for impact before she shattered it all with her fists) started then was cut off as the man (Nanamin?- odd name) move to stand in front of him. Blocking the boy from sight.

It was an obvious move of “Don’t look at him, look at me, I’m the threat here- so don’t you look at him”.

“I don’t recognize you,” Nanamin said. His hand moving beneath his jacket. Grabbing a weapon, perhaps.

Obito grinned, pulling at his scarred face. “I don’t recognize you either.” Obito doesn’t recognize anything at all.

“That pulse of cursed energy earlier- was that you?” the man pulled out an odd blade, wrapped in cloth. “Were you just born?”

Obito looked down at his body, that of an adult, surely. But Nanamin sounded like he knew what he was talking about, and letting the man know that he was out of depth wasn’t good. Lack of knowledge to shinobi meant giving the opponent and edge, and Obito was nothing but wary.

“Sure,” Obito said easily, rolling his knuckles on the ground below. Keeping the thing beneath him in check as his Mokuton speared through the thing from below. “Something like that.”

The man grew somber, then. With no warning the man charged at him.

Obito knew enough to spring away from the monster. Standing upon the concrete rooftop as he dodged. Engaging in the fight to at least draw out some new information for this strange, new place. His Sharingan proving helpful in his evasive manuvers as he fought with his fists. Not keen on pulling out his gunbai just yet. The man sliced at his arms, Obito feeling faint shock as the blade cut through, despite still being wrapped in cloth.

It was healed easily enough, Hashirama’s cells made sure of that. But it was still odd. Chakra enhancements, perhaps?

“Interesting skill,” he said. Moving back to kick the man’s stomach with his own chakra enhanced strike. Nowhere near Haruno Sakura, but it was enough. The man stumbling back as he steadied himself, Obito dodging to the side as a pair of fists aimed for the back of his head. The boy- reminding him eerily of Haruno Sakura with his hair- joining the fight.

“Itadori-kun.” Itadori- not Haruno Sakura- winced slightly at the man’s tone. “Stay back and handle the other cursed spirits.”

Cursed spirits, what the fuck was that?

“But Nanamin-”

The man cut Itadori off as he moved at Obito once more, Obito finding himself stuck between the two of them. Itadori, with hair like Haruno Sakura’s and a personality of Uzumaki Naruto, had refused to budge down. Swinging his fists at Obito, enhanced with something feeling strangely like the new chakra in his veins. The man also started speaking to him. About 7-3 and technique and-

And the man’s own chakra soared. Raising his blade towards Obito in a move that Obito knew he couldn’t block without getting damage from Itadori behind him. Letting his Sharingan shift, Kamui activating.

Questions later, intanglibility now.

The man’s eyes seemingly widened with shock as his attack phased through Obito. Obito couldn’t quite tell. Occupying himself with ducking below and slamming his hands on the concrete below before coming back from his intaglibility to kick the two of them away. Letting his Mokuton on the creature disperse.

He had already revealed his hand and had already gained as much information as he could from this exchange. He had to go before he exposed more of the cards in his hand. And while he could, theoretically, try to kill them it wouldn’t do him much good to be labeled a murderer in his first waking hours in this strange place.

One lifetime of being a world ending megalomaniac was enough, Obito reckoned, at least until he finds out where the fuck he was.

“I think that’s enough,” Obito said. Using Shunshin to move to a rooftop not too far away. His chakra already strained as is, using Kamui wouldn’t do him any favors when Shunshin could get roughly the same result with few chakra usage.

They could deal with the monster and the extra presence on that roof, Obito had some information gathering to do.

It was shinobi business, and Obito was nothing but a good shinobi. Madara made sure of that.

Information gathering was both more and less challenging from whatever the hell Obito became. Invisible to the eye of civilians. He couldn’t talk to them, either, and they couldn’t see him. So harder, but also easier since Obito didn’t need to blend in and act as one of them.

Blending in was something drilled into Obito, even during the academy days. Yet he never quite got the grasp of it and he doubted that the ever will. Being the thing that he was. Sharp and wrong and inhumane. Made of half of a dead man’s cells.

It was difficult, though, mentally. Feeling so isolated and alone despite the fact that Nanamin and Itadori had led him to believe that while he wasn’t human, humans could at least see him.

But no, it was due to them being jujutsu sorcerers.

And wasn’t that an odd thing. To have a war going on in the background of a peaceful era. Unseen to the general public. To fight against monsters instead of men. To have a good cause to murder “curses” instead of killing for your village’s sake.

(Kakashi had been so young, Obito thought. He thought about it often. How they’d all been so young. So young and yet took up blades and jutsus all the same to fight in a war.

For Konoha, it was. For honor.

Kakashi and Obito had no choice at all, one a Hatake and the other an Uchiha. They stood no chance against the grand message of shinobi life. Of the will of fire. Even Rin, a civilian born, stood no chance against the widespread message of it.)

Obito, it seemed, would never be on the right side of history.

Obito, as he quickly found out, because it wasn’t hard to put together the dots.

Obito was a cursed spirit now. (Not hooray moment. Obito wanted to murder something when he realized and put the two shitty dots together, but not much he can do now since he was converted by Naruto.)

Something twisted and strange and monstrous. Something to be exorcised for the good of humanity.

The fragile peace beneath the surface was breaking, he’d learned. Felt it in his blood. As a cursed spirit. Something calling to him to destroy, destroy, destroy. Learned it from the way he’d hear about plans and secrets and the way those two “cursed spirits” on the rooftops felt human in a way that no other cursed spirits does. Felt it in the way the sewers beneath promised a good fight to relish in if Obito treaded down below. Radiating cursed energy, as it was called.

Maybe before Obito got exorcised, he could manage to do some good. Then maybe, maybe, he would be granted entry into the Pure Lands.

(He could easily lay down his head now and perhaps let some strange jujutsu sorcerer exorcise him willingly, but then-

There was no mention of the Pure Lands, here.

And Obito knows that once he got exorcised he’d be gone. Have no chances left at going home.

Obito feared that if he were to die now, then he’d end up alone in the afterlife of this strange, strange place.

Curses do a lot of things, don’t they?

Maybe there was one that could get him home.

And he can’t have the world destroyed before then.)

His reasoning was selfish, no doubt.

But selfish was all Obito knew how to be.

But did intent really matter when Obito was trying to do good?

(Obito tries very hard to think about the last time he tried to do the world good and how he’d ruined everyone he cared about in the process.

Obito also makes sure to write an apology novel to everyone to give to them when he gets back.)

Chapter Text

Curses do not need to sleep. Curse energy running through their bodies and sustaining them.

Obito found that he liked to rest anyways. Closing his eyes and pretending that he could drift asleep despite his body being wholly awake. He liked to duck into empty apartments and lay there, pretending that he was Uchiha Obito of Konoha. Stuck in a cramped apartment because his clan hadn’t wanted him, he remembered being frustrated about it. Angry and tearful and just “why, why, why”.

It had been the worst point in his life, he had thought. Young and naive as he grew tearful and wiped angrily at his tears. Promising to himself that things would only look up from here.

And then Kanabi came, then Rin, then the end of the world.

Obito’s life was a series of mistakes. Never good enough, fast enough, strong enough to do the right thing until the last moment where he threw his life away so that someone else- someone whose life wasn’t a series of failures- could live. He wanted to make something of his life, even at the footnote of it. Make sure that at least he did one thing right.

(Kakashi had looked at him with guilt and regret and so much grief. He didn’t deserve it. Not when he threw Kakashi’s life into chaos alongside his. Killing the last two people to anchor them to life.

For a genius, Kakashi was an idiot sometimes, he had thought wryly. His form crumbling into dust.)

The task of murdering, or he supposed it was “exorcising” now, curses was an idle one. Obito felt himself getting stronger with each curse he exorcised. His body acclimated to the new energy inside it at record speed.

The thing about being a past mass murderer, Obito had decided, was that it was pretty easy to build up curse energy thinking about all the things you did. Guilt made for a wonderful fuel and so did anger. Both emotions Obito was practically married to. Learned how to keep under layers and layers of lock and chain. (Maybe the marriage comparison was really bad when he put it like that.)

He supposed shinobi were built for cursed energy. Having learned to restrain emotions their entire life and keep it that way. A steady flow of tranquility with a hint of murder lurking below.

It grew idle enough that Obito wasn’t so distracted anymore for everything to hit him at once.

The first time Obito acknowledged the purple robes on his body it felt like death had drawn over him.

It felt so very heavy on his shoulders, a thousand and one ghosts weighing it down. It was new and whole now, but in his mind’s eye he could still see the ripped sleeve, the charred edges, the hole where his heart should be, burnt by lightning. It all weighed him down. Obito was left breathless for a moment. Feeling ghosts clutch at his arms and scream, whispering into his ears of why, why, why.

Why did he murder them all?

He felt a phantom hand shoved through his chest. The sound of lightning being all that he could hear for that one moment in time. Could see the expression of the phantom, pained (Kakashi, you sentimental fool). Could hear the kunai drop to the ground, the sharpest sound he’d hear before he stumbled back, see Kakashi’s hand shake in barely noticeable tremors. He had gurgled out blood, smiled victoriously and- (Kakashi, I’ll make a world where you won’t see me or Rin when the lightning roar, riding on your hand- why can’t you see? I’ll make you see-)

It had hurt, he remembered. Even if he didn’t die, even if that was his plan.

He remembered a slash on his neck, Minato looking down at his murderer and student. Obito had wondered what his teacher thought. The horror that must’ve come with the revelation that the man that caused Naruto to grow up alone and hated, the one that brought so many deaths to Konoha was his student. He wondered if Minato was angry, if he felt vindicated, or if he felt regret.

He felt the slight bump of a raised surface on his skin as he traced where his teacher’s Hiraishin kunai had made contact with his neck. Marked him for life alongside the Hiraishin seal on his back.

His body was an amalgamation of his past. A series of failures and consequences.

But Obito will be damned if he wore the Akatsuki robes. The redness of the inner coat seem to mock him with its vibrancy. The red clouds emblazoned on the front and center searing into his eyes and reminding him of a red moon that he once sought for. He tossed it away into a random corner of Kamui. Hope to never see it again and bury it along with everything else about his past.

His meeting with more jujutsu sorcerers came soon enough, inevitable with Obito’s habits to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong.

He felt it in the air. The feeling of a strong curse spiking, feeling like nature- His Kamui dropped him some kind of forest (Barriers on the outside. Which- what did that mean? What was being sealed in- or was something sealed out?). Reminding him of Konoha and its surrounding trees. He was familiar with navigating the terrain. All Konoha shinobis were. Finding their way through forests and camoflaughing amongst it was their signature. Using the forest as grounds for an ambush and assault.

He found that it was familiar to step on the branches of the tree. He tested his footing, finding it solid enough. God knows how many team exercises he’d done on top of these things, how many fights he’d fought using it as cover, how familiar it was and how it sung with half of his body. Itching for him to make it grow.

He wasn’t as nearly good as Hashirama, would only ever be half of what the man had been when he was alive. But half of Hashirama was leagues better than most shinobi could claim to be.

God of shinobi, the man was called.

(Madara felt bitter about that name. Built on the corpses of Uchiha clansmen and Madara himself. It wasn’t like Madara could talk on that front, though. Having as much, if not more, of a hand in ending the Uchiha legacy.

The man, sometimes, rarely, on nights where he was a bit senile if Obito were to be frank, was somewhat proud of the name that Hashirama got. Prideful for his friend and enemy in a way that Obito understood somewhat between him and Kakashi. Madara was… more, though, in every way.

It tends to come with the territory after that many years of being stuck, old and alone. Stuck with nothing but the memories and the scar on his back from Hashirama’s intended fatal blow. What was once a treasured friendship turned deadly was no doubt something that Madara never worked through in a healthy manner and it showed.)

And there, he felt. Wood sprouting out wildly on top of a building. Rushing at some jujutsu sorcerers he assumed. There was the pink haired boy again, Itadori alongside another one, shirtless and muscled.

(He hoped that it wasn’t another training maniac like Gai. The man was already infuriating as is being an adult from the brief glimpses he’d seen of the man with his green spandex, Obito cannot fathom another one of his teenage version.)

He observed the fight with his Sharingan. Feeling it pull on his curse energy at a steady rate as he tracked their movements and skills.

It was during his observation that he noted that Itadori had something inside of him. Vile and different from the boy’s own cursed energy. A different entity almost. Ancient and so, so strong.

His breath hitched inside his throat.

Jinchuuriki, he thought, almost giddy.

He saw their skills in a different light, then. With a “what if” thrumming inside him.

Kawarimi, he thought, looking at the sorcerer and his power. The sorcerer could swap objects around, specifically that of living beings- or cursed beings he assumed. It was still a common technique then, even if this place used cursed energy instead of chakra.

There was a reason why it was one of the three academy jutsus. It was terrifyingly effective when used in the right hands, Shisui had seen to that with the Shunshin. And now Obito could see it with the sorcerer. Clapping his hands at odd intervals to initiate a swap. With each clap came a hit against the cursed spirit. Even if claps didn't mean Kawarimi every time it was used.

Was that how it worked? To use your skill there was a need for a special activation mechanic? Did they not have standardized hand seals anymore?

Perhaps that was what Nanamin from before had used to unleash his chakra like that. But the man had simply explained his skill instead of clapping.

Obito wasn’t a genius like Kakashi or his teacher, but he had time to figure it out. The differences between these new powers.

The cursed spirit they fought against was strong as well. It used Mokuton, making something inside him itch to fight it. It moved with purpose and it analyzed the fight with intellect that the cursed spirits he exorcised lacked. It was an evolved version, he thought. Made up greater cursed energy.

How was the question, through time? Was Obito a special case being born with the amount of cursed energy he had?

So many questions, and so little answer. He moved with them as the cursed spirit and the muscle one left. He moved through the trees. Silent and practiced.

The fight continued. This time with a weapon that reeked of cursed energy.

Obito wondered even further. His mind trying to work on theories that he wasn’t nearly as well versed to do so. At least chakra was easy to understand, in its theory and application. Rather than whatever the hell was going on here.

The fight was dwindling down before Obito felt it. The trees around the sorcerers crumbling into dust as the cursed spirit absorbed it, gathering energy.

That wasn’t good. Obito should probably leave. Leave before a detonation went off and chaos descends.

But there were teenagers here. Their faces were round and young and even if they were sorcerers they were still teenagers. Their faces were so young. Maybe it would be hypocritical of him to care now. Only after the Jinchuurikis he'd sacrificed in the name of eternal peace even as guilt knawed away at his remaining conscience. They were teenagers when he drew the beast out of them and let them die. It was for the good of the world, he'd justify. Seeing their reanimated corpses on the battlefield and feeling bile at his throat that he was using them now, even in death. It was for the greater good, he'd thought. Becoming the shitty adult he'd once despised.

Fuck it, Obito decided. Hopping down from the trees using Kawarimi to replace himself with the pink one and slamming his hands down to the ground. Wood sprouting up, creaking and groaning in his ears. Hashirama’s cells burning with usage.

Eyes turned to look at him.

He felt a static in his mind for a moment before words reached him. Like a stray thought but that wasn’t his voice in his own mind.

Fuck, had he just been Yamanaka’d? Doubtful since he could still send wooden tendrils at his enemies. So he was still in control. So maybe this weird ass voice wasn’t a Yamanaka technique.

“You are one of us,” the voice noted. Oddly gentle. Perhaps a technique to communicate?

“Yeah, sure,” Obito agreed easily enough. Making more wood sprout from the ground. Twisted and ugly.

“You’re that cursed spirit,” the pink boy noted, eyes widening with recognition. Fists tensing defensively. Glancing between the two recognized threats.

“How do you have my power?” The thing was trying to regather its power after being interrupted, its attention focused on him. “Are you born of nature, too?”

The fuck was Obito a plant baby. He was born in a hospital to a very human mother, thank you very much.

“My birth is none of your business,” he snapped.

Then he felt it. A rippling of power and the barrier came collapsing. He snapped his eyes upwards.

There was a man there, white hair and haughty blue eyes. His instincts screamed at that this was it. That this was his enemy. That this man, arrogant expression and all, promised a fight to savor. That this man was strong and that his arrogance was warranted.

He must be a special existence, Obito noted. For Obito’s newly awakened curse instinct to just know.

Part of him wanted to flee under the man’s eyes- his eyes, they were unnatural, powerful, enemy- Obito squashed that part down quickly enough. He wouldn't flee, not yet.

The man seemed to flash away. The cursed spirit before him already attempting to escape and Obito knew that something was coming. Something bad.

His Sharingan whirled to life just as he felt a spark blaze into an inferno of cursed energy. Something crackled like lightning before him. Purple and furious as it charged at him.

Obito dropped into the Kamui dimension before he could be exorcised by lightning.

A special existence, Obito thought.

But that wasn’t the important part here, was it- the important thing here was-

Itadori, a Jinchuuriki. A monster trapped in a jar of flesh.

Something like excitement welled up inside him.

Something to hold onto and remind him of his previous life.

He knew he had to talk to the boy- he had to at least ask.

“Nanamin, didn’t you say that cursed spirit had intangibility?”

Kento, ignoring the nickname, affirmed. Through the phone, he can still hear the teasing tilt to Gojo’s voice.

Infuriating.

“What if, theoretically, it could use plants as well?” Gojo trailed off, almost consideringly. “Something like another cursed spirit.”

Kento tensed slightly, remembering the shock he’d felt as the newborn phased through his attack. How it reminded him of Gojo and what that could mean. After a few weeks of no news he'd assume the cursed spirit was exorcised and done with. Or at least hoped.

“And what if,” Gojo continued. “It used Todo’s technique, too?”

Kento paused for a moment. The implication was…dire, to say the least. He knew he should’ve skewered that cursed spirit right as it was born. Still new and weak and had not yet grown into its power.

And he had let it escape and now it had grown into a terror in the scant few weeks it was left to its own devices. Not yet metamorphosing into its adult form yet, but it would. Once it figured out how to expand its domain- if it hadn’t already. And it would be another blight for the jujustu world.

“A special grade curse that could replicate techniques,” he droned. Feeling the weight of the words heavy on his tongue.

He wondered what took place, what caused this cursed spirit to be born the way it was. What vile thought birthed this spirit, one so human shaped and yet felt so wrong.

It's technique- replication- something that would be another amidst a growing list of things to terrify the higher-ups with (Nanami is not looking forward to whoever has to report that another special grade has been born, most likely himself since he had discovered it. But maybe he can push this off to Gojo who deciphered its technique). Replication seemed highly plausible to explain how it grew so fast, picked up enhancing its movements with cursed energy after seeing its kin do so for its first few moments of life; so lost and yet already utilizing its abilities with the movements of a veteran.

It was a dangerous ability to be able to adapt and fill its arsenal with whatever it needed. Growing stronger with each encounter and using a sorcerer's technique against them. It was be demoralizing at the least and deadly at the worst, if the cursed spirit was able to switch out its abilities with no visible sign and intelligent enough to dissect how the technique worked and made it its own. Judging by the way it had hidden until now, when it was no longer vulnerable and lost, meant that it had such intelligence and patience. It was unlike the cursed spirit beneath the sewers. Lacking the childishness the other had and making up in elusiveness.

Its elusiveness had only come to an end when it realized it had an opportunity, a chance to test its abilities. Finally, now that it was stronger.

To test whether it could replicate jujustu technique used by sorcerers as it would its own brethren. And it had succeeded. With the little time it had to observe Todo.

It hadn’t caused any major incidents yet. But it will.

“I wonder when it had the chance to replicate intangibility,” Gojo mused casually. A hint of something in his voice, intrigue perhaps. It wasn't every day a spirit with replication was born. “Wasn’t it just born?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it.

“You can report this to the higher-ups,” Kento said before hanging up the call, already hearing Gojo whine. His mind was whirling with the new cursed spirit.

He knew he should’ve tracked down that thing. Exorcised it when it was just born.

(Gojo's question had suggested that maybe it wasn't a newborn, Kento remembered its billowing purple robes and oddly shaped scars. Feeling archaic and human and terrible. And Kento couldn't help but wonder.)

The thought was weighed on his mind heavily and Kento felt a familiar headache building up.

Chapter Text

Obito felt like he should explain himself to Rin or Kakashi or something as he attempted to break into whatever the hell this place was to talk to a teenager.

Obito felt like a real creep right now. He is at that point in his life where he starts seeing parallels between him and Orochimaru. Sneaking into someplace to talk to a teenager for his special powers.

Obito wasn’t here to put a life-altering seal and kidnap the boy, though, promise. He hadn’t sunk that low yet and hopefully never will.

(He had sunk low enough to murder teenagers for their beast friends inside their bodies, but at least that was him being an unhinged criminal rather than a creep. Obito takes that as a win.)

He didn’t feel like a creep back when he was adorning Madara’s name and sitting on Naruto’s shitty window. The wall barely held his weight, the walls were chipped in certain places, even after the village had been rebuilt. Sentiment was probably the only reason that Naruto stayed in the rotting apartment after becoming the hero of Konoha. The boy had a habit of clinging to things that rejected him, with Sasuke, the village, and the shitty apartment.

Obito felt a niggle of guilt that this shitty apartment was the only place that would house Naruto for most of the boy’s life. It was easier to not feel like a creep when all Obito felt was “Holy shit, I fucked up this kid’s life so bad” and then “It’s for world peace, though.” The latter thought not being as nearly reassuring as he had wanted it.

Point was, Obito felt less like a creep at the time and more like the shittiest adult in the world, and yeah, he probably was.

He wished he felt like half of that right now. Navigating through the forest he’d found himself at before. Making his way towards the buildings as he followed the trace of cursed energy belonging to jujutsu sorcerers.

When he perched himself upon the tiled roof of one of the tallest trees, overlooking the complex, he wondered how he hadn’t found this place before. Emitting faint cursed energy and something else. His vision blurred slightly before focusing back on the buildings themselves.

In fact, he hadn’t seen or felt this place before. Not before he felt that spike in cursed energy from the plant spirit. And Obito certainly would’ve investigated this place if it was radiating faint cursed energy as it was now.

It was as though a veil had lifted over his eyes. Allowing him to see and note all the details of this place once he’d stepped foot within it.

A curse thing, probably. Would’ve been real usual in the Elemental Nations.

It wasn’t hard to locate Itadori’s signature. Obito considered himself decent at it. Better than most shinobi, with Madara being his teacher and all. The man’s training was spartan, to say the least.

The man was the type that would toss a child into the sea to teach them how to swim. Learn or die, was the attitude. Obito wondered if that was how they did it back in the Warring States Era. If cruelty was the only answer because they had no time. Children were sent to the frontlines whenever they were needed and tossing them into the proverbial and literal fire to train them was the only way to teach.

Obito wondered, once, if Madara had wanted him to live beyond his role in the plan. If the man saw the spirit of his old clansmen in Obito.

(Obito and Madara had both used each other. The seal on his heart was telling enough. That Obito would be discarded easily if Madara willed it. Obito had planned for this in turn. Seeing the brief opportunity between Kakashi’s through in his heart and the Juubi.

There was no love lost between either of them.

But when Obito was still rearing from Rin’s death and all the steps in between how Obito’s life went from bad to worse, Madara was there. The man probably never intended to pull any kind of emotional family ploy, he already knew he had Obito in his hands, which made it all the more insulting that Obito fell for it anyway. Looked at their similarities, the barebones Uchiha features, and thought for a brief moment that it meant anything at all.

There was no love lost between the two of them, but it would be a lie if Obito hadn’t felt bitter when it played out exactly as he knew it would.)

He felt further like a creep when he snuck through the window because while tapping on it was a good idea there was no way the kid wouldn’t just scream. Obito slapped a silencing seal on the wall for good measure after entering and closing the window gently.

“I hope you’re not a heavy sleeper,” Obito said, clapping his hands together loudly.

The boy did wake up, good, that meant that he wouldn’t have to use a suiton jutsu to blast the boy’s face.

There was a curse inside his room. Creepy eyes stared down at him and Yuuji couldn’t process what was going on.

“What,” Yuuji uttered. Bleary with sleep hanging onto his mind, but his thoughts were screaming that there was a curse inside his room.

The curse shifted in his position. Seemingly not knowing what to do with its body before deciding to stay creepily still. “I’m here to talk.”

“What,” Yuuji repeated. Because this was not what he had imagined himself to be doing somewhere around “what time is it this is creepy as fuck” o’clock in the morning.

“Don’t scream, nobody can hear you,” the curse said casually before seeming to realize how creepy that sounded. “I’m not here to hurt you.” It raised its hands into a gesture of peace. “Really.” Its face was anything but reassuring. It was a mix between cringing and something that was probably meant to be a reassuring smile but just came off as a scowl.

Yuuji planted his head down onto his pillow because just-

“You’re not very reassuring,” Yuuji stated bluntly. Unable to work up much curse energy at all and the curse hadn’t attacked him yet so maybe it did really want to talk. He was still tired and sore from fighting the tree-like cursed spirit earlier and he doubted that he could take this one when it had escaped Nanami so easily.

The cursed spirit grimaced (creepily human, Yuuji noted). “Yeah, I know.”

There was a strange moment of silence where neither of them said much. Because Yuuji’s brain was still processing like internet explorer.

“So, kid,” the curse practically spat out. Trying to be friendly but missing the mark by a whole country. “About the thing in your stomach-”

Yeah, Yuuji was pretty sure he knew why the curse came here now. That was infinitely better than trying to guess at why the curse was here at two in the morning trying to talk to Yuuji rather than murder him.

“I’m going to shout if you kidnap me,” Yuuji stated, even as nobody could hear him but he will do his best to imitate Inumaki and maybe rupture the curse’s eardrums (do curses have eardrums? What are the anatomy for human shaped curses anyways?). “And I’m going to punch you.” That wasn’t a very good threat since he’d seen the curse phase through Nanami’s attacks, but it was something.

The curse floundered for a moment. Well, as much floundering as something as still as a statue.

“I’ll call Gojo-sensei on you, too,” Yuuji grabbed his phone. That was much more like a threat.

“No- no, I don’t do kidnappings,” the curse interrupted. “Not anymore.” It added the last bit as though that was supposed to be a positive.

Yuuji wasn’t sure who the latter part was supposed to reassure.

“I know that sounds really bad.” Yuuji lifted both his eyebrows just to convey the, Really? You think? “But I promise I’m not here to kidnap you.” A creepy vine thing grabbed his phone before Yuuji could think to call his teacher. “So I’ll be confiscating… this.” The curse stared at his phone for a moment, staring at it with eyes like his grandma. An old man lost before technology and no, Yuuji was not about to associate this curse with lost old grandpas.

“This looks really bad,” Yuuji said instead.

“Yeah,” the curse agreed. In what was probably the strangest conversation Yuuji has had with a curse. “Sorry, kid.” It didn’t sound sorry, but at least it wasn’t moving to commit the perfect murder on Yuuji who was now stranded in his own room.

“So, the thing in your stomach,” the curse began again, eyes flickering down from Yuuji’s face. “How many tails does it have?”

Just what was that supposed to mean? Sukuna was human shaped. Or at least that’s what Yuuji saw.

All that came out of Yuuji’s mouth was a garbled ‘what?’

“I’m saying like,” the curse gestured at Yuuji’s stomach like Yuuji was dense. “How many tails does it have.”

A blank stare.

“You know, the beast inside your stomach.” Yuuji was really testing its patience here, he could tell. The wheels in Yuuji’s very sleepy and very weirded out head were not clicking together right now.

“You’re asking me if Sukuna’s a furry?”

“Suku- what?”

“What the fuck is a furry?”

Yuuji and the cursed spirit stared at the mouth formed on Yuuji’s cheek. Yuuji in abject horror.

“Furry, is that how they say it now?” the curse spirit mumbled the word. Twisting it around in his mouth like some strange old man who hadn’t caught up with the new-fangled slang. Stop, Yuuji, stop comparing him to harmless old grandpas who need help crossing the road. Oh god, I’ve started calling it a him-

“What the fuck is a furry,” Sukuna repeated in a conversation that Yuuji never wants to have with two curse spirits, ever. They sound human- like a grandpa and said grandpa’s sailor mouthed sidekick- and no, Yuuji was not about to have this philosophical debate on the nature of curses at fuck around o’clock in the morning today.

Yuuji wasn’t sure what words exactly left his lips but they sounded something like, “whatisgoingonwhyisthishappening.”

“You broke him,” Sukuna accused.

“No, I’m pretty sure that was you,” the curse spirit replied, much less mild and more like suicidal.

There was a small staredown between both curses. Sukuna only had a mouth but he had a way of doing that. Some ancient art, Yuuji was sure.

“For your information,” Sukuna started. “I don’t have any tails, why?”

Oh great, now Sukuna was up and at it because he was bored. Who knew the way to draw out the great King of Curses was via boredom and new human slang. Yuuji certainly didn’t and he never wanted to know but now he was burdened with knowledge that he didn’t know what to do with.

“Not even one?” The cursed spirit was digging for something, Yuuji could tell that much. But he didn’t know what.

“Do you not know who I am?” Sukuna said. Sounding remarkably like Gojo at that moment. They were kind of similar, in that arrogant king-like demeanor of theirs. But Yuuji supposed when you get to a certain point of strength that was warranted.

The curse took one look at the mouth and said, “I think I’ve heard of you.” The curse’s face became inscrutable again. Like some veil pulled over its expression, making it hard to decipher what it was thinking at all.

It did that a lot, Yuuji thought. Shifting between animated and statue-like. Changing between scowling to nothing at all. A casualness that didn’t suit its features.

At least they stopped asking him about what a furry was, Yuuji took that as a win any day.

It mulled over its own answer for a moment.

“Do you know the Kyuubi jinchuuriki?” it asked casually. It’s face shutting down any expression entirely.

“The Kyuubi? That old timer?”

“Yeah.” The curse shifted slightly. “That old timer.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Why should I tell you?” Ah, there it was. Sukuna was back to being the dastardly King of Curses Yuuji knew and hated. Great, Yuuji was getting a bit concerned that Sukuna was being helpful for a moment there.

Sukuna, boredom satisfied and frankly being the elusive curse that it was, disappeared from Yuuji’s cheek.

The curse, realizing that Sukuna wasn’t going to answer shit now, turned its attention to Yuuji instead. “Does the word jinchuuriki mean anything to you?”

The curse received a blank stare. It was an odd term, odd even for jujutsu sorcerer standards.

“But you are his jailer,” it noted. Something running through its expression. Jailer, an odd term, Yuuij noted. Its brain (do curses have brains? Anatomically?) seemingly doing several complicated formulas at once before deciding it didn’t like the answer.

“I suppose,” Yuuji replied. “He’s just sort of.” Yuuji shrugged. “There.” There, stuck inside me and both of us hated it, one more than the other. But he’s stuck with me until the day I’m dead and bringing him with me because he’s the King of Curses and I’m the vessel.

The curse snorted, amused and sharp. “I know.”

That didn’t sound like I know Sukuna’s living it up inside your body and more Yeah, I know that feeling.

The curse sounded wistful, almost sad and bitter and its curse energy kept under wraps and wraps. Coiling around its body like a thin veil. It was hard to imagine that it could do much damage. If Yuuji didn’t look closely, he couldn’t see the tightly controlled cursed energy surrounding the curse. That was why it was hard to tell what it was thinking. Whether it was pleased or not. Its cursed energy didn’t show anything besides forced neutrality.

“You know?” Yuuji didn’t know when his mouth ran its course, but it did. The words coming out slightly rushed.

The curse hummed and assessed him for a moment. Yuuji wondered what it was looking for in him. Its creepy eyes standing out in the dark room, piercing and unnatural.

“How’d you end up with that curse? Had it since birth?” the cursed asked. Gaze still assessing. Yuuji felt like an ant under a microscope. Under threat of being burnt if he answered wrong.

“I thought everybody and their mom knew,” Yuuji replied.

The curse gave a wry smile again, as though amused by his attempt to dodge the question or to fish for information.

“I’m a newborn, haven’t you heard?” The curse sounded amused. Yuuji supposed it was, Nanami had said so himself. “Indulge me.”

Yuuji shrugged. Something inside him telling him not to tell. To keep his mouth shut and not reveal a thing to a curse in front of him. Information was valuable, he’d learn. And curses were wretched.

“I’ll find out either way, I suppose,” the curse said, a promise, a surety. “And you’ll never get your answer.”

Oh, right. Yuuji had asked it for an answer and it had asked one back. He debated with himself for a moment. Wondering if Gojo-sensei would be disappointed that Yuuji would even have this debate in the first place. Then he remembered that he was giving up widely known information for another piece of information that wasn’t so widely known.

“I ate one of twenty fingers. Not that long ago.” Yuuji felt his stomach rolling in upset at that reminder. “To help. And now he’s, yeah. There.”

If the curse was surprised by the new information it didn’t show it. Not that Yuuji expected it to. He half wondered if the emotions it showed previously were to get his guard down. Copied from humans and pasted onto a face that wasn’t meant to feel.

The curse nodded after a moment.

“I know,” the curse said.

“You do?” Yuuji fists curled around the sheets. A steady thrum of his heart was blasting in his ears. Are you like me? Were you like me?

The curse stared for a moment. “I know of many like you.” The curse nodded, as though satisfied by its own answer. “You aren’t like any of them.” It sounded so confident in that statement and Yuuji wished that he had half of that.

“Different how?” Yuuji asked, the words flowing from his mouth quick and hot. He was faintly sure that the curse wouldn’t hurt him for his questions. Not when the curse viewed him as something of nostalgia. Like an old weathered photograph that got retouched.

The curse seemed faintly amused by Yuuji’s question. Its lips raised up in an imitation of a smile. Pleased as a cat. “Does it matter?”

“It does,” Yuuji answered at last. “To me.”

The curse was looking through Yuuji again. Seeing someone else’s shadow overlaid on Yuuji’s own. Its expression conflicted and pained.

“You’re worried about something,” the curse said instead. “There’s something about me that unsettles you and you want answers.”

Yuuji couldn’t deny that. Couldn’t deny the worry that bubbled within him when he saw the curse. So human and yet not. So like the curse that killed Junpei and yet so human. The way it said, “I know” as though it truly did know what it was like to have a monster stuck inside its gut and a time limit tied to it. The way it saw something in Yuuji’s shadow as though searching for a past long dead.

Jujutsu sorcerers can become curses, Yuuji had heard. He’d be exorcised so he didn’t worry about that. Didn’t need to worry about that because he’d be exorcised along Sukuna and that was a good guarantee as any.

But the curse in front of him now- it made Yuuji think. What if it went wrong?

He looked at the curse and he thinks he knows the answer to that question.

Yuuji isn’t the smartest or brightest, but he thinks he can connect the dots.

“Will I become you?” Yuuji asked bluntly.

The curse looked surprised and bemused. Tilting its head in a motion that was human (too human-).

“No,” the curse said at last. Portraying a faint confusion at being asked that at all. “I’m a curse, you’re a jailer and jujutsu sorcerer. There’s no way for you to end up like me. Why would you even ask that?” It sounded really confused but maybe that was subterfuge, or something.

Jailer, that word again. It was strangely fitting but it wasn’t the term that anyone used now. Yuuji could guess that it was used long ago, in an age long past. Or perhaps he was overthinking this and the curse was just odd and peculiar.

Yuuji sincerely hoped that it was the latter. That maybe this curse was just insane and mad and just mad enough to sneak into Jujutsu Tech to talk to Yuuji because it was insane.

Yuuji shrugged, stared at the curse to see it staring back in confusion. It could be an act, or not. It was hard to tell what was real with this curse. Between its switches in emotions being there and suddenly not.

The nostalgia was real, though, Yuuji thinks. Its gaze and voice gone a bit too soft for that. Or it could be another act, and Yuuji hopes that maybe it was.

“I’ll be back,” it said, turning its back to remove a piece of paper from the walls of Yuuji’s room. “You can scream now, I suppose.” Yuuji noted an odd uchiwa fan on its back. Emblazoned on its clothes as if sewn onto it. It was half red, half white. And it didn’t match the purple color scheme of the robes on the curse at all.

“What’s with the uchiwa fan?” Yuuji asked. The curse tensed.

“Nothing,” the curse replied, too quick for it to not be a lie. With that it hopped spryly onto Yuuji’s window before leaving. The uchiwa fan on its back was further defined by the moonlight.

Yuuji placed his head back down on his pillow. Soft and cold. His mind still reeling from the visit.

You aren’t like any of them, spoken so confidently.

What stuck with Yuuji, though was the way it had asked-

“How’d you end up with that curse? Had it since birth?”

Yuuji tucked the blankets over his face. Determined to not think until the next day.

He should probably call his teacher.

“Sensei,” Yuuji greeted casually. “A curse snuck in yesterday inside my room.”

Nobara and Megumi went quiet around him.

“And you didn’t call your dear teacher to tell him earlier?” Gojo-sensei said, a faint tenseness to him. “I’m hurt, Yuuji-kun.”

“Sorry, it used its creepy vine thing to take my phone,” Yuuji explained. Grimacing at how easily it had snuck up the plant life on him. “And I didn’t want to touch my phone unless it did something to it.” Yuuji cannot possibly imagine that the curse could do something to his phone with the way it was looking at it like an alien, like a grandpa. But he digresses. He refused to admit that he slept instead of calling his teacher.

“Did that curse want to see Sukuna?” Gojo-sensei tilted his head slightly, a smile still on his lips so maybe Yuuji wasn’t in trouble. But what would he be in trouble for anyways? Having a curse hold him hostage in his own room?

“No, it wanted to talk to me, I think,” Yuuji answered.

“That’s even more concerning,” Gojo-sensei noted. And Yuuji nodded, that was probably true.

“It just asked questions.” Yuuji shrugged. The weirdness of it having dissipated after he got a good sleep.

“Just… ask questions?” Nobara repeated, her eyebrows raising and Yuuji answered her with a shrug.

“You can’t keep us in suspense like this.” Gojo-sensei smiled teasingly. “So what did it ask?”

“About-” Sukuna being a furry- “Something about the Kyuubi and… the Kyuubi’s jinchuuriki?” Yuuji mumbled the last word. Not quite sure how to pronounce it. “And it asked whether I had Sukuna since birth.”

“I thought everyone and their mom knew about Sukuna and you,” Nobara said. Megumi nodded with her and Yuuji did, too.

“Jinchuuriki,” Gojo-sensei seemed to mull over the words, too. And it made Yuuji feel slightly less out of depth. “Power of human sacrifice.”

The words made Yuuji’s throat go strangely dry again.

“That’s an odd term,” Megumi noted, bumping his shoulder against Yuuji when noticing Yuuji’s descent into panic.

“It is odd, nobody uses it,” Gojo-sensei answered. “It’s just one of those words that people used way back when they believed sacrificing a human to a fictional deity was the answer. It’s kinda grim and old and dusty and nobody really uses it nowadays.”

“Kyuubi’s jinchuuriki,” Nobara mused. “So the sacrifice to the Kyuubi? Way back when?”

Yuuji doesn’t think that the curse was used in that way. Not when it was asking if Yuuji knew that person. And why was it asking if Yuuji knew what that term meant.

“Yuuji-kun seems to have an answer,” Gojo-sensei said, turning his head towards Yuuji. Yuuji has no idea how the man was able to read his expression so well. “Won’t you share it with the class?”

“I think it meant vessel,” Yuuji answered. “Maybe.”

“No, I’m a curse, you’re a jailer and jujutsu sorcerer. There’s no way for you to end up like me. Why would you even ask that?” It had said, confusion on its face. Yet now when Yuuji understood the term jinchuuriki and what it could possibly mean-

What a liar.

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Satoru does consistently, it would be his inability to leave things well enough alone.

The bee’s hives? Sure, why not poke it. That higher up that just talks a bit too much? Sure, why not go and tell him to shut up. Some kid being haunted by a special grade spirit? Sure, why not let him be a student. Sukuna’s fingers being eaten by this one kid who seems to be able to keep him down? Sure, why not feed him more.

It was the mere principle of the matter. Put something in front of Satoru and telling him no, don’t touch, shoo was practically an invitation.

And this? Whatever this was?

Satoru can practically hear the shoo.

“Vessel, Yuuji-kun?” Satoru laid a reassuring hand on Yuuji’s shoulder. He looked like he needed it, with his face going all weird and looking like he was having one of the toughest revelations of his life. Megumi and Nobara were already on the boy’s side, squeezing their shoulders together and that was just precious.

Yuuji nodded, no little effort. “I think.” His words went a little mumbly. His brain unable to process the information that he was given. So now it was churning and churning to no visible answer.

Satoru lets Yuuji take time. Satoru also needed a bit of time himself. He certainly remembers scouring through texts on vessels at some point in his life. None of which mentioned the Kyuubi, though. A heavyweight monster in its own era. It was a bygone era, now. And the Kyuubi was gone just as folklore monsters go.

A vessel to the Kyuubi would certainly be mentioned in the texts. On the rare few that exist on vessels; could be counted on one hand, really. They were exceedingly rare and Yuuji being the perfect vessel for Sukuna was something of a miracle in and of itself. A man made miracle, probably, but Satoru hasn’t quite figured out the who and why yet. And putting that on Yuuji would just be a bit too soon.

“Can executions go wrong, sensei?” Yuuji asked suddenly; blunt as can be. Megumi and Nobara blinked in unison before tensing up slightly.

Nobody liked to think about Yuuji’s impending execution.

It was easy to think they had all the time in the world.

Satoru could relate.

“Why do you ask, Yuuji-kun?” Satoru prodded. Placing a hand on Yuuji’s head to ruffle the boy’s hair and maybe knock some wild ideas out of it, too.

“That curse- I think he- it-” Oh dear, Yuuji got attached. “It’s like me.” Satoru hadn’t heard Yuuji use that tone before. The one that was We’re nothing alike at all, but oh, oh, we could be. And oh, the answers he’d have. Because Satoru knows Yuuji has questions, was brimming with it with every mention of Sukuna.

No one really has any answers for Yuuji; vessels are rare. And the only thing as rare as the vessels themselves are information about them. Information that Yuuji craved- wanted. Answers that he’d seemingly never get.

But suddenly there was someone- or something. Evasive and creepy but answers. And Satoru can take a guess at exactly what Yuuji wanted.

“Like… you?” Megumi asked. Taking initiative, Satoru approves.

“Vessel,” Yuuji blurted out, like that meant everything. “He- it-” Yuuji let out a series of garbled groans. Satoru snickered as Megumi and Nobara shot him twin stares, very unimpressed, they were. “Vessel.” The word was stressed again. As though that was the answer to everything. And maybe it was, to Yuuji at least.

Megumi gave Satoru a look. Asking Satoru if this meant trouble. If they need to ramp up the security and maybe get in a sharp knife or two to stab this creepy curse with because clearly it needed a few more holes in its body.

Satoru gave a shrug. He knows exactly what the higher ups want of him. Extermination with extreme prejudice. Because the mere idea of a curse able to copy their precious techniques was giving them high blood pressure everytime they think about it.

Satoru had hoped that they’d drop dead from a heart attack or something if he brought it up enough. But so far, no dice.

He half wanted to nab the curse and drop it in one of the meetings. See how fast it could pick up their techniques and use it against them. Maybe get some higher ups murdered, too, while he was at it.

But no, that was not how you were supposed to reform the jujutsu world. So Satoru let his idea stay, well, an idea. Something to entertain during boring meetings as a you’re big talk now, but oh, we both know how easy it would be for me to end this charade. It wouldn’t be pretty but it would end.

Satoru was slightly more concerned that it would just break into Jujutsu Tech to talk to Yuuji. Not Sukuna like he’d originally thought.

“Don’t worry about it, Yuuji-kun,” Satoru assured. Patting Yuuji’s hair one more time for good measure. “I’m the strongest, so nothing will go wrong.” Yuuji smiled at that, giving Satoru a relieved laugh.

Failed executions, past failed vessels, missing records. It made a worrying amount of sense.

Yuuji’s execution was only delayed due to Satoru’s intervention and Yuuji’s high compatibility to be Sukuna’s vessel. Two factors that wouldn’t have been viable in the past where such a vessel would be laid to rest immediately.

If there was a vessel in another time, with no Satoru and no such compatibility, they would be put down immediately.

Satoru can wager a guess at what happened.

A vessel who wasn’t meant to exist, an execution that created something even more terrifying than what it set out to destroy, men in power who refused to admit their wrongs and so struck off their mistake. Let the curse they thought dead be forgotten by history just as their mistake in executing it.

Refused to acknowledge the vengeful cursed spirit they had let be birthed by their actions.

But the real question was how it existed now, in the current era. When it was presumed exorcised before.

So Satoru was back at square one. It was paradoxical. The contradiction between what the curse might have been and what it was now. His guesses amounted to nothing unless he talked to the thing himself.

Well, that was something he could do, couldn’t he?

Yuuji will get his answers and Satoru will finally know more about vessels and maybe get the higher ups to shove up the execution unless they want another special grade cursed spirits on their hands.

If Satoru’s guess was right, this was one of those no, don’t touch, Satoru, shoo, go away things.

And Satoru loves to touch the hornet’s nest.

The next time Yuuji meets the curse was drastically different than the first.

Not to say that Yuuji was anticipating that the curse would come back or anything but it had said that it would and maybe Yuuji was just feeling a bit sour that it didn’t. Sue him, he wasn’t patient and maybe he felt more than normal disappointment at the fact that a curse hadn’t broke in the day after its last visit.

Yuuji reckoned that the curse didn’t want to remeet Yuuji like this either.

“Oh man,” Yuuji started. “Is that the curse I’m sent here to exorcise?”

Said curse gave a garbled screech, much quieter than Yuuji had expected. Maybe it had something to do with the black rod sticking out of its body.

Just maybe.

Something made a disgusting squelch as the curse removed its lodged weapon. Yuuji was pretty sure he never wants to hear that sound again. The squelch and the soft thump as the curse fell to the ground.

Yuuji’s unnamed curse just stared at him, unimpressed. And Yuuji gets it, he’s kind of scuffed and his fists are kinda tired and he just fought off around five small curses while Nobara and Megumi got separated from him because of course they would.

He’s not a pretty sight and he knows it.

But Yuuji doesn’t think he deserves that kind of look from a human shaped curse who looked like it saw one too many historical works and has decided to modify it in the worst ways.

Come on, the sandals? Nobara would have a heart attack if she saw such a disgrace to fashion. Megumi would judge, too, and Gojo-sensei would just cackle. But Gojo-sensei has that blindfold which has everyone looking at them oddly whenever they’re out as a four man group. Blindfold, Nobara had complained about that one too many times to count. Megumi had supported her, but mainly out of spite.

“You’re here alone?” It raised a judgemental eyebrow, its tone so dry it could be the desert itself.

“No, but we’re kind of separated,” Yuuji defended, not sure what exactly he was defending.

It sighed, like it was the one that was dealing with a massive headache. Sort of like Nanami actually and let’s never think of this again since Nanami might really break out the stare of disappointment if Yuuji compared him to a curse.

“Where’s the adult figure?” the curse asked, its judgement so severely high that Yuuji felt himself getting branded a criminal for his sins of being a teenager without supervision.

Yuuji winced. “Uh, somewhere?”

Yeah, Yuuji knows it’s a terrible answer.

The curse sighed again, the weight of the world on its shoulders. Yuuji doesn’t know what exactly it was thinking but it seemed disappointed by something; not Yuuji, no, but something. The world, society, or just life.

A flash of cursed energy and Yuuji can suddenly see the aura of it surrounding the curse’s leg before it stomps down brutally. Burning through the other curse’s head or just simply crunching down hard. Yuuji bets on the latter since he can see the crumbled concrete beneath the curse’s foot. Exorcising the other curse beneath its foot like an ant and Yuuji does not want to be on the receiving side of that.

“You exorcised it,” the curse said, glaring and yet not. Dragging its feet through the ground like it was trying to get the nonexistent grime of the exorcised curse off of it.

“Me?” Yuuji points to himself. Pretty certain that no, he did not.

The curse stared at him for a moment, and Yuuji felt so very judged.

“Fine, go tell everyone that another cursed spirit exorcised it.” The curse seemed faintly amused at Yuuji’s expense. “See if anyone will believe you.”

“Hey,” Yuuji argued. “I’m very convincing.”

“Sure, kid,” the newborn curse said.

Or not, with Yuuji’s conspiracy theory about it being not a newborn.

“Why are you exorcising them anyways?” Yuuji asked, taking note of the numerous other mini craters and what looked like more black rods strewn about the area. Sticking scarily through the concrete that surrounded them in the abandoned building. “Aren’t they your friends, or something?”

It looked at Yuuji again.

“Okay, maybe not friends,” Yuuji amended. “But at least they’re the same species?”

“I have it on good authority that humans murder each other all the same,” the curse drawled. “Are you asking them why?”

That made Yuuji pause for a moment. But there was always a reason behind murderers, bad or good. Curses didn’t have reasons like that. They were curses, driven by whatever dark thoughts spawned them.

“Humans aren’t like curses,” Yuuji argued. “It’s different.”

The curse stared at him again with its coal eyes this time. The red eyes gave way to something more human and Yuuji wasn’t sure if he liked the curse to look like that. Humans in all the right way, even with its white hair and odd clothing but undeniably human in a way so many curses aren’t and shouldn’t be.

“Maybe I’m different.” The curse nodded to itself, satisfied with its answer. “Just like how you’re different.”

Was that an admission? Yuuji wasn’t quite sure.

“Jinchuuriki, you mean,” Yuuji stated, instead, finding that the word was heavy and just as out of place on his lips as it was last time. “The power of human sacrifice.”

The curse paused then, really paused. It’s eyes still dark and human but undeniably not. Its cursed energy spiking and for a terrifying moment Yuuji knows why it's a special grade curse. The way its energy rolled off in mesmerizing waves. Speaking of spite, anger, grief and just why, why, why-.

Yuuji felt like he was drowning on land.

It lasted a moment before the curse breathed in quietly, then out, then in. The screeching of its energy went down to a quiet shimmer before nothing at all. Trampled underfoot and tucked back beneath its skin. Making it eerily harmless and human once more, with nothing to show that it was a special grade in the first place.

Yuuji wondered if that was how the Kyuubi felt. Way back when history was made.

“You know?” it asked, its voice so blandly neutral that it was no doubt faked.

The curse sighed when Yuuji didn’t answer. His tongue still off on its merry vacation because Yuuji thought he was going to die and not need its services anymore. And wow maybe Yuuji should know the curse’s name instead of calling it curse because this was getting really weird.

“I don’t kill humans,” the curse said. Then paused for a moment, “Unless they deserve it.”

Yuuji choked out a laugh, pathetic and wheezy but it was something.

There was a moment of silence, the curse deciding it didn’t want to talk anymore or not even knowing what to say and Yuuji just regaining his bearings from whatever the hell that was. Special grade curses don’t usually have that, the aura thing that makes Yuuji feel like he was choking and drowning all at once. Mt. Fuji and the idle transfiguration curse didn’t, but this one does and Yuuji wondered if this was another one for the conspiracy board of why this one curse is clearly a vessel before it was a curse.

“So, jinchuuriki,” the curse began again, clearly not letting this topic go. And Yuuji wouldn’t have it any other way either. “You know what it means now.”

“It means vessel, doesn’t it?” Yuuji challenged, finding that his gut burnt more than ever. The maybe, maybe, we could be- thrumming and thrumming to an unsteady rhythm. Yuuji wants and he wasn’t sure what he was wanting but he wants. He looks at this curse and he thinks he wants. Wants answers and connections and to not be like it; human but not and all the more wrong for it.

“Something like that,” the curse relented. “But not like you.”

Maybe, maybe-

“I’m pretty sure they didn’t eat their curse,” Yuuji stated, a poor attempt at a joke in the tenseness of the moment. But the curse quirked its lips, a poor attempt at a smile.

“It was sealed in them,” the curse said. “Most of them.”

Them, there were multiple, once, what happened-

“Sealed.” Yuuji didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded solemn and heavy. An ancient thing for ancient vessels.

The curse waved a piece of paper in front of him, script marked on it like some movie prop. “Things like these, seals.”

Monsters held back by pieces of paper. Yuuji hadn’t heard such a security risk in a long time.

The curse, seemingly reading his thoughts, laughed. Bitter and jagged. “Not these seals, no.” It slipped the piece of paper back into his sleeves, tucked away but not forgotten. “Seals on your skin.”

Yuuji still doesn’t get it, the idea of curses being stored via ancient script. But he supposes it could’ve been someone’s technique. Lost to the sands of time.

He doesn’t get many things, anymore. Namely why is he still chatting to this special grade curse instead of running away.

Maybe he does know why, maybe it was an ill advised attempt at the maybe, maybe-

“What happens if a vessel is executed?” Yuuji asked, charging at the topic like a bull in a china shop.

The curse smiled, wry and something so remarkably tired. “Finally getting to the topic you really want to get to?”

Yuuji gave it a sheepish look, finding that it was remarkably amicable for a curse. And socialized; which is another point for the idea that it wasn’t a newborn curse, after all.

“I don’t know, I’m supposed to die,” Yuuji said. Finding that the idea of him and dying wasn’t quite connecting just yet. Maybe he was still in denial, but he felt incredibly blaise about it. “But no one really knows.” Except you.

“You’re afraid of what happens after,” the curse noted. “If it goes wrong and your death was all for nothing.”

It was more than that. The ever prevalent fear that he might become the curse in front of him. Become the thing that his friends are supposed to exorcise. Be exorcised by his friend. Have his nature be twisted and changed.

So far this curse was amicable and human, but how long would that last? How long until it went mad like the curse that killed Junpei? How long until it lost its regards for human life like Sukuna had and became a monster amongst men?

How long until Yuuji becomes that when he’s changed and twisted and malformed?

I just don’t want to be like you. Yuuji thinks, but doesn’t say. It feels cruel, somehow. To say that to a former vessel like him. Who probably died believing that he died for a good cause, who died thinking that he brought down a curse with him. But then he became an it and now is the very thing he died to destroy.

There is some kind of irony there.

Yuuji thinks that maybe it was a balancing thing, nature righting itself again. In the wake of a loss of a special grade curse, nature had grabbed onto something to replace it. And now he became an it and it is held back from being a monster by its own restraints until who knows when it snaps and becomes a true cursed spirit.

Yuuji doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want that irony in his life. He wants to die and die for a good cause. Not die and get made into the thing that he wanted to protect the world from. Living but not because he wasn’t Yuuji anymore and can never be Yuuji again.

“Sorry, I don’t really know,” the curse admitted. Probably the most straightforward and honest answer Yuuji was ever going to get from it. “People didn’t execute jinchuuriki.”

Yuuji blinked.

“They transfer the monster from one jinchuuriki to the next,” the curse said. “You don’t let a weapon die in one generation, do you?”

Weapon, jinchuuriki- generations. Yuuji’s throat went dry again, and he felt like everything beneath his feet shifted three feet and then back but not and it felt wrong.

“Besides, if you kill a jinchuuriki, the monster reformed regardless,” the curse said. “But I doubt that that’ll be the case for you.” It sounded confident and relaxed and a liar to its bones and Yuuji knows this with a conviction he doesn’t have for most things.

He looked at the curse, really looked at it. See the nicked injury beneath its head. The way something had slashed and had made contact. The fatal wound it would’ve been, the way a human would’ve bled and died. See the way the injury had left behind a scar that shouldn’t be because the person was supposed to be dead.

“What’s your name?” Yuuji asked, faint. When you were human and whole, when you were human and wanting to do good for the world and died for it. Before, before the monster reformed and you became the monster.

The curse blinked, taken aback.

“Uchiha Obito,” the curse said, the words sitting odd on its tongue. As though it hadn’t said those words in a long, long time. And Yuuji doesn’t doubt that in the least.

Uchiha Obito, Yuuji thinks. An odd name for an odd curse. An odd name for a man that was once maybe not so odd.

His phone rang, breaking the silence that was forming once more.

He answered it.

“Yuuji-kun, you shouldn’t be making small talk with special grades,” Gojo-sensei chided. Through the phone and yet not and-

Oh, Gojo-sensei was right there.

The curse- Uchiha Obito- looked at the man with distaste. “Blindfold, really?”

Yuuji can relate.

Chapter Text

“Blindfold, really?” Obito says and tries to not crack. The Kakashi on the tip of his tongue. At the lanky figure and shock white hair, casual stance and teasing smile and all.

I thought I left you behind to live, Obito thinks. So why are you here?

“That’s rude,” the man said, whining and loud. Draping an arm over Itadori, casually leaning on the teen as he tapped something on the device he carried. His voice no longer has an echo between him and the device in Yuuji’s hand.

“Gojo-sensei!” Itadori exclaimed, a happy smile taking over the teen’s face. Making him less like a fighter and more like the teen he was supposed to be.

Sensei, sensei. Obito thinks and feels something like fire building up behind his eyes and making his throat go dry. Burning, burning, like the everlasting fire the Uchiha prided themselves on.

In front of Obito is a man and yet all he sees is a ghost.

“Yuuji-kun, talking to special grade curses isn’t advised,” the ghost- Gojo- said. Leaning protectively over Itadori. A casual lethalness to him that was reminiscent of a man Obito could never see again.

“Ah, well, I just stumbled here?” Itadori didn’t sound like he regretted the decision. More like apologetic for not informing his teacher that he might be talking to a potentially dangerous cursed spirit.

(It was the kind of thing Naruto would do. He’d stalked Kakashi and by extension, his team, long enough to know that. Even without the stalking he’d know just by the boy’s personality.)

“But you’d do it again, won’t you, Yuuji-kun.” It was entirely a statement of fact. The man’s lips morphed into a wry grin that was-

Itadori let out unabashed laughter. “I mean- the curse promised to see me again, anyways.” Itadori adjusted his posture. Leaning more into the center of his gravity as though to carry the weight of his teacher. Precious teenager, that one. “And I really did run into him, Gojo-sensei.”

Sensei, sensei. I thought I’d left you behind.

Obito studiously studied the surroundings, the corner of his eyes still fixed on the duo. Readied for an attack but never quite focused enough.

“You sure this curse isn’t stalking you, Yuuji-kun?” the man drawled teasingly. Said almost conspiratorially, a whispered secret except for the fact that the man made no move to quiet himself or to make anything secret. “It’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Fair enough, Obito supposed. He was admittedly a stalker in the past. Mainly to make sure that his last teammate wasn’t dead in a ditch because of the fucked shinobi system and also revel in the way Kakashi was suffering just as he was. See Kakashi kneel in front of the memorial stone and look at the boy Obito once was. Listen to conversations Kakashi would have with Obito’s ghost, daily listings of his lifes, his apologies, many apologies, so many apologies, and sometimes, nothing at all. He’d watch Kakashi leave flowers on Rin’s grave, his parts warring between he thinks he has the rights- and I can’t even give her flowers.

(Obito was never able to give a proper send off to anyone. The risk of discovery, he reasoned. They could see the traces of the flowers he’d leave for Rin. The smudges of his hand on the stone. The letters he’d leave for her. Because he can’t grieve for anyone else, because one was the Hokage while the other was the last Uzumaki to Konoha before she gave birth to another. Their graves, it was hardly reachable for someone like him, not when it was guarded and gated.

There were many reasons Obito had.

None of them were real.)

“Uh.” Itadori shot him a glance. Asking for help.

Obito stared at the both of them, before turning his attention to Gojo. White haired and lanky frame and teasing smile and-

He stared, desperately wanting for something. Anything at all. Wanting to see the man’s eyes, even though he knew it wasn’t the right shade of blue he was looking for.

(Obito had only really cared about one shade of blue in his life. The kind that he once thought was like the sky before he met this man. Now it was more like the ocean. Calm on a good day but all too easily provoked into becoming deadly.

Only two people ever had that particular shade of blue. Only one living. The other one, he’d killed.)

“So what if I was? Are you going to do something about it, sorcerer?” Something more amicable would’ve been nice judging by Itadori’s no, why would you say that we were doing so good (they weren’t). But this came easier to Obito, the subtle threat and what are you going to do about it? Obito swallowed down whatever else that was on his mind as he forced himself to not look at the man as a whole. Chewed the thought up and left it to rot. It was better to be like this. A neutral tone with no intonation, nothing to give and nothing to share other than the briefest of do you know me? in his heart.

The man let out a laugh. Unimpressed with the posed threat. In Obito’s defense, it wasn’t meant to be all that threatening. No killing intent or anything because Itadori had almost gone into a panic when he felt the barest of whatever his chakra had become. Mutated and twisted; reflecting his emotions in a way he never wanted it to.

The neutral tone wasn’t helping either. Obito could do worse. His voice was practically built for that; scratchy and low, made to threaten and speak things that would only hurt and harm. Things like that came out easily from his throat. It fitted on his tongue and matched his voice.

It still made Obito annoyed anyways that the man laughed. Finding that the sound was that particular pitch between grating and terrible. Obito hated it.

Which was good, Obito hated a lot of things (kiri-nins, the shinobi system, Kakashi’s stupid mask, being lied to his entire life and spending it lurking around in the shadows like some third rate villain, it was an ever expansive list) and this would just be another one of them.

“Hmm, that’s really creepy if you were really stalking Yuuji-kun,” the man said, mock consideration in his tone and posture.

“Uchiha-san is not stalking me,” Itadori defended valiantly. “I think.” Maybe not so valiantly.

(Uchiha, he wonders if he deserves the name at all. He’d help end their legacy.

He should have felt strong, standing above the corpses of his clansmen and proving that he was strong and not the blacksheep they saw him as.

All he felt at that time was a quiet, hysterical who will clean the Naka shrine now?)

Gojo shot Itadori a glance for that one. Something serious and actually considering that made Itadori wince. “Sorry, Gojo-sensei.”

“You’ve really done it now, Yuuji-kun,” the man bemoaned dramatically. “You’ve really done it now.”

“It’s just, it came naturally,” Itadori argued, gesturing between himself and Obito. “It’s a thing.”

Wow, a real demotion.

“I’m not a thing,” Obito interjected, just to be contrary.

“I didn’t mean that,” Itadori said in horror. “I mean, you were- kind of?- but then you’re not now.”

Obito could not be less impressed with Itadori if he’d tried.

Gojo lasted a mere second before laughing. Itadori tried to backtrack with disastrous results. “It’s a thing, Gojo-sensei! He was all ‘you’ and I was all ‘yes, me’ and it clicked.” No wonder the desk shinobi hated Obito’s old mission reports. “And now it’s just a thing.”

“Alright, alright, your great teacher understands, Yuuji-kun,” the man drawled, stopping from his laughter.

Obito didn’t understand how Gojo understood but clearly the mission desk nin hadn’t tried hard enough with Obito because Obito’s reports were way easier to understand than this.

“I guess I can’t do anything about you for now,” Gojo finally turned to address Obito. A smile stretched over his lips, casual as can be. It was an interesting thing, to want to look at something and not at the same time.

That’s just like you, Obito almost says but doesn’t.

“You don’t sound eager to murder me,” Obito said instead. Itadori making eyes at him that clearly meant that Obito should’ve maybe not said anything at all.

Obito appreciates the lengths Itadori was willing to go in order to get his answers.

Gojo makes that laugh of his, one that Obito had heard twice now and had decided that it was annoying and that he hated and it was perfect precisely because he hated it but also terrible because it wasn’t the laugh that he wanted to hear. “Someone, or rather, someones wants you real dead. Tell me to ‘exorcise it with all you have and no, this is not a joke’ and yadda yadda.” Itadori, frankly, looks like a mix between that’s my teacher and horror.

“If your exorcising is as good as your voice mimicry I don’t think I fear it at all,” Obito commented, annoyed that his ears had to go through that attempt at mimicking voices at all. Well, not attempt. The man knew precisely what he was doing with that annoying voice.

“Wow, maybe I should just exorcise you,” the man said dryly, in what was a pout. There was a disparity there between this man’s childish behavior and the way Obito’s instincts were still screaming at him to fight or flight.

There was something more to this man beneath this veneer, Obito knows. A monster lurking beneath that smile. Just like-

He was sure of it.

“That’s your order, isn’t it?” Obito sneered. Maybe there was more emotion in his words than he’d like. Maybe he wanted to see the dog on the chain that hid behind this man and his foolish demeanor. Maybe he wanted to see-

Itadori was shooting glances at him again, one that meant that he didn’t volunteer for this. Stuck between a man playing at human and a ghost looking for his past.

Right.

“If you’re not going to kill me, at least give me a reason,” Obito continued, inflectionless.

The man studied him for a moment behind his blindfold. His head tilted, no sign of anything beneath it at all. Before long, a casual grin was stretched over his lips again.

“Well, as I was saying, they want you really dead,” the man restated. “But, well, Yuuji-kun named you so I don’t want to exorcise my student’s new cursed pet.”

Itadori visibly gaped.

Petty, was what Obito thought.

“No, no, I didn’t name him,” Itadori interjected surprisingly quickly. “Nope.”

Obito made a wordless sound.

“And he’s not my pet either,” Itadori added on quickly.

“If you say so, Yuuji-kun,” the man said teasingly, putting more of his weight on Itadori. Itadori seemingly found it not at all heavy. “It sounds like the kind of name you’d give. Uchiha.” Here, the man snickered.

Irritating, annoying, there were many things that could describe it.

“What does that mean?” Itadori sounded confused instead of angered. Obito wondered how it was that this man nabbed Itadori while Kakashi was saddled with three easily angered brats. Not that Kakashi deserved any less. He was a hellion in his own right back when he was a child.

“The uchiwa fan? Uchiha?” the man crooned. “That’s so creative of you, Yuuji-kun.”

Itadori's eyes pinged between his teacher and Obito for several seconds. Making the mental connection before ‘ooh’-ing. “Is that why you’re named Uchiha?”

How the fuck the man saw the uchiwa fan emblazoned on his back when Obito hasn’t turned it to him during both their encounters were a mystery for another time.

“I wasn’t named for a fan on my back,” Obito argued.

“He’s one of those people, Yuuji-kun,” the man commented snidely. “The kind that put their name on everything.”

Itadori gasped and looked at him with judgemental eyes.

Obito felt remarkably annoyed. He knows with exact certainty that the man was making fun of him for the pure sake of riling him up, but he couldn’t help but get riled up regardless. This, he realized, was what Deidara probably felt while being taunted by Tobi.

This man can never be as loud or cruel as Tobi. Tobi was cruel in his carelessness. Like a child tossing down another’s sand castle without a care in the world. Trampling and remaking the world beneath him like it was a sandbox. It was a purposeless kind of cruelty, like a child deciding oh, I want to break that, I know it’ll hurt somebody but who cares.

This man was more benign.

Obito can deal with this. He lets the comment slide off his back. The best way to deal with Tobi was to ignore him entirely. Deidara hasn’t learned that.

Predictably, the man pouts at seeing no visible reaction.

“So you don’t want to hurt our dear Yuuji-kun here, right?” the man asked, putting both of his hands on Itadori’s shoulders.

“As much as you want to hurt me,” Obito replied in kind, eyes flitting up to the man’s blindfold again.

It's where the curse energy is gathered.

He wonders if it's something like the Sharingan. All ocular and based on blood.

He wonders if the man has to worry about his eyes being gouged out by power hungry councilmen.

The man laughs, it is a boisterous sound.

“Oh, that’s good,” the man said at last. Itadori glanced up at him in confusion. “Yeah, I don’t feel like hurting you right now, Ushida.”

What in the actual fuck, Obito thinks.

The man seemed to read his thoughts, even through his neutral demeanor. “Isn’t it cute? It’s my nickname for you!”

This is probably karma from Deidara.

Obito thinks that he hates it.

But he hates Uchiha more. The name is dyed in the blood of his clansmen and he can feel the blood all the way up to his chest. He can feel their bones in his throat, as though their bodies were crammed inside his, disjointed and inhumane. He thinks all their deaths are tallied on his back, even when Itachi had killed half and Danzo had killed all.

Most things are his fault, in the end. He released the beast and therefore he doomed the clan to suspicion.

The Uchiha would weep knowing that he still carried their name despite what he’s done to their legacy.

Ushida is a stupid, stupid name. But it doesn’t hurt.

So instead he smiles, it wasn't a pretty thing. Not a lot about Obito is pretty. “I think I hate it, thank you.”

The man looks flummoxed. Obito takes it as a win.

“You can smile?” Was Itadori’s contribution to the conversation.

“I can do a lot of things,” Obito answered. Finding himself slightly amused.

The man looks at Obito before he, too, smiles. “That’s mean.”

“You’re annoying,” he said back easily.

The man guffawed, it wasn’t serious.

In the distance, he can hear two sets of footsteps.

“Your friends are here,” he said. Using Shunshin to get away.

The man’s eyes linger on him, even when he sat atop a rooftop not too far away. He thinks the man can still see him.

The man is a predator and Obito feels like he is the prey.

Kakashi had looked at him like that, once. When he was Tobi. Looked at him with eyes that promised to clip his wings and Tobi had laughed in his face.

I thought I left you behind to live, Kakashi.

He thinks a part of him wants it. Wants the man to look at him like how Kakashi did. Another part of him detests it, seeing ghosts in the living realm.

Obito is a mess of contradictions.

He hates this, too.

“I thought I said goodbye,” Obito remarked lightly. It has been around an hour or two or three or more, Obito can’t quite tell the time anymore. He is on top of some rooftop, nondescript and unfamiliar. Wanting the breeze to blow him away and get him into the Pure Lands.

“Ah, well, I forgot to mention a few things,” the man drawled beside him. Standing precariously on the railings.

Obito glanced back at the man. White hair and blindfold and all.

He thinks he is seeing a living ghost.

Instead, what he says is:

“Wow, you’re even more of a stalker than I am.”

Chapter Text

The curse spirit doesn’t make a move to flinch out of the way. It doesn’t make a move at all other than stare at him with dark eyes. It is the human kind of eyes. The kind that makes Satoru think he can tear them out and it’d leave behind blood instead of regenerating like cursed spirits do.

It stands unnaturally still, like a statue but not because its chest was still rising and falling. Like the motions of human life but wrong because it wasn’t. It also blinks in a steady pattern, it is unnatural how it does so. The intervals between its blinks are almost identical. It is a poor attempt at mimicking a human, Satoru thinks. It is like it knows that humans blink, but it does not know why or how and is putting conscious effort in doing so.

It says he is a stalker, Satoru thinks he should be offended.

“Wow, that’s super rude,” Satoru says and watches as its eyebrows rise in real time.

It studies him and his reaction, almost like it was memorizing it.

Why? Satoru doesn’t know. There are a multitude of reasons. He is the strongest, he is the deadliest to its kind, he is annoying, he is handsome, there are a thousand and one reasons. It studies him regardless, like he is something to behold.

Satoru wants to preen, just a little. Like a peacock. Nanami would call him vain, but Satoru thinks it’s good that he’s handsome enough to get to be vain.

“I don’t do polite,” it replies. Satoru doesn’t doubt that. It doesn’t look like it does polite or formal or anything nice at all.

“Maybe you should,” Satoru drawls. “Having manners is good.” Satoru has heard this one too many times to not know how exactly to say it to cause maximum annoyance.

“Anyone can lecture me on politeness, none of them is you,” the curse replies easily. And there it is again, that easy familiarity. Like it knows Satoru somehow. Like it is a relationship forged out of years and years of ribbing instead of a single conversation talked with a teenager in the middle to mediate.

It looks at Satoru like he is a comrade, he looks at it like it is a glass cup and he is a cat.

There is a disconnect here, Satoru doesn’t think he should correct it. It is favorable towards him. It doesn’t see him as a threat, strangely enough. Or at least not mainly a threat. Its body is still as a statue, but not in the kind that it is ready to bolt. But rather just its natural state of being. Stiff as a board, even when facing Yuuji.

It is unnatural and it reminds Satoru that this was a curse standing in front of him. The human having long been washed out and replaced.

“Me in particular? I’m flattered,” Satoru croons. It is verging on annoyingly high pitch for a voice like his. He knows how to work his voice to be crooningly frustrating. It comes with practice and elders have gone mad for less. The curse does not react the way he thinks it should. Its lips are leaning on fond and even when its eyebrows furrow in dislike, it lips tell a different story.

It is a thing of contradictions.

“It’s an insult, you shouldn’t be,” the curse replies steadily. It is inflectionless, Satoru notices. There is no particular note to its voice other than the echo of it in the winds. No visible cracks in its mirror other than the time when it talked to Satoru with an aching familiarity.

It has a voice that sounds like it’s prone for emotions. Raspy with an edge too angry for it to be neutrally placid like it is now. It is an act, Satoru thinks. An incredibly unnatural but hard to crack one. It is hard to crack at a wall when there are no visible nooks and cranny to start at. You know the wall is terribly unnatural, but there’s nothing you can do to draw out the thing behind the wall. It is that kind of taunting.

Satoru was always good at blasting through them anyways, and he thinks that this one will only be slightly annoying.

“You speak like you know me,” Satoru drawls. It is not a nice thing. “Should I be worried that you’re stalking me, too?”

It blinks. It is out of rhythm now. The steady intervals a thing of the past, the patterns disrupted. It blinks again, and then again after that. And then once more the intervals are nearly identical. Once more it is a thing of stone and marble.

If Satoru was anyone else he wouldn’t even notice the minute difference. Satoru doubts that Yuuji notices that the curse does that either. The out of rhythm blinking when it is flummoxed and puzzled. It regains its calm quickly, but not quick enough for Satoru to not notice. Nothing is quick enough to escape Satoru’s Six Eyes.

“If I’m stalking you, you’d know,” it says with surety.

“I would?”

It seems puzzled on how to answer for a moment. Its blinking gone off kilter again. “You can sense me, can’t you?”

Satoru can. There is a distinct buzz to curse energy. Like the distant humming of a bee that’s a bit too far away to be annoying but just close enough for Satoru to hear. This cursed spirit keeps its energy under wraps and binds. It is perfectly innocuous at a cursory glance, almost regular human levels of cursed energy.

It is something that would take a normal sorcerer off guard and get them an attack from the back that they may or may not survive from.

Luckily, Satoru is no normal sorcerer.

He can see the way there its energy is coiling and coiling inside itself. Self contained and packed tight. It is a thing that is ready to burst at a moment’s notice. It is a thing that was not meant to be confined at all. Its cursed energy was angry, angry, angry. Roaring like a flame and snapping at anything that gets too close. Mixed with the bitter tinge of grief, sluggish and drooping.

The curse energy tends to give a hint to what birthed a curse, and Satoru thinks there must’ve been a lot of anger there. The all consuming kind, the kind that wants to burn down the world.

Shoo, Satoru, go away, don’t touch.

“I can,” Satoru says, his smile veering on irritating. “You’re super angry.”

It stares at him as though to say, really? Satoru thinks he would’ve been convinced of its unfeelingness if it’s blinking didn’t go offbeat again and its cursed energy coil and coils, as though to try to hide itself from Satoru.

It is a cute thought, nothing can hide from Satoru.

“Maybe you’re just annoying,” it says in lieu of an actual answer. Satoru cackles, it is purposefully loud and mocking, he thinks the curse knows this, too. Its gaze is wry and it seems to say that see? Look at you go, you annoying fucker.

Satoru thinks he is flattered. He takes pride in being annoying. It’s his thing.

“I don’t know, that’s some strong anger,” Satoru muses. “Strong enough to create a curse, wouldn’t you say?”

Shoo, Satoru.

It looks at him, unimpressed. “If this is what it takes to create a curse, I think you’ll have a lot more curses walking around.”

Satoru doesn’t think so. Not everyone has a world ending level of anger. The type that wants to burn down the world in its fury and leave nothing behind in its wake. It is the type of anger that only comes with a bad, bad, bad Tuesday where something happened and your world gets thrown off kilter and you want to do to the world what it did to you.

“What created you, then?” Satoru asks, tilting his head just the right way to look innocuous in doing so.

Neither of them buys it.

Satoru hasn’t been innocently naive in a long, long time. It is still offensive to his acting ability anyways.

“Why do you want to know?” it asks back, its voice a touch abrasive. “Is that going to help you murder me better?”

Murder, as though it were still alive and breathing and a being of blood and cells instead of a cursed spirit.

You don’t kill a cursed spirit, you exorcise it. There is a difference there; the lines are blurring, though, with this curse.

Satoru shrugs. “Can’t a man just be curious?” It is annoyingly evasive, and not an answer at all. But the curse hasn’t given him a solid answer either, so they’re both playing the same game. It is a game of ooh, here’s a super important question for you and I’m not going to tell you shit, though. It is a game of two people needling each other until something gives or leaks and Satoru hasn’t lost yet.

“No, not you,” the curse says with that easy confidence again. See? Satoru never loses.

Satoru hums, he doesn’t mention its overly familiarity with him. To do so would be to make it aware and lose any potential edge he has over it. But it is tempting to ask the curse why it seems to think it knows him so. Why its gaze borderlines on yearning when it looks at him.

It is the kind of gaze you look at someone you cherish deeply, Satoru isn’t usually on the receiving end of that. It makes him kind of want to preen, again, like a peacock. It is the kind of gaze that makes Satoru think he is cared for, somehow.

They haven’t spoken before today, so the point is null and void. But it stares like it can’t get enough.

Perhaps it would be creepy, but Satoru finds it a bit flattering if not weird how it never seems to lose eye contact with him. It would be creepy if Satoru was normal; but as is, he’s bored and whimsical on the best of days.

“I think I’m curious,” Satoru decides. It is not an answer. They are not giving straight answers to each other because that’s not how the game is played.

“You are,” it acknowledges after a moment. “But there’s always something more, isn’t there? I’m not something remarkably curious.”

It fancies itself a mundane human, Satoru thinks. It waves its hand as a dismissive, look, there’s nothing quite special about me. But it is tense, now, Satoru can see that. In the way it blinks faster than it has before and its chest rises and falls slower, as though forced. It knows its existence is curious, but it’ll be damned before it admits it to Satoru. It is a kind of stubbornness that is wholly personal.

They haven't spoken before today.

But there is something more about Satoru’s curiosity, but he thinks he’ll be damned if he admits that. It is a game they’re playing. A tightrope of vague questions and even more vague answers.

Satoru thinks it’s nigh time one of them trips. He is not the most patient, so he thinks its time for a few tricks.

“I think you are,” he says. “You’re pretty weird for a curse.”

It looks at him, humming and says nothing at all.

“What’s that word again?” They both know Satoru knows the word, he is just stalling it out to have a bit of fun. “Ah, right, jinchuuriki.”

It draws in a breath, audible for both of them to hear. It is a wispy sound, quiet and still. Almost neutral if Satoru didn’t catch the way its blink had gone off kilter again. A beat, and then two, Satoru can see its chest rising in tandem with its blink. Synchronized unnaturally.

It is a thing of mistakes. It plays at the habits of humans as though it used to walk amongst them. But its motions are anything but natural, it must know this, too. But it doesn’t fix it when it could so easily replicate, say, Satoru right now. Satoru with his beating heart and normal blinks. Whose chest rises and falls rhythmically like a human’s instead of a machine told to copy one.

It must know it could, it hasn’t done so.

Satoru thinks that there’s something to that. A thing that he can prod and poke at if only he knew what it meant. Why hasn't it taken one glance at a normal being and replicated their motions instead of making itself unnatural like this.

“You mean vessel,” it says, as though the two were interchangeable. Satoru knows they are not, it is testing him. It is still staring at him now, accessing instead of appreciating.

“I think we both know what I mean,” Satoru replies. His smile is something wicked.

It waves a dismissive hand. “Jinchuuriki’s pretty old, I gathered.”

It’s ancient history, it says. Nothing for you to dig and poke at, sorcerer, shoo.

“But you know it, and you’re a newborn,” Satoru points out.

It shrugs. It is a motion that is surprisingly casual. There is a note to it that isn’t quite the man it portrays itself to be. Along with the way it swings its legs almost childishly, now. There is forced lightness in both motions. The shrug and the way it swings its legs are remarkably childlike. Satoru wonders if it has replicated the motions of a child and wonders why.

Better yet, he thinks that this is a habit from long ago. A habit made by a human child that didn’t know what he was going to grow into and instead enjoyed an idyllic youth, swinging legs on any surface and shrugging with the obstinate childishness of his age.

The child has long passed and all that remains is a cursed spirit. Satoru thinks that they are on the right track.

“That’s what they call me.” It is avoiding labeling itself a newborn, they both notice it.

“I mean, you just popped up a few weeks before, didn’t you?” Satoru cannot remember the date for the life of him, but it was relatively recent in the grand scheme of things. “That’s pretty new to me.”

It shrugs again. “You eavesdropped on my conversation with Itadori, you tell me.”

Ah, so it noticed.

Satoru laughs, it is not a nice laugh.

“Whoops.” It is utterly insincere.

“That’s very rude of you,” it mocks, its voice rising slightly as though to copy him. It doesn’t go fully, as Satoru knows its technique is able of. But it does the job well enough.

It is Satoru’s turn to wave dismissively. Eavesdropping on a conversation is no biggie, really. Satoru has done more morally ambiguous things. Way ruder things, too.

“So, vessel,” Satoru circles back. Because he knows the curse is trying to distract from the subject. It was working remarkably well until Satoru remembers that they are supposed to be talking about Yuuji and Yuuji’s impending death if Satoru doesn’t have something compelling to slap the higher up’s faces with. Proverbially, since he's pretty sure that if he slaps them he’ll accidentally kill them.

It only hums, it is waiting for him to ask. It knows that he is here for something relating to Yuuji, though it does not know what exactly. So it is waiting for him to reveal his hand. It knows that it is at an advantage with its information over Satoru, so it is pressing that advantage to the ground.

Satoru decides that it’s as good a time as any to get this curse caught up to modern times.

“You know, the modern jujutsu world’s kinda fucked.”

The curse hums, as though not surprised. It is fair, curses are formed out of humans, after all. So for all the moral grandstanding that they may do, it is the fears of humans that create said curses, even if nobody likes to think about i.t.

“Yeah, I know, real shocker.” Satoru moved on to fiddle strands of hair falling into his face. “A bunch of oldies at the top who lived a bit too long and want to keep the old times way into the current times.” There it was again, recognition, familiarity, a wry grin. Satoru found himself smiling back at the curse, it had that kind of charm around it. Like Yuuji but older and warier. “Now they’re trying to mess over Yuuji-kun, the vessel you creepily snuck into to talk to, by the way-” The curse winced. “Kill him or murder him or execute him and whatnot. Like the old ways.”

The curse stared at him, really, really stared. Again, it seems to want to memorize Satoru’s face and burn it into its eyes. Probably creepy, kinda flattering, it’s a tossup. It beckoned him to talk more and Satoru was always a bit chatty.

“Execute the vessel like the old days, you know. But see, here’s the thing, there’s no real record of what happens after execution. Not for cases as major as a special grade, at least.” Talking about Yuuji’s execution was always something that soured Satoru’s mood. “And they’re afraid of what will happen during the finger eating marathon.” The curse raised a brow at that. “Before Yuuji-kun can reach the finish line.”

“Now, ‘what does this have to do with me, a stray curse?’ says you,” Satoru mimicked, his voice cracking in all the wrong places and making the curse struggle between amusement or grimacing. “Well, long story short, Yuuji-kun thinks you’re a past vessel.”

They both know it couldn’t deny the allegations now. So it doesn’t. Instead it chews and gnaws on his words. Its mind is working and working and for a moment, its energy lashes out. It doesn’t like the answer it has arrived at. And it is staring at Satoru with a new gaze now, an unpleasant one.

“Why are you asking?” There is something simmering beneath its question. Everything feels like it is hinging on Satoru’s answer at this moment.

“I don’t want Yuuji-kun executed,” he answers.

“Ah, right, you want him executed after his marathon.” It narrows its eyes slightly, as though seeing him through a completely new window. It is the unpleasant kind, the kind of gaze that means it thinks it has made an error in judgement and is now trying to rectify that.

“I don’t want him executed at all, but Sukuna is a problem,” Satoru answers. For all that he cares for his student, he has duties to upkeep. And one of them happens to be not letting the king of curses wreck havoc.

The curse’s lips curl. It is an unpleasant thing, with the scars on one side of its face stretching with the smile. Making it something oddly eye-catching. It is the kind of smile that is part mocking, part bitter. Making Satoru feel like he has definitely failed that line of questioning.

“You want something from me, to help Itadori Yuuji live just a bit longer, is that it?” It sounded saccharine, its tone dripping with false honey. Satoru knows that if he dares to even contemplate that offer, whatever little conversation they’ll have after this will be battle talk.

“You mention generations of vessels. That means that they get to live.” Satoru knows that there is no playing around the point now. “You said they don’t get executed.”

It blinks. The aggressive tone it takes on dissipates as its mind jogs and jogs. After a while, it assesses Satoru again. And while it isn’t with the fond familiarity it had on earlier, it is better than the look that he has failed it personally somehow.

“You don’t execute weapons,” it says. A reminder of its earlier talk with Yuuji and Satoru knows he has gotten it on hook, line, and sinker. “You use them.”

It is an unheard of thing to use vessels as weapons. Vessels are executed with the curse they house, no exceptions.

Let alone generations of them.

It reeks of a conspiracy. Of something that once worked, of a system that once prospered but then something went wrong along the way and they are here now. The records, erased. Vessels sent for execution.

There were once vessels in the past who served and fought alongside sorcerers. Who lent their powers to their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Who were used just as cursed weapons were.

But something went wrong. Something upsetted the generations worth of trust they had.

Satoru thinks that thing might be the curse standing in front of him now.

“And how?” Satoru knows he is perhaps rushing a bit, but it is nice to know that his theory has been confirmed.

“You heard it, seals,” it repeats, slightly annoyed. “You seal a monster inside a vessel. The vessel can borrow the monster’s powers, and usually the seal’s good enough to keep the monster trapped.”

It sounds revolutionary, it sounds novel. It sounds exactly like what the current Yuuji needs.

“Can you use seals?”

“No,” it denies quickly. “I- that’s not me.”

Well, that was a slight complication. But Satoru is pretty sure he can figure things out if given a bit more information, and time.

“Well, the other way is to let me know how you became a-”

“No,” it denies just as quickly. Its eyes are narrowed and its lips are thinning. It is a sign of defensiveness if Satoru’s ever seen it. “I think I’ve given you enough information.”

Satoru hums, it is to say well, you could always give me more.

It is unimpressed.

“It’s your turn, now.” Its tone bears no argument. “Do you know what happened to the Kyuubi?”

Satoru can take a wager at whose vessel this curse was.

“The Kyuubi? That thing’s practically ancient history by now,” Satoru answers. Because, well, he supposes he owes it that much.

“He’s dead?” it asks, almost disbelieving. Almost like grief.

Satoru shrugs. “I don’t know, no one’s seen a sighting of the Kyuubi in ages. It’s kind of a folklore curse, you know. Those live and die with their mythology, and the Kyuubi hasn’t been feared in a long, long time.” He thinks that he is giving it false hope of seeing an old, familiar face. But, well, maybe sometimes even curses need a bit of hope, too.

Satoru certainly hasn’t met the Kyuubi before in his entire career, so he’s pretty sure it’s dead.

“You… have you ever heard of the Juubi?”

Satoru doesn’t think he has heard that name in his entire life, and he says as such.

Finally, Satoru gets to see it smile.

It is bordering on grief but there is a potent relief there.

It is undeniable that there’s something eye-catching about the curse when it smiles. Like Satoru said, it has the charms of Yuuji and the benefit of age. The scars make its smile something even more noticeable.

It looks at Satoru again and Satoru realizes how its gaze hasn’t left him ever since.

It looks at him as though it knows him. As though it is familiar with him. Like the way you’d look at an old photograph.

It was born only a few weeks ago.

He thinks what it is seeing is a ghost.

Intangibility.

The familiarity it looks at him with.

It is clicking together like some disjointed puzzle and Satoru doesn’t know if he likes the answer.

The Gojo clan is ancient and prestigious. If there were any conspiracies, they would definitely have been involved. And they definitely would’ve been part of it, marred with it. Especially if it was something as important as generations of vessels.

Satoru is the first in numerous generations to manifest Six Eyes and Limitless. But he’s not the first in forever.

Replication. Intangibility. The way it looks at him as though grieving and reminiscing.

There is a conclusion on the tip of his tongue.

He says it:

"What, do I remind you of someone?"

Chapter Text

Satoru threw a stone into a lake, once. Watching as the water rippled across the once calm surface. A tranquil peace shattered. He found it interesting, back then. When he was a brat and everything was new and shiny.

This? This was precisely that.

He could feel the shimmering curse energy spark. His words lighting it into a flame. The curse’s blinks have gone disrupted, it doesn’t blink at all. Instead, it stares and stares. Its rhythmic breathing has also ceased. Becoming a thing of the past as it stills completely.

Satoru thinks the wall has been cracked. The tranquil surface of the water was disrupted. And what is before him now are the ripples. The stone he casted is now sinking in and letting him take a peek at what is below the surface.

It stares and stares. It is something unsettling and passionate. Practically confirming for him the answer to the question.

He can see the answer on the tip of its tongue. A name ready to be called out. But lost between the last breath it took and the one it's taking now.

It blinks again. Its pattern is rattled. Nowhere near as uniformed as before. But it blinks regardless. It’s energy a blaze, now nothing but a spark. Quelled back into silence by its sheer will as it coils beneath the curse’s skin, itching to be let out again.

It is a series of mere moments, Satoru recognizes. Between then and now. Between when the pond rippled and when the stone sank and when it returned to form again.

But during those moments, he thinks that he has gotten his answer.

Normal sorcerers wouldn’t. They can’t see the blinking pattern of a curse, nor would they care for the rhythm of its rising and falling chest. It wasn’t important, curses weren’t alive, after all.

But this one was. Once, a lifetime ago. Like all cursed sorcerers were.

It barks out a laugh. A dry thing that was almost convincing if Satoru didn’t recall how its blinking had gone off kilter.

“You shouldn’t be so curious, sorcerer,” it says in lieu of an answer.

It is no answer, at all, really. They both know that.

“Are you going to say curiosity killed the cat?” Satoru replies cheerfully. Leaning against the railing as its legs swing and swing.

“You won’t gain any satisfaction from my answer.” It sounded confident. So, so sure. “So don’t even try.”

But, oh, Satoru thinks he wants to regardless.

It is in the way he is Gojo Satoru and the world is under his fingertips.

“Mhm, we’ll see about that,” Satoru says, still cheerful as can be. “I’m the strongest, you know?”

It stares at him for a moment and then barks out a laugh again. It is a much harsher sound, this time. Like nails on a blackboard. Satoru thinks it's the painful kind of laughter. The kind that shakes your frame so that you won’t be able to notice the tremors beneath. The kind that sounds offensive to the ears to distract you from the quiet shakiness of it all underneath the nails and blackboard.

It is a laughter that hides its weakness in plain sight.

“What if I say no?” the curse hedges.

It stares at Satoru, challenging him to call it out on the lie it just made.

It is a bold face lie. It is blunt and sharp and daring you to question it. It is saying: Yeah, I’m going to lie straight to your face, can you do anything about it?

“I’d say you’re lying,” Satoru replies. Matching the curse’s gaze.

There is a brief moment in which neither of them speaks. The passing wind the only sound whistling in Satoru’s ears amidst the currents of life beneath them. Regular humans idling their lives, safe and ignorant to the curses that lurk in the shadows.

“And what then, what if I was lying?”

They know that Satoru cannot really force the truth out of it. He cannot force things to speak. He can shape mountains and destroy curses but he can’t quite make them speak if they really, really do not wish to.

“Nothing, I guess,” Satoru concludes lightly. It’s one thing to take a peek at what is beneath the currents of the still waters, it’s another thing entirely to define its shape and know what makes it tick. It makes him want to dig even further and cast another stone into the faultless waters. “It’s just- ah, well, you should be careful who you gaze at like that.”

The curse doesn’t blink, it doesn’t say anything at all other than raise a fine eyebrow. It is a practiced motion. Almost noble.

“You look at me like you know me,” Satoru continues. The curse’s breath hitches quietly. Its rhythm disrupted. As though it is waiting for his next words. It doesn’t glance away from him, though. Its eyes still locked onto his face. “Like you’re familiar with me.” He tilts his head slightly. There is a sly grin on his lips. He doesn’t feel nearly as playful.

“Like you care for me.”

The curse’s eyes bleed red. Spinning and spinning.

“But you don’t even know me,” Satoru says. A faint indignance there. “But you look at me like you do and you care.”

The curse doesn’t say anything at all. It is a tense silence. It’s eyes are fetching and it gazes at him with that age old familiarity. The one that says decades worth of something but all that’s left now is grief and why, why, why.

It stares at him like it cares and it makes Satoru feel cared for. Not because he was Gojo Satoru, holder of Six Eyes and Limitless, but because he and it had a something that spanned a decade and then some more. Like there was something between them that was built upon years and years of talking and chatting and ribbing and oh, Satoru, what am I to do with you?

It wasn’t for him, though. It was for someone a lifetime away and now all that’s left is Gojo Satoru standing in that man’s place.

Satoru was- is- the strongest. His shadow looms over the entire jujutsu world and then some.

And yet, here he is, having someone else’s shadow overlap over his own.

It is one thing to have some dead, strange person’s shadow over his own. It is another thing entirely for that dead, strange person to be his ancestor. It makes him feel insulted, somehow. It makes him feel like he was being overcasted by some dead, strange clansmen from centuries ago.

Wherein that dead, strange stranger was the strongest and Gojo Satoru was no one.

Gojo Satoru’s eyes aren't special to this curse. It isn’t the unique singular marvel that it is heralded as. Instead, it is a remnant of a stranger. It is just the nostalgic artifact that once belonged to another. Satoru wonders, briefly, how his eyes compare. Whether it was stronger or weaker. Whether it's shade of blue was brighter or darker than the previous, or whether it was the same, in the end.

He didn’t know which option he liked less.

He wonders if that was why it locked eyes so often with his blindfold. Whether it wanted to seek the same shade of blue.

It looked at him like it cared, like he was a treasure lost, and then found again.

He is the one reflected in its eyes, but it isn’t looking for Gojo Satoru.

“You really shouldn’t get a man’s hopes up,” Satoru drawls playfully. “It’s awfully cruel of you.”

He thinks he feels a bit bitter. It is the bitterness that comes with being the strongest and having his shadow eclipsed anyway.

It is the fact that he is being overlooked for some strange, dead man. It is the fact that he is Gojo Satoru but he is being eclipsed by some long dead Gojo that was probably just as strong.

The curse scoffed, almost involuntarily. “I have standards.”

Satoru doubts it. If it really has standards it would be looking at Satoru instead of searching for a dead man in Satoru’s figure.

But here they both are.

“I think we’re done here for today, sorcerer,” the curse continues. Its eyes had returned to coal black once more. Mundane and human. It clashed horribly against its white hair. But those were the eyes of a human, nonetheless.

Satoru wonders if this was how it was before. If its white hair and coal eyes are entirely natural.

It stands precariously on the railings of the rooftop before it's figured blurred.

From a faraway building, Satoru thinks he can still make out its features.

It had looked back.

Standards, hah.

What a liar.

Nanamin, Satoru texts. What to do if someone sees your dead, probably way uglier and way weaker, ancestor when they look at you?

It takes several minutes of Satoru standing alone on some cold, strange rooftop for Nanami to reply. Satoru would prefer it if Nanami was quicker on his toes. But unfortunately, it was after Nanami’s working hours and the man had a firm No, I won’t answer your texts, especially yours, after working hours policy. Fortunately, Satoru knows precisely what kind of texts would garner a response.

And he was right.

What. Was Nanami’s eloquent reply.

Chapter Text

If there is one thing Kento does not want to do on a quiet, peaceful evening, it would be dealing with Gojo Satoru.

The world decides that he must, regardless.

Kento really wasn’t paid enough for this. He wasn’t paid at all to deal with Gojo Satoru. He should be. But the higher-ups decided that, like a stray cat, Kento has fed him and therefore Gojo is his problem to deal with.

It is remarkably terrible how no one wants to deal with Gojo Satoru but they must, anyway. Because a happy Gojo Satoru equates to world peace.

“No,” Kento says, feeling a building headache creeping back up. “You did not just have a conversation with a special grade.”

“Yes, I did, it’s for totally good reasons, too,” Gojo Satoru, half the reason for Kento's current headache, replies gleefully. “Don’t you want to know more about our resident special grade curse?”

In fact, Kento could not think of anything he’d rather not know about.

It seems like the exact kind of thing that would give him migraines for days to come.

“What does that curse have to do with Itadori-kun?” The curse, the other half of the reason for Kento’s annoyance.

“Mhm, well, it’s a bit of a long story,” Gojo warns. It is terribly disconcerting. “But- since I’m so nice, I’ll shorten it for you.” Gojo Satoru is never nice. Kento knows this personally. It has been learnt through terrible pranks and even worse phone calls that would make fully grown sorcerers break down in panic. Case in point, the text message Gojo sent earlier which made Kento question whether Gojo Satoru was going through a midlife crisis and what this would mean for the future of the jujutsu world. “Long story short, our newest special grade was once a vessel and executed and turned curse and there was a big, big cover up.”

Kento’s instincts were right. They always were. Especially when it comes to Gojo Satoru.

“That is… an incredible leap,” Kento says in lieu of not having anything more apt to describe whatever was dropped onto his lap.

it is an abomination of a conspiracy. Something that was terribly out of a left field at best and treasonous at worst.

Gojo laughs, it is a familiar sound that means that he knows he is torturing Kento and is not about to stop anytime soon.

It is incredibly hateful.

“It could be lying about being a past vessel, of course,” Gojo continues. There is a playful drawl to his words. It is the prickly kind. It is the kind that means someone somewhere has touched a small nerve in Gojo’s perfect world and now they have to pay. Kento did not want to know who had the displeasure of being Gojo Satoru’s next target to be annoyed to near death. Kento can only hope it wasn’t himself. “But, well, it offers a chance to help Yuuji-kun.”

The execution, of course. Gojo was incredibly blaise and uncaring when he wanted to be. But he always had a penchant for caring for things that he shouldn’t. And Itadori Yuuji was one of them alongside his other two students.

Gojo Satoru was told Don’t touch to Itadori Yuuji and so he decided that he would do the exact opposite and get attached.

The impending execution was something that always touched Gojo's nerves whenever it was brought up. Made him extra annoying for the remainder of any meeting and made whichever curse crossed his path that day regret ever doing so.

Kento could understand the sentiment. To have to execute your student is a heavy, heavy burden. Even for the strongest.

But this? Whatever this new conspiracy Gojo came up with? This is veering far beyond just caring for his student and almost into lunacy.

Let it be said that Gojo Satoru always had a way of making everything turn terrible and insane and Gojo Satoru please stop- when he gets involved.

Kento was really not equipped to deal with Gojo Satoru and his wild, and possibly treasonous theories. Nor did he ever want to.

But the world thinks he should. For lack of a better candidate, probably.

It is incredibly unfair. Kento wants to live his life peacefully, too. A life with a distinct lack of annoying special grade sorcerers who want to poke and prod at a cover up that may or may not have happened centuries ago.

“How so?”

“Ah, well, it mentioned generations of vessels,” Gojo says casually. As though not dropping the bomb of the century. “You use weapons and all that, you know, and apparently in the olden days you used vessels as weapons. And they worked with jujutsu sorcerers, how nice! And then something or something happened and now we’re here.”

That is… a lot.

Kento knew that this day was going to be bad the moment Gojo Satoru appeared knocking on his window sill. He just didn’t know what kind of bad.

Now he does. It is the kind of ‘Gojo Satoru is going to flip your world upside down and then kick it into the sun’ kind of bad.

“That is a lot,” Kento comments dryly. Not sure what else to say to that.

The idea of Itadori Yuuji being used to house Sukuna and then executed was already unique.

The idea of vessels being used as weapons and fighting alongside sorcerers was simply out of question.

Vessels are temporary at best. No one knows when the curse would break out of their vessels, let alone trust the vessels to handle the curse’s power and use it to fight alongside themselves.

Vessels are a temperamental thing- from what was stated on the few scant records of them. It is a dangerous risk to undertake and have under your wings. Let alone allow the vessel to fight alongside sorcerers. Yuuji was an exception, though there were really no records of how to exactly handle him. But Gojo Satoru provided enough buffer for the elders to consider the merit of the idea of extending the boy’s life.

For all that Kento trusts in Yuuji, there is always a tiny thought of Ryoumen Sukuna whenever he looks at the boy. There is a primal kind of fear that comes with looking at a vessel who houses a special grade curse.

He cannot imagine it’d be any different centuries ago.

But apparently it was.

“Isn’t it?” Gojo says gleefully. “And then something happened, I don’t know what, but I think I have a clue.”

That something could be anything. It is much less innocuous than Gojo stated it was. It could’ve been a series of events, or it could’ve been the slow decline of compatible vessels.

Though, the idea that the records were wiped indicates that it was most likely a terrible, terrible scandal that sent the house of cards collapsing. Burning the hands of those who fancy themselves strong and powerful enough to put a collar on curses and make them serve the very people who were exorcising their kind.

Something like a vessel being taken over by their curse and turning on their comrades, somewhere along the line. Maybe causing a major incident, or two.

Knowing the ego of the current higher ups, Kento cannot fathom that they’d let it slide.

If Itadori Yuuji were to go mad now, Kento knows exactly who is being put on the chopping block.

And it wasn’t the elders.

They would execute those who helped delay Yuuji's execution- those low ranked enough to not be missed. Gojo Satoru would live, but have a much tighter collar around his neck- and wash their hands off the matter.

They are the wise elders of the jujutsu world, they never wished for Yuuji to become a vessel- nor let him become one of them.

It wouldn’t be to this scale, though. This grand, terrible scale that Gojo is proposing.

A mass record wipe that left nothing behind and no vessels to speak of.

One vessel went mad, but what about the others?

What happened to them?

Kento’s headache is only going to grow worse, he can tell.

Gojo Satoru certainly isn’t helping.

“You think that curse is related, somehow,” Kento says decisively.

“Bingo,” Gojo affirms, making what were definitely finger guns. “Hole in one.”

Again, that is troubling information.

If it were a vessel before it were a curse, if it worked alongside sorcerers before something-

It wasn’t a talented newborn at all but something worse. Something that already had experience with dealing with their kind- being their comrade and knowing their chain of command.

Kento wonders whether its replication was its technique from when it was alive.

If it were-

That marks a terrible disaster.

Gojo, as if reading his thoughts, smiles.

“I think it knew one of my ancestors.”

Kento’s headache only grows worse by the second.

“It looked at me like it knew me,” Gojo says, there is a peevish note to his voice. Something like annoyance and someone has done something to Gojo Satoru’s perfect world and now they must pay by being annoyed to death. “And it has intangibility.”

“Your technique brings forth infinity,” Kento points out. He thinks that he really should be paid to deal with this.

Whatever this is.

“I thought about that, too, you see,” Gojo replies easily. A smirk on his face that meant that he clearly knew someone would ask and had been precisely waiting for them to ask instead of explaining from the outset. It is a familiar thing. “Limitless is what brings out the infinity. My Six Eyes is what makes Limitless, well, limitless.”

Kento can see where this is going.

He doesn’t like it.

“If someone without your Six Eyes were to have Limitless…” Kento trails off.

“They’d have trouble bringing forth infinity into the world because they can’t perceive it and you can’t exactly get the world to obey without being able to perceive all of it,” Gojo finishes. Looking like he’s relishing in his answer. “However, that’s for bringing forth reality into the world.” Gojo pauses here, probably for effect. Definitely for drama. “What if you channel infinity through your body instead?”

Kento was right, he doesn’t like this conclusion they’ve arrived at.

“Or, well, I suppose the opposite of infinity and more like negative distance, since it’s intangible and all.” Gojo shrugs easily, as if he hadn’t dropped another terrible, terrible conspiracy into Kento’s lap.

He is incredibly hateful.

“It’s like my Blue, except less destructive,” Gojo theorizes casually. Reminding Kento that for all Gojo’s pomp and childishness there is indeed a brain beneath that annoying exterior the man likes to keep. “Probably because it can’t bring out the full negative distance without it somehow affecting its body as well. If it goes for something like Blue then it’s body will be pulled in to fill in the gap created by negative distance.”

Gojo then makes a pop sound or something along the lines before he was the annoying Gojo Satoru once more. “Or something like that.”

Again, it is a terrible conclusion.

“It’s a delicate balance between just enough negative distance to negate attacks without the space around you destroying your body instead,” Gojo says idly. “You can’t test that kind of thing out without some help.”

Again- Kento should really, really be paid.

He isn’t, and will not be. Because the jujutsu world is a shitty place.

Gojo Satoru smiles, like a cat that knew precisely what it was doing when it knocked the cup off the counter.

“I think only one person can help with perceiving infinity at that time,” Gojo concludes gleefully. “Which introduces us to- Gojo No-Name-Definitely-Way-Uglier-and-Way-Less-Talented-Than-Me.”

That was an incredibly long name for someone who had no name.

Kento thinks he has an inkling of who was the source of Gojo’s ire. Just not sure quite why, but he thinks it might’ve been the aforementioned ancestor.

It is not a hard conclusion to reach.

“You’re saying your ancestor helped this curse?”

Gojo Satoru shrugs, a motion that was all too casual. “Probably. Who else besides the Six Eyes can help with infinity related things?”

“That’s-” Treasonous.

“Also my terrible, no good, very bad and super lame ancestor helped the curse when it was alive,” Gojo points out, as if reading Kento’s thoughts. “Comrades, remember?”

A curse that had the helping of a Gojo with Six Eyes and Limitless who helped it. There must’ve been trust there. A heavy, binding kind. To be able to replicate Limitless, even in another, cruder, form would’ve been preposterous to the Gojo clan at the time. It was their honor and theirs alone, Kento cannot imagine it any differently.

Sorcerers hated their techniques copied- yet, if Gojo’s ancestor were anything like him now, they would’ve taken up the offer in a second.

For all that Gojo was seemingly peeved with this mystery relative, they were perhaps more alike than Gojo would like.

And maybe that was precisely why Gojo is annoyed.

“You’re the first in four hundred years,” Kento notes. His voice sounded so distant. Mainly because he wanted to detach himself from this mess as a whole and never speak of it again.

“Yeah, so this curse? It’s ancient.”

Gojo Satoru, master of giving heart attacks via stress to local sorcerers, is back at it again.

“So the question is, what happened? How did the curse become a curse?” Gojo muses. The answer already on the tip of his tongue- Kento can sense it. “How did it go from comrade to enemy?”

“The curse took control of the vessel,” Kento answers. It was the most plausible one. It must’ve been a special grade curse and the hubris must’ve gotten to them. Trying to fit a curse too powerful into a vessel that was powerful but nowhere as compatible. It was the hubris of having generations of weapons as an example and proof of their power.

“That’s only part of it,” Gojo says. Something teasing in his voice, something like- I know something you don’t.

Again, Gojo Satoru and his goddamn games.

“What do you suggest, then?” Kento prompts.

“I’m glad you asked!” Gojo says gleefully, as if Kento had a choice in the matter. “So, Jinchuuriki. Power of human sacrifice, dusty term, very grim.” Gojo made a face, again, childish. “Sacrifice to the mountain god, or whatever. But in our context. It’s the sacrifice of a sorcerer to become a vessel. Now- the real question is, there were generations, so sacrifices must have come and went. Meaning, some must’ve died. So what happened to those vessels that died?”

Kento was really not in the mood to be in an impromptu gameshow and it must’ve shown on his tired, weary face. So Gojo just cackled and moved on instead of going gamehost and making Kento choose between a, b, c, or d.

“The curse gets transferred from one generation to the next. Which contradicts against vessels being comrades because the chances of them dying in the field would be way too high for there to be no other contingency plans. Probably something involving these… seals, a technique, perhaps, but seals.” Gojo Satoru seemed perplexed for a bit, but marched on regardless. “Seals probably kept the curse contained in the vessel until it could be transferred onto the next when they died. These… seals were on the skin, highly effective when the vessels were alive.”

Again, a system that seemed wholly possible and wholly efficient. Something reliable and ran for generations until something.

“In comes Uchiha Obito, the latest vessel,” Gojo resumes. “That’s our resident curse’s name, by the way. Yuuji asked because he got attached.” Oh dear. “Now, Uchiha Obito says that the curse reforms if you kill a Jinchuuriki. Which goes against the narrative that vessels had generations, since, again, if a curse reformed instead of being passed on, it would’ve been deemed too dangerous for there to be generations of them after one died.”

“It lied,” Kento concludes.

“It lied,” Gojo agrees, a teasing smile on his lips. “Now, why would it lie? It could be another lie on top of it being a vessel, but what if it wasn’t?”

This is Gojo Satoru playing along because he wanted something, anything, to put off Yuuji’s execution.

It is grasping at straws and hoping to win the lucky draw. It is taking the words of an unknown curse at face value because, even for the strongest, the burden of killing a student is a heavy thing to bear.

And when laid out, it did seem plausible to Kento, somewhat. Even for its lunacy.

The most damning evidence of all is the curse’s intangibility. Which connects it to the Gojo clan long, long ago.

It is the thread that held this treasonous theory all together.

“It lied because it was different, it died but it didn’t die quietly,” Gojo concludes. “Its curse energy is angry and bitter and grieving, so the circumstances of its death were anything but ideal.”

Kento can see the conclusion, he’s not sure if he likes it.

“An angry, grieving vessel on death’s door. A special grade curse inside of him, who doesn’t want to serve the sorcerer killing its kind. There’s an opportunity there, don’t you think?”

An opportunity for what, Gojo needn’t elaborate.

“The curse took over.”

Gojo Satoru smiles. It is not a nice thing.

“It’s a shameful thing, isn’t it,” Gojo drawls. “To be too weak to hold back the curse and cause everything to crumble down. To cause a major incident by letting the curse take over and effectively ending trust in the generations before you.”

It is a heavy failure. It is a thing that would bring shame and dishonor, especially back in those archaic times.

To have the curse take over as a result of your unwillingness to die. Only being able to restrain the curse at the last moments and waking up to realize you’d ruin it all.

It is a failure that no one would want to be discovered.

Records wiped, vessels struck off history and precedent made to execute any and all future vessels.

It is a failure that no doubt weighed most on the failed vessel himself.

It is rather easy to lie that curses reform to explain its existence. Rather than let the truth of the matter be revealed. Let its shame be known and spoken.

Better to let history be bygones and its failure be forgotten.

That was strangely human. And maybe because it was. Once, when it was alive and ready to do good for the generation before it. Having the trust of the Gojo heir and elders at its back until a bad day came and Uchiha Obito became the curse.

“But that’s not where it ends,” Gojo continues. “The curse is now in the present, completely unknown. So something must’ve happened between there and now. Something that made the elders confident to erase its name because they knew it wouldn’t resurface.”

“The vessel got executed after the incident.”

“Which brings us to the question of how it is here now.”

Kento can, again, see where this is going. He still doesn’t like it.

“It’s now back as a vengeful spirit,” Gojo concludes. “You remember Yuta-kun? Someone must’ve cursed the vessel upon its death. And unlike Yuta-kun it was entirely intentional.”

There’s a moment, then two.

“To create a strong vengeful spirit from a curse, the curser must’ve been just as strong. To create a strong vengeful spirit that survived for centuries- the curser must’ve been extraordinary.” Gojo pauses, again. “And so, what I’m saying is that, that curser was my ancestor.”

There’s another pause, as if he hadn't suggested something terrible and heinous and will have lasting ramifications on the jujutsu world.

“It must've haunted my ancestor until they died, but unlike Yuta-kun, the curse was never lifted. But it wasn’t terribly strong either because the anchor had passed. So it faded into obscurity, because, like Rika, it didn’t want to be here either.” Gojo shrugs, a motion that was all too casual for the loaded explanation.

One Rika was already terrible enough. Warped and distorted and turned into a monstrous thing because she couldn't quite handle the strain of being cursed. Kento dreads to think of the centuries of madness this curse was under and what that meant that it was still sane now. Still strangely human rather than another Rika.

“But a curse made by a special grade sorcerer just doesn't go away, not entirely.” And like a terrible, winding maze, Kento can see the heinous finish line that awaits. “I resemble that no good ancestor just enough, don’t you think? To get an old, ancient curse to work again.”

Gojo Satoru smiles. It isn’t nice. Kento thinks it hides the shadow of another person, once. One who was just as cocky and arrogant and bound a curse to themselves whether out of idle curiosity or being unable to let their comrade die. Comrade was probably a light word for it. You don't teach your heralded technique to just any comrade- you wouldn't break a spoken taboo just for anyone. Let your legacy be brought into question the moment you- an esteemed sorcerer- create a special grade curse spirit with your own hands. You don't do that just for anyone. Kento thinks Gojo knows this, too.

It was someone you trusted. Someone you cared for. Someone you'd be willing to do the taboo for and bring back to life by cursing their death and refusing the laws of nature. It is a terrible act, it is treacherous to state that a special grade sorcerer had done so. It is even worse, still, to keep the spirit bound to the world instead of letting it pass on. It is wanting to let the curse live even for its failures. There is a story behind that, Kento thinks. Though he doesn't really want to know, really, it ended badly, and that's all that matters now.

Kento knows he might have to learn this sooner or later. Know the wretched story from beginning to end someday. Gojo might've already gotten a clue.

“So what I’m saying is that it’s back because of me.” Gojo Satoru sounds peeved yet proud. “For me.”

Chapter Text

There is a heavy silence in Nanami’s quaintly normal living room.

It is a thing that is too normal, if you ask Satoru. But then again, Nanami would never ask Satoru for any kind of advice outside exorcising, if that.

It is the living room of a normal salaryman. Living from day to day with no hopes or dreams for the future. There are faint traces of dust in the air, faint enough to tell that Nanami lives a clean and orderly life- of course. There are personal effects strewn about. Enough to indicate a personality, but not overdone. There is still the faint smell of Nanami’s dinner lingering in the air and the sound of the dishwasher droning on and on.

Overall, very dull and very Nanami.

“What are you planning on doing?” Nanami asks, breaking the tentative silence that was developing.

That is a good question.

“First, would be to help Yuuji-kun,” Satoru answers. It is an easy answer. There is no moral quandary there. Nothing other than Satoru’s duty as the strongest is stopping him from executing Yuuji when the time comes.

Satoru really, really does not want to.

But he really, really, really does not want Sukuna going loose either.

It is a lose-lose situation. Forcing Satoru to pick the lesser of the two evils.

It is him knowing that Yuuji wouldn’t want it any other way, if it came down to his life or the lives of many others.

Yuuji is a good kid and a good sorcerer.

Under any other circumstances he’d be a talented recruit that the higher ups would want to keep alive.

Under this circumstance he was nothing more than a ticking bomb.

“And as for the curse?” Nanami asks. There is a pressing tone to his voice. It is obvious that this was what he wanted to really ask. His brows are furrowed and his gaze is intent.

He is not wrong to be so.

The special grade curse is one that is centuries old.

They’ve all seen what Rika became around just a decade of being a curse. She was a young child who couldn’t handle the strain and broke under it. Becoming twisted and monstrous under the influence of the heavy shackles that were placed upon her. To bind her to Yuta. It is understandable. The mortal body isn’t made to handle the pure undistilled curse energy of a real cursed spirit. It warps and twists the mind. It is why sorcerers are all odd in their own ways. It is their way of coping with an unnatural thing, an unnatural energy that lives and breathes within their skin.

A child isn’t able to handle such. And Rika was indeed a tragedy.

And this curse? A sorcerer it may be. But it is no Teggen. Centuries and centuries. Until when does the dam break and its mind become warped?

This curse has been active for longer than decades. But it was dormant for centuries. Its dormancy could lend itself to the curse still retaining its sanity and humanity and whatever else.

But regardless. The accumulation of curse energy still continues. Even if a curse is dormant.

Case in point, Sukuna.

That amount of curse energy would be quite a lot. It is centuries-

Ah, Satoru realizes.

“It’s trapping its own curse energy,” Satoru says, asporos of nothing.

Nanami blinks, his muscles not quite tensing but not quite relaxed either. He is confused with this new piece of information. He is not sure what to make of it or what it even means.

Satoru’s mind is already going and it’s moving and while he remembers what Nanami asks-

He isn’t quite interested in answering it anymore.

His mind is pinging back and forth and there is a new conclusion to be had, and it is a thrill all on its own. Another confirmation that he was right and that- yes, there was a conspiracy brewing from centuries ago that only came back now because of him.

“That’s why you can’t recognize it as a curse at first,” Satoru muses. “Its curse energy is just so low.”

“On the first sighting, its curse energy was quite high,” Nanami states. His brows are furrowing again but he is speaking and this means that he knows that Satoru is on the edge of an answer and by all that is holy, Satoru will get his answer. Come hell or high water.

“It's the first step outside of dormancy,” Satoru agrees. “That’s when it has the highest amount of uncontrolled curse energy.”

Nanami’s lips are pinched, he isn’t quite sure what to make of whatever Satoru is about to say.

“Imagine this, you take a long, long nap. And when you wake up, you realize it’s been centuries,” Satoru begins. He is weaving a tale out of nothing. But it is a tale that relates to one special grade curse on that one rainy day. “And with that, came centuries of cursed energy that’s been accumulating.”

Nanami’s brain is turning and turning.

“Curse energy that’s enough to drive you mad. Unless you-”

“Control it,” Nanami finishes. There it is again, that frown, those pinched lips.

It is a conclusion that unsettles Nanami.

“It’s not binding its own energy for ambushes and sneak attacks,” Satoru continues. “It’s doing so because otherwise it’d go mad.”

Satoru doesn’t blame Nanami. It is an unsettling realization.

It means that this curse, whatever it is- is only held back from being a catastrophe only by the merit of its own self control. That its energy- coiling and winding and lashing out anytime the curse remotely is off kilter means that the balance is on a pin and ready to tip anytime.

It is the curse’s own energy fighting against it.

It is the curse fighting back because whatever remains of that sorcerer after death does not want to be a monster, not just yet. It knows that the moment the chains go loose, the moment it dares get off the leash the monster will take over and it’ll all come crashing down. It is holding back a monster by threads and your own pure will. It is gritting your teeth and hoping that the curse energy will settle even though you know it’s only a matter of time.

The weight of what has happened centuries ago weighs on you, still. Remembering the last time you’d let the monster go loose and the legacy that you destroyed with your own bare hands. Facing down death with honor and yet not being able to die because-

Because someone decided that they’ll go against the laws of nature for you. That they’ll commit a great taboo for you-

For you, a failure.

It is bitter, it is grieving, it is lost, so, so lost.

Satoru wonders if this is what it felt as it faced its execution, or the remnants of its first brush with death.

Either way it does not change how its energy is tinged with the bitterness of a death defied.

It doesn’t want to be here. That much is obvious. The world is alien to it. With none of the people and none of the sights. It is a metropolis in place of a city of ancients. It is modern curses compared to folklore monsters of old-

The enemies it once faced are now nothing but stories that people laugh and joke about. Dismissed so readily as though sorcerers hadn’t bled and died for it.

The world has changed, time has moved on.

And yet, here it is now.

Centuries have passed, the people have gone. The banquet has ended, the people have gone. The dawn has set, the people have gone.

Now all that’s left is you.

The weight of those deaths- the weight of a broken legacy on your shoulders. Of the generations of trust before you shattered because you were too weak when you were dying and so a curse took a hold of you-

It is a mark of shame. You died but you won’t die honored. You’ll die and people will hate you- will despise you in history.

But you won’t even get that luxury because they’ll strike your name out of the history books. For you are a stain on their legacy.

It is unfair.

Uchiha Obito, for all his mistakes, no doubt had given up his life in service to the jujutsu world.

And he is repaid in a dishonored death and an erased legacy.

Perhaps Uchiha Obito thinks it a mercy. A blessing for his shame to be forever erased, his name forgotten.

Someone else obviously felt different. Very different.

Someone else must’ve felt that it was incredibly unfair. Someone must’ve felt that Uchiha Obito’s time is not up yet- cannot be up yet.

And so they cursed his name upon death.

Chaining Uchiha Obito to the mortal realm as the enemy he swore to destroy.

Uchiha Obito is in the realm of the living, but he does not live. Not truly. For he is a curse now. A thing within a once human vessel.

Satoru can’t possibly imagine how Uchiha Obito felt. Gazing into the eyes of the person who brought him back to life as a curse. Can’t possibly imagine the betrayal or grief or joys of a dead man and his dead companion.

He can’t imagine what happens after. Whether it was an epic or a tragedy. Whether they became at peace with their situation or it is just the wrong time, wrong person, wrong everything that leads to some Gojo dying and the curse remains.

He can’t quite imagine what drives a person to let a special grade spirit live on, beyond death. Live on beyond them. To the future and beyond, beyond.

It isn’t quite love, if it were they’d be united death.

It is something complicated between the bitter joys of love and the lows of hate. Something infinitely complicated that spelled out a tragedy that happened between a human and a curse and two things that aren’t meant to be. It is a tale of I defied nature for you and You should’ve just let me die. Or something or another.

The curse doesn’t hate the human who kept it chained to this world.

The gaze it looks at Satoru with is enough proof of that.

The human mustn’t have hated it either. The Gojo let it live on with the Gojo technique and it isn’t quite mad due to it being dormant.

The Gojo could’ve let it just go loose, then and there and let it become a monster.

But instead, they let it live. They let it flourish.

They let it see the future with its human eyes, even at the cost of other lives.

It is a twisted version of love and hate and ending up somewhere in the middle.

Satoru wonders, really, what the motive was to let this curse go free.

But he can’t even fathom the motives behind creating the curse in the first place.

He can’t quite imagine it. Can’t quite put on the other’s shoe because he can’t quite comprehend it even when he is Gojo Satoru and an aged curse decides that he is similar enough.

He remembers Getou Suguru.

Even then he didn’t stoop to cursing Getou Suguru after death. Perhaps it is out of honor, perhaps it is just wanting to let an old friend rest.

Being the strongest means to hold the title with all the responsibilities that come with it. It is to accept that you are a singular existence that stands above it all. That- your will shapes the world and you must do with it what you must. Responsibility and burdens means that Gojo cannot curse Getou Suguru and chain him to his side. It means that he knows, even for the strongest, the laws of nature are to be respected.

It is to understand that Getou Suguru dies and there is not a thing Satoru can do about it. To do so would be to cross a line. It is a steady slope. If you already cursed someone to live- then what was stopping you from doing whatever else?

What was stopping you from letting a special grade curse live instead of letting it go free?

The burden of the strongest means that the world is upheld on Satoru’s will. If he even slips- if he even dares-

Who would be there to stop him?

It is their burden, it is their shackles.

It isn’t fair, Satoru thinks. It isn’t fair that a long past ancestor can just trample everything that they are supposed to stand for- all for a curse that was once a vessel.

Satoru can’t quite imagine it. Can’t quite place himself in this past ancestor’s shoes.

Can’t quite imagine when it was that this ancestor decided that his honor and dignity can die in a ditch if it meant that this one curse can live.

It is the burden and honor of the strongest-

And his ancestor just abandoned it- just like that.

It is Gojo Whatever-Their-Name-Is saying:

“I’ll commit the taboo- I’ll abandon my duty and burdens if it means he lives.”

Satoru can’t quite imagine it. Can’t quite fathom the emotions and bond that must’ve existed between them and that drove the strongest to stoop down into the mud and to defy the laws of nature.

He wonders how the curse feels. Now that it is here because of means beyond it.

If it wanted to be here at all.

Satoru doubts it.

The age of monsters and chaos has long passed.

Now all that’s left is a towering city and alien technology. A city that is no longer yours to protect. Old enemies now either dissipated or not even a shell of their old selves. The people have gone, the banquet is over, dawn has broken and the sun has set.

Centuries have passed, now all that remains is you.

All that remains is you and the curse is nipping at your heels. When the inevitable is drawing closer with every emotion you feel, with every day that ticks by. When you become the thing you swore to destroy.

When the man becomes a monster.

What a no-good ancestor, really.

Satoru can’t quite understand.

The in-between of love and hate and discarding the honor and burden of the strongest for one man.

For one Uchiha Obito.

Was it worth it?

For Satoru, no.

But for that ancestor, for that no-good ancestor-

It must’ve been.

At that moment, when the executioner blade drops-

That no-good ancestor made a decision. They traded the joys and burdens of the strongest for one Uchiha Obito. It is not a matter of ‘can I do it?’ but ‘will I?’ It is the matter of weighing the world against one man. It should’ve been an easy decision- but the hearts of men are never quite so decipherable.

It is a decision that a god wouldn’t have made, but a man would’ve.

It is giving all the power in the world to a man and telling him to live as a god when his nature is that of a mortal.

It is telling them to control and think of the world, aloof and distant.

It is a miscalculation from the start.

A man with the powers of a god is but a man in the end.

And that man chose Uchiha Obito over the world.

Satoru won’t be that- he’ll be different.

He is a god amongst men.

He has to be different.

What a no-good ancestor.

“Answers first to save Yuuji-kun,” Satoru decides in the thick of the silence. “Then I’m going to put it to rest.”

Perhaps it is out of pity. Or maybe it is due to the sins of the ancestor. Perhaps it is because Satoru decides that maybe it’s time for Satoru’s ancestor to get a good punch on the face from the curse in the afterlife- if the afterlife does exist. Perhaps it is him wanting to grant a sad thing a good death.

Or perhaps-

It is him wanting to erase whatever traces there is of a disgraceful ancestor and his folly of a decision.

In the end.

It was never meant to be here.

And in the end-

It was a Gojo who created it.

And it will be a Gojo who will put it to rest.

It is approximately three in the morning and Yuuji is having another awkward stare down.

“We really should stop meeting like this,” Yuuji says.

“How else are we going to meet then?” the curse asks back as though this were normal.

“Not breaking in at three in the morning would be preferable,” Yuuji says. Feeling like he’s the protagonist in one of those weird three in the morning challenges. He wonders if he should crack out an ouija board to complete it.

“Noted,” the curse says. And as though to be pointedly contrary it opens its mouth again. “I’ll make that two in the morning.”

Chapter Text

Yuuji can recognize a pattern when he sees one.

And this?

Whatever this is?

This is a pattern.

It is a curse appearing at three in the morning sporadically and Yuuji is going to just have to deal.

Or not really, it’s not a test of endurance since Uchiha Obito has answers but still, Yuuji needs his sleep. And being awakened rudely by a curse seems more like a pain than a blessing in the moment when his brain is addled by sleep and his eyes are threatening to close shut.

In fact, Yuuji thinks he feels rather grouchy about the whole thing. Not quite mad but not quite happy either.

It is a miserable experience to be roused from a nice sleep in general.

Yuuji will have it known that right now- this curse ranks about right next to Yuuji’s alarm ringtone.

Which is not very high.

Uchiha Obito just stares at him. No particular inflection in his expression other than bland boredom, maybe.

Yuuji really wanted to ask it questions, namely like: how do you get your face to stay like that? and why do you look at me like I’m a science experiment on water evaporation? and why are you here anyway?

Some of those questions aren’t quite important but he thinks he wants to know anyways.

“Is your teacher always skulking around like that?” the curse asks suddenly. It is an abrupt question but asked with a bored cadence, as though the curse couldn’t care less.

Yuuji feels that there’s a bit of a contradiction there. If it couldn’t care less then it wouldn’t have asked.

But then again, maybe it was just doing one of those ice breakers. The foot in the door kind of thing where someone begins with something small and then they barge down your door entirely and you don’t even notice.

Yuuji had seen those videos, he knows things.

“Gojo-sensei is, uh, Gojo-sensei,” Yuuji says, and that’s the truth, too. There’s really no other way to describe his teacher. The man exists in his own league in terms of uniqueness. It feels like Gojo-sensei was born and no one could describe his ubiquitousness other than yeah, that’s just how Gojo Satoru is, Gojo Satoru.

“I see,” the curse says, something flitting across its expression, Yuuji can’t quite place what it means. Nodding to itself and then to Yuuji. “He’s unique and all that, right?”

Yuuji supposes so. With Gojo-sensei’s eyes and his personality, it wouldn’t be wrong to say that he was one of a kind.

“He’s just Gojo-sensei,” Yuuji says in the end. He’s not quite sure how else to describe the man. He’s not the best at descriptions and trying to describe Gojo-sensei is trying to describe the nebulous sky. You can’t quite pin down an accurate picture of it. It’s like trying to describe the sky in all its states at once. When it’s sunny, when it’s raining, when it’s snowing- it’s like trying to describe the sky and everything it is but within a person.

So you just pack it up into one word and just say- Oh, that’s the sky. And everyone would know what you’re talking about, no need to describe the particular hue as the sun sets or the dimming light as cloud rolls over or the chill as snow descends.

It’s a bit complicated and Yuuji thinks he has better things to do with his energy than trying to accomplish the impossible.

“Gojo-sensei,” the curse says. It almost feels as though it’s mocking the name somehow. But it doesn’t quite look it. Its eyebrows are pinched and there’s something in its expression- there one moment and gone the next. Like a passing whisper in the wind.

Again, Yuuji probably has better things to do than ponder on a curse’s expression. But he almost looks nostalgic. Like Yuuji’s grandpa when he looks at his old, crumbling photographs of him and his friends.

It’s almost like that- that kind of look, that kind of- Ah, how long has it been? and brushing your fingertips against the faces and background as though you can immerse yourself into the photograph itself.

Again, not good to compare a curse to one’s grandpa, Yuuji knows. But his mind is another thing entirely.

“You know him?” Yuuji asks suddenly, unbidden.

The curse blinks, breaking himself out of its neutral expression.

Nevermind, it’s still neutral, just leaning towards mild shock with the raised brow.

“Of course,” Uchiha Obito says, it’s almost sarcastic. It feels like a familiar thing, it fits with the mocking edge of the slight curl of Uchiha Obito’s lips and the way it drawls out its words. It feels like Uchiha Obito had only spoken with sarcasm and derision its whole life. Yuuji thinks that that is what the man was before he died, maybe, a sarcastic man with biting quip at the ready and discerning eyes that would probe into your soul for daring to make any stupid comments. “We met with you there.”

Ah, well, it’s entirely Yuuji’s fault for reading too much into it, he supposes.

Though, was he? Was he really?

He doubts he’ll ever know.

“My bad,” Yuuji says. “It’s a bit difficult to think at three in the morning.”

He feels very much like a rebellious teenager right now and he can tell the curse is somewhat pleased- amused?- by his efforts. Its smile taking on a different edge, it is softer now, almost reminiscent.

Again, Yuuji wonders if all Uchiha Obito seems to see are old, wizened photographs. If the extent of its emotional output ranges from neutral to sarcastic then to nostalgic with really no in-between nor other emotions.

It is a dreadfully awful life, Yuuji thinks. To only live seeing everything as though it were an old, crumbling photograph rather than the present at which it is. It is like reading a book during a movie, but more extreme. Or like looking into the yearbook instead of calling your friends.

But then again, if this example were to hold true- Uchiha Obito doesn’t have any friends to call.

They’re all dead, probably.

Old people do that. Die.

They die and they leave you with memories and make you promise things that you’ll take to your own grave. They die and they leave you with nothing except their ashes and their old, dusty photos.

Again, it’s probably not good to relate to a curse.

Again, Yuuji can’t seem to stop.

He can’t seem to look at the curse and think-

Do you even have their photos?

It is a thought.

He thinks about living after his friends died, living as a curse.

He imagines dying and then waking up in another time. With only the clothes on his back and his own memories to prove that he’s not mad, but then again- how does he know that his memories aren’t fabricated- how does he know that anything is real at all?

He’ll look at a calendar and all he’ll think is, that’s not right, that’s too far forward, it must be a mistake.

He thinks about waking up and having enemies at his heels who look at him and they’ll say, Are you a curse?

And then all he can say is, I wasn’t, but I am now.

It is a thought. It makes something inside Yuuji’s gut go all right side up and it’s just-

“How do you keep track of time?” Yuuji asks. He’s not sure why he does so. It’s not like it’s a pressing matter. It’s not like it should matter. But the thought- the mere idea of living day to day and either facing the insanity that is the calendar but in the future or not knowing anything at all is maddening. Yuuji doesn’t think he’d want to look at the date in the future, either, that’d make it real somehow.

But then, again, to not know the day passing you by is even worse. It’s like living in an infinite nightmare and each day would seem so similar and-

“I used to keep track,” Uchiha Obito admits, there is something heavy in its words. Something wry on its lips and something intense in its eyes. “Marking down the day to a promised date.” Uchiha Obito glances outwards. Glances up- to the moon, perhaps and its expression is an indescribable thing. “It came and I stopped keeping track.”

“So you don’t know that it’s a Thursday right now?” It’s probably an awful cut into what was probably an introspective answer but Yuuji’s brain is not equipped to deal with these kinds of things.

The curse barks out a laugh. It’s kind of dry and hoarse but it’s got a charm to it. A subtle thing that matches the curse somehow. That makes Uchiha Obito seem alive. If Yuuji were to peek through his fingers right now he thinks he can piece together the man that was once alive- not just a sarcastic man but someone that was cheerful, too, sometimes.

Someone that can laugh and you’d think, I want to keep hearing them laugh.

It’s that kind of thing, the kind of laughter that seems human and familiar and makes you want to laugh, too.

It’s awfully human.

But the curse was once awfully human, too.

He once died because he thought he’d do good and he died and became a curse for it. He was a sarcastic, biting man but he was a good man.

It makes Yuuji’s throat go dry and his stomach boil.

“No, I don’t know that it’s a Thursday,” the curse admits. “It’s the same as any other day, isn’t it?”

Yuuji supposes it does. But then it’s also not. Each day is different from the last. Even though every day is technically a jujutsu tech day, it’s different in that the people are different. Even Megumi, with his loose routine, was different each day. People are spontaneous and so they shape Yuuji’s day.

He can’t imagine a day where he thinks, Ah, everything’s happening all over again.

It sounds like a dreadfully boring life.

“It’s not,” Yuuji disagrees. “Each Thursday is different.”

The words feel wrong somehow. Then it clicks in Yuuji’s brain that it’s probably cruel to say it aloud.

Uchiha Obito no doubt knew that.

It was human, once.

It doesn’t need to be reminded that the world is spontaneous if only you lived in it.

The man known as Uchiha Obito had died a long, long time ago. Now all that’s left is a curse bearing his face and living

“Maybe it is,” the curse replies. Its voice has gone back to neutral. No longer amused nor sarcastic, just the plain neutrality of a blank canvas. “It’d be nice, to see a Thursday where it snows.”

It is a bit of an odd comment. Snow on Thursdays isn’t so much as rare in winter. Oh, it’s not common but it’s not exactly uncommon. It just happens enough that you predict that it will and move on with your life.

It’s just one of those things you live with and either grow to hate or look at with a, ah, that’s kinda nice. And brings with you the feeling of a new year and new winter and the thought that it’s a novelty until it passes and the next winter comes and goes.

It’s just that kind of thing.

Yuuji doesn’t think the curse just means a Thursday where it snows. He thinks it means something else but he doesn’t quite know what.

So instead he just shrugs and says, “Yeah, you just have to wait until winter.”

Sometimes people say things and they don’t mean exactly what they say. Sometimes they say things and it’s purposefully vague. And oftentimes, Yuuji doesn’t think he wants to pry. He doesn’t want to look beneath their words to find the meaning.

Sometimes, it’s just enough to take their words at face value, he finds. Just look at it for what it is because while it is vague-

Sometimes, they mean it.

Maybe Uchiha Obito does want to see snow on a Thursday. Maybe it’s more than that.

But to live for so long. To die and then to live again-

In another time, another place-

Maybe, a long time ago-

Uchiha Obito, a normal human- a normal sorcerer, had liked Thursdays with snow.

It’s not Yuuji’s place to speculate, but he does anyway. He can’t control his mind and where it goes but he finds that it’s a thought that brings him closer to something.

It’s not his place to ask these questions, though, and he can control his mouth at least. So he doesn’t ask.

“The weather has been getting colder,” Uchiha Obito acknowledges.

Yuuji raises a brow.

“It’s summer.”

The curse barks out a laugh. It doesn’t seem flustered, it doesn’t seem anything at all other than a blaise acknowledgment. It’s the kind of laugh that means everything and nothing.

“Right.”

They lapse into a strange silence, after that.

Yuuji then remembers that the curse doesn’t look at calendars, probably. And doesn’t care for the passage of time.

Why should it?

It’s a curse now. Curses don’t need to worry about time, they’re curses.

Yuuji wonders if curses can feel the sweltering heat of summer or the chill of winter.

They can feel pain, he supposes, but does that translate to temperature?

He feels that he isn’t a scientist nor does he want to be but his mind is going places regardless of his wants.

“I’ll tell you when it’s winter,” Yuuji says. “If you want.”

It’s an offering for something, although Yuuji doesn’t know for what. But he’s offering something and he doesn’t really want something in return. Sukuna would say that it’s stupid but Sukuna’s off being bored on his throne of bones and lies so he can go away.

The curse stares at him for a moment, almost like it’s waiting for a catch, waiting for Yuuji to continue.

It’s almost like it’s not used to being offered a small kindness.

It makes Yuuji wonder about Uchiha Obito, the human. Makes him wonder if this was how the man was. If this was how vessels were treated.

Weapons, Uchiha Obito had said.

They were weapons. Like the kind that the Zenin uses. Like the kind that Yuuji had and used on his first mission with Nobara. The kind that you use and it either works or it breaks and then you toss it aside.

It makes Yuuji’s throat dry up.

What does being a weapon really entail?

It’s not the same as ‘comrade’ or ‘ally’, that’s for sure.

There’s a fine line between the two. One is human, the other is not, or at least Yuuji had thought so until now.

To think of a vessel as someone to wield as a weapon is just-

It’s a bit offputting if Yuuji were to put it lightly.

He remembers breaking Slaughter Demon and feeling a mild ‘crap’ and ‘I guess there goes that one.’

He can’t quite think the same for vessels.

Can’t quite place the image of Slaughter Demon next to Uchiha Obito and equate them to the same thing.

A weapon is a weapon; a human is a human.

But what are vessels?

Yuuji thinks himself a human.

Uchiha Obito labeled them weapons.

It is an archaic way of thinking. Old and ancient and probably long buried.

Yuuji really doesn’t want to think about it.

“Have you seen snow before?” Yuuji asks instead. It is a pathetic attempt at distraction. It is him putting words into his own mouth before it slips and he starts asking questions like, what does it mean to be a weapon?

Being a weapon-

Yuuji imagines dying- like the Slaughter Demon breaking- and just seeing Megumi or Nobara looking down at him and just saying-

“Crap, there goes that one, I guess.”

Spoken carelessly, dismissively. Not a care in the world because weapons are weapons and humans are humans. There is a difference between the two and if a weapon or two just happen to break-

No one would care.

He looks at the curse, really looks at it and he wonders-

Did you even have a funeral? Did you even have a relative come to pick up your ashes? Or did you die- out in the wild and left for the curses and worms to pick at your body?

The curse shrugs, it is an elegant motion.

For a single moment, it felt as though it were an answer.

But it isn’t, because the question lays unasked because it is cruel and terrible and Yuuji doesn’t-

Some things are better left unknown.

“I have, it’s just snow.” It sounds neutral again, no longer wistful. Breaking Yuuji out of his thoughts, imagining Uchiha Obito laying face up and dead, with no one to care because Uchiha Obito was a weapon and weapons don’t get funerals. “It’s just cold and once it gets on your body it just melts right away. It’s kind of a pain.”

There is a brief hint of annoyance, there. Something clear in the way Uchiha Obito sort of squints and looks out the sky as though snow could fall anytime and he’d punch it in the face.

It’s kinda human.

It’s very human, actually.

It’s human and the sort of thing one of those middle-aged salarymen would say when complaining about such or such on the way home or on their way to work or just anywhere. It’s the sort of complaint that’s just, I can’t believe it’s raining, it’s such a pain and crap, I forgot my umbrella.

It’s mild and it’s human and it’s milquetoast in a way Yuuji couldn’t quite connect to a special grade curse and a now-dead vessel.

Yuuji doesn’t know what compels him to laugh, but he laughs anyways.

“Yeah, that sounds like a pain.”

Something flickers in Uchiha Obito’s expression. Again, old photographs and faded images.

Do you even have their photos?

Yuuji doesn’t think so.

Yuuji wonders if Uchiha Obito would ever forget.

It seems terrible.

Yuuji tries to imagine it.

Waking up one day and suddenly not being able to remember Megumi’s eyes or Nobara’s grins or Gojo-sensei’s hair.

A sort of vague- ah, they probably looked like this, right? and doubting his own thoughts.

He wonders if he’ll even have thoughts like that at all, or he’ll go mad and have gone rogue a long, long time ago instead.

He finds that he doesn’t want to think about it anymore but his mind can’t seem to stop.

How long can you stare at a photo until the memories seem more like a dream?

How long can you stare at static images and clipped videos until you realized that you’ve stared at them for longer than you’ve been alive with them?

How long can you-

“How long has it been since you-” Since you’ve been dead. Since you’ve turned from a human into the thing you were killing. Since you took your last breath. Since you- “Since you’ve seen the snow?”

Everything else feels cruel to ask. But the trigger’s been set and the runners had started running and so Yuuji had to ask something and-

It’s a lame question. It’s nothing important at all. It’s not the kind of information gathering that Megumi recommends or even the thing that Yuuji wants to ask. It’s just a miscellaneous question to a curse that Yuuji probably shouldn’t go around asking because miscellaneous things are what makes inhumane things human.

It’s like taking a sharpie and putting eyes onto a cotton ball and suddenly that cotton ball has a name and feelings.

Now it’s Yuuji taking the metaphorical sharpie and asking the curse questions and placing everything into a neat jigsaw puzzle that’ll leave him seeing Uchiha Obito instead of a special grade curse at the end of it.

But he can’t stop himself.

Like an avalanche, once he started to see glimpses of Uchiha Obito he just can’t stop asking. Like a pandora’s box- once you open it, you can’t look away.

It is his curiosity gripping. It is the wanting of kinship- it is looking at Uchiha Obito and thinking-

Could we have been friends- if you were born now or if I was born earlier? Would we have been comrades? Would the other vessels accept me? What would they think of me?

Yuuji can’t quite stop himself from thinking, from wanting.

He was fine with being a vessel, really- he was fine with being a singular existence or whatever. Because it’s just what it is, right?

But now it’s not quite fine because there were others like him- there were vessels in the past and now they’re gone and now all that’s left is one Uchiha Obito to tell the story and he’s not saying anything.

He’s just looking at Yuuji and saying random things that really mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. He’s looking at Yuuji and it’s like he’s looking at an old photograph. He’s looking at Yuuji and he seems so human.

He’s looking at Yuuji and Yuuji can still remember the potent curse energy that inhabits Uchiha Obito’s body. A vicious thing that’s more curse than human. A thing that screeches like a thousand and one nails on the same chalkboard. A cacophony of echoes and regrets and anger.

Yuuji thinks he knows the ending to this story.

One day-

One day Uchiha Obito will no longer be Uchiha Obito.

Yuuji doesn’t know why he’s so invested but he is.

He wants to know Uchiha Obito- he wants to hear the man answer things and say things that mean something and explain a long-forgotten history. He wants for them to get to sit down and talk history so that Yuuji can finally understand what it means to be a vessel other a someone with an expiration date on them.

He thinks there was something there. A history of something. A history that only one person can tell, now. If there are more out there Yuuji wouldn’t know- they haven’t approached him. But this one has. But the curse isn’t telling him anything.

Yuuji doesn’t think he has the right to ask, either.

It feels cruel to ask.

It’s like picking at a scabbed wound and hoping to find treasure underneath. But there’s no real treasure, not really. The era of vessels, if there were even anything resembling an ‘era’, had long passed. There is no gold to be found beneath a scabbed wound, it’s just blood and more blood.

Yuuji isn’t the smartest, but even he knows that there’s something that happened. And now there’s only him as a vessel. He can hope for the best. Maybe it’s one of those gradual decline things. Maybe they just tapered out over time or something.

But he can’t know for sure.

There’s no history on it. Not even if Yuuji asks Gojo-sensei, who has nothing concrete to offer him other than a few sparse notes here and there of once vessels of curses of nonprominence.

There’s no one quite like Yuuji. Maybe it’s supposed to be flattering, that he’s special.

But Yuuji doesn’t want to be special.

He doesn’t really know what he wants but what he wants isn’t to be a unique, singular being.

He just wants to be-

He thinks he’d like it if there were more like him. If there were older vessels wondering about and he can just pop over and talk about things like: Oh man, Sukuna was so annoying today, how do I tune him out? or How do I make Sukuna’s fingers taste more appetizing? or just-

How’s the weather today?

It’s a lame question but he can’t help but imagine someone- a man with dark set eyes yet unnaturally pale hair turning to him. Scars on one side of his face with a curse energy that doesn’t scorch but instead is just is. The man would look at him and he’d give a sarcastic or biting reply and Yuuji would just smile and the man would look at him and they’d-

They’d be comrades.

There’d be more of them and the curse would be a man and Yuuji would be one part of a whole and they’d be vessels together.

It’s awfully nice to think about.

It’s awfully nice to think about Uchiha Obito as human rather than not. It’s nice to imagine the what-ifs and maybes.

It’s nice to imagine stepping foot inside a room within Jujutsu Tech, one of many, and seeing another vessel miling about. It’s nice to think about them looking at him and smiling at him and accepting him. It’s just nice. Not that his life now isn’t nice on its own. With Megumi and Nobara and Gojo-sensei and Nanamin and-

It’s nice, but it’s just-

He wants to talk and complain about Sukuna and have it be a light joke rather than something that’s a little tense because Megumi remembered the last time Sukuna dug out his heart and Nobara doesn’t quite get what it means to have the King of Curses living in your mind and Gojo-sensei is Gojo-sensei.

So here Yuuji is-

Asking some lame question about the snow because he wants to capture that flashing mirage in his hands and just have a conversation with another vessel. Where they can talk weather or whatnot and he can just have this, just for now and just pretend that he’s not the only one left.

The sleep has long worn off. Now, all that’s left in Yuuji’s mind are questions that will never get an answer.

Questions that he doesn’t know if he even wants an answer.

Uchiha Obito shrugs, a casual movement that is- again- much too human.

There is something like a saccharine smile on Uchiha Obito’s lips. Almost as sharp and biting as its words.

“About a lifetime ago,” Uchiha Obito says. A vague, nondescript answer that answers everything and nothing at the same time.

“Oh.” Was Yuuji’s eloquent reply. What else can you even say in the face of that? A lifetime ago- from alive to dead and to alive-yet-not.

Yuuji thinks he has somewhat of a clue. He came back to life once before but he came back to life as a human.

Not as Sukuna, not as a curse. He came back as Itadori Yuuji.

“It’s a joke,” Uchiha Obito says at last. Seeing Yuuji flounder under his answer. “Don’t take it too seriously.”

Uchiha Obito’s smile is sarcastic in all the right places and his gaze is casual in all the right ways.

But something in Yuuji tells him that it wasn’t such a casual answer and joke.

But then again, Yuuji can’t get a read on Uchiha Obito.

From the moment it stepped into Yuuji’s life, he hadn’t been able to really get its expression nailed down. From its placid neutrality to vicious sarcasm to light casualness- Yuuji wonders which one of its expressions were real, wonder if any were real at all.

He wonders, briefly, if the curse can even feel emotions. Or it was just imitating the expressions of a long dead man.

He really doesn’t want to think about it.

He really doesn’t want to think about how Uchiha Obito is going to lose it all and maybe one day it’ll be Yuuji who loses who he is and started to imitate his expressions of the past rather than being able to feel anything at all.

He can’t stop thinking.

His mind is a quagmire of noises and imagined possibilities.

Interacting with Uchiha Obito only brings him headaches and stress.

Yet he can’t seem to stop.

It’s like Pandora’s box.

Once you open it-

You can’t look away.

“Replication, there’s something familiar about that,” Gojo Satoru muses. Kento is unimpressed, really.

“If there was a curse like that, no doubt we’ve already heard of it,” Kento replies. “Or at least have some form of records.”

“No, no,” Gojo dismisses readily, waving his hands as though to wipe away Kento’s idea on his perfect theories. “Not curse.”

Again, a thoughtful Gojo Satoru was a bad one.

Again, Kento cannot do a single thing against it.

“Replication- there’s another word for it, isn’t it?”

Again, whatever it is that Gojo Satoru is thinking of-

“Ah, right-”

Kento wants no part in it, really.

“Copy.”

The vessel, Itadori, looks at him and he looks at Obito like he has the key to the universe.

Obito was a former terrorist.

This is a bit of a conundrum, Obito thinks.

But it’s not like he can say that- nor does he want to. Confessing his crimes and confronting it was one of the last things that Obito wants to do, actually.

Being a mass murderer tends to not reflect well upon a person and Obito knows enough to zip his mouth shut and just keep the ghosts haunting him in his memories.

And yet.

They appear before him regardless.

Itadori, the boy with Haruno Sakura’s hair and Naruto’s cheer. With a curse stuck in his gut and a destiny he can’t quite shoulder. Who has a teacher by the name of Gojo (Gojo-sensei-) with shock white hair and a piece of cloth covering eyes too powerful for its own good. With the same teasing drawl and casual stance- ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. With a genius’ confidence and self-reassurance, ready to scratch and tear at anything in his way.

People like Kakashi- they’re one in a generation. One in a lifetime-

And Gojo- whoever he is- isn’t quite a Kakashi.

But he isn’t far off either. It confuses Obito, sometimes, looking at a man that can be Kakahsi’s copy if only their fashion wasn’t so far off. If only Kakashi’s confidence wasn’t eclipsed by Gojo’s arrogance.

But it’s easy to confuse the two. It’s easy to just look through his hands and see an overlapped figure.

It’s terrible. Obito knows, objectively, that he shouldn’t do this. That things like this lead to madness and whatever else. That he should maybe, just maybe, do the healthy thing and acknowledge that Kakashi was gone in another land, that Obito died and left him behind and that Gojo is another man entirely but-

Once he starts thinking-

He can’t seem to stop.

It feels as though the more he wants to stop, the more he tries to stop thinking the more the images overlap. The more he sees Naruto in Yuuji’s smile, the more he overlays Haruno Sakura’s shade of pink over Itadori Yuuji and wants to rub at his eyes because it doesn’t quite match.

The more he wants to look into Gojo’s eyes and replace it with something else because it’s not right. It doesn’t match. It’s not a perfect match and Obito wants it to be.

Obito wants to grasp something familiar in his hands and he wants to see Kakashi and he wants to get to be where he’s meant to be.

But Obito has never gotten what he’s wanted, and this will be no different.

His mind refuses to stop, regardless.

“Stop whatever you’re thinking,” Obito says.

It’s both to himself and to Itadori Yuuji.

It is a warning.

He can see the boy’s mind working, tolling and tolling. He doesn’t know what for but he knows it’s about himself.

Itadori looks at him like he holds the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

Obito was a terrorist.

It’s better to snip these kinds of things in the bud.

Itadori winces, as though caught with his hand in his parent’s wallet. It is childish and right because Itadori is still a child- still so young and he’s a Jinchuuriki and those Jinchuuriki died because of you, don’t you remember- Obito-

“I’m trying,” Itadori says. It’s not working is the implied message.

And really- Itadori and Naruto and-

They were all so similar.

Once their minds get racing, once they latch onto a thought-

They can’t quite stop.

Uchiha Obito, veteran hypocrite, opens his mouth and says:

“Try harder, then.”

He thinks it’s best if he can’t see Itadori’s face. See the way the boy’s hair spikes and maybe trick his own eyes into seeing blonde instead of an off-shade pink.

It is like a dam broken.

Once it has- there is no going back against the currents.

“Hello, hello,” Gojo Satoru says. It is kind of teasing and familiar and he can already feel the dread curling in his stomach at the man’s next request. Amazing, how so much can be heard and felt just through a phone call. Most probably due to Gojo Satoru’s impressive ability to sound like himself no matter the distance.

“Sensei,” he acknowledges. “Is this about Itadori Yuuji?”

Gojo-sensei laughs and they’re already off to a bad start.

It’s the kind of laugh Gojo Satoru does when he’s about to utterly ruin your day and has no care for your feelings on the matter.

It’s the kind of laugh Gojo Satoru does when dropping a nameless cursed teenager into a school for exorcising curses and expecting everyone to deal.

Each time is no less stress inducing than the last.

“Something related to that, I guess?” Gojo-sensei hedges. It is casual and light and he can tell that Gojo Satoru is about to drop a piece of terrible, awful news onto him. “But not really?”

“Is there something I need to know?”

There is a brief moment’s pause, as though Gojo Satoru is figuring out the worst possible way to break the news.

Again, stress inducing for all that he’s grown and gotten somewhat used to the man.

But can you ever be used to Gojo Satoru?

Doubtful.

“Ah, hmm, well, you know how your family history is kind of spotty and really suspicious and wow you were kind of related to a certain someone in our grand history?”

Again, stress.

“Yes, sensei.”

Gojo-sensei laughs and again, stress is accumulating and it’s terrible.

“So, theoretically, if there’s someone out there with a replication- copy- cursed technique, would you say they’re related to you, Yuta?”

This is precisely what Yuta was talking about.

Gojo Satoru does that laugh and he’s going to ruin your day and maybe your life without a single care on your feelings.

“What?” It is a miracle that Yuta can choke out a reply at all to that bizarre hypothetical.

It’s probably not a hypothetical.

Gojo Satoru laughs.

So it’s definitely not a hypothetical and Yuta definitely has a mystery relative that sprung up from the earth.

"So, what do you think of a little gender reveal announcement?"

"Sensei, who, what, when, where- sensei-" If it sounds like Yuta is begging for Gojo Satoru to stop, it is because he is. He's pleading to a god of some kind to step in and step up. But, just like how any god turns a blind eye to natural disaster, so, too, do they look away from Gojo Satoru.

“Congratulations, Yuta, it’s a curse.”

“What?”

Gojo Satoru laughs.

Okkotsu Yuta’s day is ruined.

Chapter Text

There is something lurking beneath within the sewers. Obito doesn’t quite know what but it feels vile and it’s like spiders crawling upon his skin whenever he peers below its depths.

It is a series of winding tunnels and expansive depths. With malevolent energy awaiting at the end of it all- the point where it all converges together and forms just one massive thing.

Again, Obito doesn’t know what it is but it doesn’t feel right. Just like every other cursed thing doesn’t sit quite right with him. It feels wrong and it feels vile.

It’s the same kind of stuff beneath his skin. A curse’s version of chakra. Terrible and malevolent and unnatural. It’s terrible in the way that it wants to dig its way out of his skin and remake him whole. Like a fire refusing to be put out and wanting to make his body its fuel. Controlling his chakra feels more terrible than ever- it’s not quite like quelling a wild force anymore but more like trying to keep an inferno from scorching you alive.

It's not his chakra, not anymore. It’s the flipside version, the thing that’s on the other side of the mirror- the thing that lurks beneath the surface of the tranquil lake. It’s foreign and it’s terrible. It sits beneath his veins and it wants to choke him alive.

It’s loud and it screeches with the mouth of a thousand and one beasts.

(It’s only fortunate that Obito went through hell- better known as Uchiha Madara’s personal brand of training- to learn to control his chakra.

It’s to suppress it beneath his fingertips, to wrap it in chains and bundles and toss it into the darkest depths of the ocean. Or at least, that’s how Madara said it worked.

For Obito, it was different. It was thinking about a day in the rain- with Rin dead and Kakashi’s hand through her heart. To feel that moment of gripping terror and then nothing but the white noise. Nothing but the ice inside his heart and to be in the eye of the storm for a moment before it all comes tumbling down.

It is capturing that moment in his hands. To feel that feeling of white noise repeating itself over and over and over until he lived and breathed it as naturally as he does blinking. It is to be the eye of the storm. To be everything that he never was before but has to be to be a good shinobi-

Obito has none of Madara’s control, has none of the man’s natural talents to imagine and control his chakra based on his whims. But he was creative enough, desperate enough- and tossed once too many times into the water and told to swim or sink.

As he is right now, Obito can measure himself amongst the less evolved curses. Can probably hide himself as even less, if he refines his control more. Sharpening its edges until he’s back to his prime.)

The thing beneath the sewers is probably a threat.

It’s a much higher one than the ones that Obito has been dealing with. Admittedly, the ones that he’s been dealing with are probably low chuunin level, average and mediocre in the grand scheme of things to get Obito used to his new body and restraints.

The thing in the sewers doesn’t feel like jounin, it feels more than that. Stronger and deadlier and oh, the things it could do to you if you let your guard down-

It feels like something. Obito can’t quite put a finger on it, but his instincts- not the shinobi kind, but the new kind, the kind that’s more beast than human, the kind that wants to wrap its hands around the world and squeeze until it breaks- says that it’s dangerous. Says that it’ll be a challenge worth relishing- a territory worth taking over.

It’s already terrible enough that Obito’s chakra has gone all twisted; it’s an extra salt on the wound when his newfound instincts start talking about territory.

But Obito supposes he’s been dallying for long enough.

For Yuta, being recapped on a maybe dead ancestor who’s now alive (non-alive?) as a curse is probably on the top five of News that Okkotsu Yuta Wants to Receive in Maybe Never.

And yet.

“Sensei,” Yuta says- pleads. He’s begging Gojo Satoru to just stop and let him be ignorant again- just like how he was a phone call prior.

But Gojo Satoru just laughs.

“Did I mention how it was a vessel?”

If Yuta was half the boy he was before Jujutsu Tech he’d probably already broken down into a stressed mess of Why me- and Rika, no-.

Fortunately for everyone, Yuta is much more adapted to dealing with the insanity that is the Jujutsu world and Rika has passed.

Unfortunately, he hasn’t adapted to the degree of being able to deal with the sudden appearance of a cursed spirit relative.

Though- is anyone ever ready for that kind of news? Yuta doubts it.

“Vessel?” Yuta probes, his voice coming out steady. Much too steady for the turmoil that he’s feeling- much more calm than he’d ever thought he could be. But it comes with being a jujutsu sorcerer, Yuta supposes.

This is just another one of those near death scenarios he deals with nearly everyday- except much worse and much closer to home and it’s literally related to me why are my ancestors like this.

Yuta would honestly have preferred normal ancestors. The ones that went and did failed business ventures or started a small fishing business or something.

What he didn’t sign up for was one of the greatest sorcerers to ever live and a cursed spirit that was once a vessel.

But, just like how the world turns a blind eye to the natural disaster that is Gojo Satoru. So, too, do they look away from Yuta’s wishes.

“You know, like Itadori Yuuji.”

Yuta must stress that he really would’ve preferred normal ancestors who went out and lived happy normal lives and was not a vessel and now turned curse and just- what the hell happened- what the hell is happening?

“And it’s… related to me?” Yuta wishes it were not so, but if Gojo-sensei has called him for it, it must be so.

Just to be sure, though, Yuta will ask in the vain hope that he is in the middle of being pranked.

“It has your technique,” Gojo-sensei answers easily. “Copy.”

That is pretty damning evidence.

Worst yet, it’d mark this curse as at least a Grade 1 if it was a newborn and catapulting it into a special grade if it got time to grow.

But it wasn’t a newborn.

It was Yuta’s ancestor. It has lived and had been a sorcerer. Yuta doesn’t know anymore than that, Gojo-sensei hadn’t said a thing about the life it led or its name.

He assumes that it had been trained, at least, with the basics. Being a vessel and all. A vessel to what, Yuta doesn’t know. Nor does he think he’ll ever know unless Gojo-sensei tells him.

“And it was gone until now?” Yuta asks, a bit off kilter. The timeline feels a bit spotty- it feels weird that no one happened to mention to Yuta that he has a special grade curse for a relative, not even Gojo-sensei.

Not until now, anyway.

So what happened? What changed? Did it go on a massacre? Was Yuta being recalled to fight poison with poison- copy with copy?

There is a brief moment of silence, which means nothing good when you’re speaking to Gojo Satoru.

“Ah, hmm, well.” Gojo-sensei almost feels like he’s dawdling. Which couldn’t possibly be. “You remember Rika?”

Well, that was more like the Gojo-sensei that Yuta knows and debatably admires.

It’s a question that doesn’t need to be asked at all.

It’s hard to forget. It’s almost impossible, Yuta would say. To forget all about Orimoto Rika.

When he closes his eyes, he thinks he can still see her drying corpse on the harsh cement. The loud sound of sirens and voices. The screeching of nails on chalkboard as a monster appeared beneath his feet and grabbed ahold of his legs. Rika’s human face turned into that of a monstrous beast as she opened her mouth and said-

“Of course I remember.”

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, the turbulence from before now quelled down into nothing but ashes in the wind. Forced to hell by the reminder of Rika. Her monstrous image overlapped with her human one. Even now, he’s still unable to distinguish them at times.

“It’s hard to forget,” Yuta continues at last. That is an understatement. Just like how when it rains it pours and how it’s hard to forget a curse that has haunted you for nearly half your life if not more- Yuta doesn’t know, he tries to not think about it sometimes. Tries not to think about feeling Rika creeping in his shadows and stretching her claw out at anyone and anything and-

Rika, no-

There is a brief pause, again, nothing good when it comes to Gojo Satoru.

“Well, we have a Rika situation,” Gojo-sensei says. Like ripping a bandaid clean off the wound. His tone almost neutral- almost playful but in the pretense kind of way where he doesn’t really mean it and to be playful is the only thing he really knows to keep his students from panicking the fuck out.

Gojo Satoru is not a competent adult. It is a fact that Yuta often faces and often bemoans about. Wondering how it was that the entire world is carried on the shoulders of a man who seems like he couldn’t care less about it.

And yet, the man still goes on each day. Taking on each job with a smile and a jaunty wave and a Oh man, does this really need me?

Gojo Satoru is a man who seems apathetic to the world, and yet he still protects it.

He’s the farthest thing from a competent adult, he’s the farthest thing from someone you should look up to and should strive to be in anything other than the matters of sorcerers and exorcising.

But there’s something reassuring about him. There’s something that you feel whenever he’s talking to you or is near you. There’s a reassuring arrogance about him that makes you think- everything will be alright.

Maybe it comes with being the strongest. Maybe it comes with being Gojo Satoru.

The strongest and Gojo Satoru are both synonyms of each other, they are one and the same and at the end of the day-

Yuta lets out a shaky exhale.

“I see.” Is all he can really say. But he doesn’t see, not really. What does a Rika situation mean? Did his newfound relative curse someone? Did they have a curse haunting them like Rika does? Do they need his help?

How were they a curse again?

Did the jujutsu world have two new curses on its hands?

“Ah, well, your relative hasn’t created a Rika, it’s more like they’re the Rika, being a curse and all?” Gojo-sensei says, almost playfully- teasingly- almost as though he were at a loss. He trails off his question with a short laughter of incredulity as though he can’t quite process it either.

It is a bizarre thing to be forced to face.

“Someone cursed them?” Yuta asks quietly, it feels almost taboo to speak aloud. To say that someone cursed someone and there’s now another special grade curse walking around because someone decided to make a stupid decision like Yuta did and refuse to accept someone’s death and-

“Long story short, my ancestor- way back when, the strongest at that time, probably- is the one that cursed them but then that no-named, no-good, really terrible ancestor died and just- ah, let the curse stay?”

That was a really, really long story short. There are practically giant ravines from the holes that are missing from that story.

”Sensei-”

“Long, long story short- it’s the Rika and I’m… you?” Gojo-sensei laughs again as though this were some grand joke. It is not. It is the opposite actually.

The ramifications of that long, long, long story short is warping Yuta’s mind.

It is one thing for a child to have carelessly cursed someone.

It is another thing entirely for the strongest to knowingly curse someone.

It is another thing entirely to pass on the curse onto your descendants to deal with.

It’s insane. The special kind that is almost unfathomable. The kind of thing Yuta can’t even relate to, let alone know what was going through that person’s mind.

What drives the strongest to curse someone- knowing fully well the consequences of their actions?

What drives the strongest to pass on the curse instead of letting it die?

Yuta can’t fathom it- let alone process it.

It’s reckless, it’s terrible and he doesn’t know how or why.

Yuta still struggles with seeing Rika’s warped form in his dreams- still struggles knowing that he cursed her to extend her time. Even when she said that she was happy- he still wonders. He still remembers her, warped and monstrous and how twisted she became because of him.

How can you do that to someone? How can you do what you do knowing fully well the consequences? How can you die and wash your hands clean of your misdeeds?

He thinks that maybe he’s being unfair, that maybe there’s some other side to the story, but he can’t quite wrap his mind around it. Can’t quite think through the haze and the bile climbing up his throat. Of seeing Rika and imagining doing that to her on purpose and letting her stay in this world for his descendant to take over.

And then what?

What happens then?

There’s no happy ending to be had there for anyone- let alone Rika.

Is this curse like her? Did it die and get cursed because someone refused to accept its death? Did it die and get cursed and it’s now back and the coward who cursed it isn’t even alive?

Did it die and get cursed and now-

Now it’s just as mad as Rika, just as trapped, just as-

“What will happen now, sensei?” Yuta asks.

“I need answers,” Gojo-sensei replies playfully. Calm even when he has to bear the sins of his ancestors.

Gojo Satoru is not a competent adult, but-

“For Itadori Yuuji,” Yuta connects, somehow still managing to think even while his mind is a torrent of chaos and are you like Rika?

“And here I was, looking forward to surprising you,” Gojo-sensei complains lightheartedly. Which are highly ironic words coming from the man that has given Yuta the biggest surprise of his year so far.

There is a moment, then two.

“Why are you telling me this, Gojo-sensei?” Yuta asks at last.

Gojo Satoru does not require Yuta to help him exorcise a curse. Gojo Satoru does not require Yuta to spout any of his technique's weaknesses- he doesn’t need to. Gojo Satoru does not require Yuta to know how to break a curse.

Gojo Satoru does not need Yuta to know this at all.

In fact, it’d be easier to not tell Yuta. It’d be much safer, too. To bury the truth that his ancestor committed a great taboo beneath the rug and deal with it himself rather than telling Yuta. It’d be one less mouth to keep shut and one less loose tongue that could ruin the Gojo legacy.

“Who knows,” Gojo Satoru replies easily. His words are as inscrutable as the man himself. “Maybe I think I’ll need your expertise later, down the line.”

They both know that the reasoning given is an easily improbable possibility at best.

Gojo Satoru is Gojo Satoru and he does not require the help of others.

In fact, it is laughable to see both the ‘special grade’ rank next to their name and think of them at the same level.

Gojo Satoru should really be in a league of his own.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sensei,” Yuta answers.

He thinks he knows why.

He imagines one day maybe coming face to face with a curse bearing his technique and bearing Rika’s status. He imagines coming face to face with it and being forced to exorcise it without even knowing its name.

He imagines fighting against a relative he never got to know- will never get to know. Because it is a curse and it will be treated like one.

He imagines it and he thinks-

He doesn’t think much at all.

“I think it’s time you return from your training trip,” Gojo Satoru says conversationally, casually. But they know it is anything but.

It’s not a casual request at all. Rather-

“Yes, sensei.”

This is Gojo Satoru saying that Yuta will get to see his relative, he’ll get to know its name and he’ll get to know the last traces of his long gone family.

This is Gojo Satoru saying that Yuta will get another chance at paying away his guilt to Rika- by helping exorcise a curse just like her. One bound to this world not by their own will but of a selfish coward.

Gojo Satoru is an incompetent adult.

But he’s not a bad one. Even for his unpredictable temperament and whimsical choices.

He’s Gojo Satoru.

“This curse isn’t known to the higher ups,” Gojo-sensei starts. “Let’s keep it that way.”

They both know why.

The walls have more than just ears recently.

There is a traitor in their midst.

“Yes, sensei.”

“Who knows, maybe when we reveal it, the old geezers will get a heart attack,” Gojo-sensei jokes, laughing along with his own jibe.

“Like a surprise present,” Yuta adds.

It must be such.

Lest their enemies know of a new special grade curse and grab ahold of it.

Mahito would like to say that he usually knows what the souls of his fellow curses are like.

Usually.

But, really-

“Why does your soul look like that?”

The curse raises a brow- how human- how-

“It comes with dying,” the curse says. His lips stretch into something that would be considered a smile, but it’s not happy enough for that. His soul isn’t showcasing that type of joy, but rather- “Thrice.”

It’s something infinitely bitter.

Chapter Text

Souls, be it the soul of curses or humans or everything in between- they are the same.

From the first moments of Mahito’s so-called ‘life’, he had known what souls were.

It was on the tip of his tongue and at his fingertips. Whispering in his ears and beckoning for him to just grab. Reach into the husk that protects it and twist it to his will. Toss it and stretch it and crush it- do whatever he feels like. Experiment to his heart’s content and watch as the husk changes and misshapen. Becoming whatever twisted thing Mahito caused it to be, groaning and puzzled over his own appearance and falling into despair or not even cognizant.

It is in his nature, they say. It’s in his nature to twist and shape souls into a curious thing that is neither curse nor human and ending up somewhere in the terrible middle.

Humans caused him to be this way, they created him this way and so it was only right, they say.

Mahito doesn’t care much to disagree. It’s just like how Jogo gets angry and burns humans within his vicinity and Hanami gets a bit excited and nature goes wild around them.

It’s innate, his ability to see these black shards and grab hold of them with touch alone.

Whatever this was, though-

It wasn’t right.

Mahito knows all about the concept of souls. The human version of it, at the very least, which means that it’s incorrect.

Humans tend to do that, extrapolate some facts about nature and the world that are so utterly wrong but fits their narrow worldview just right.

They think they know about souls, some even wrote about it.

He read it all and he laughed at it all.

A soul, in the end, is just an ugly, misshapen rock. So easily crushed or reshaped that it’s laughable that they’d think the contrary.

Curses and humans, they’re the same in that way. Their souls are the same, bland thing.

So it makes no sense for humans to lord over them, getting to live in the light while curses have to scour beneath. Hiding away as though they’re something to be ashamed of. Killed by sorcerers for just existing. For just wishing to be better.

Because they are, aren’t they?

Their souls are made of the same stuff; their lives all have the same meaning- none.

So what makes a curse different from humans?

Maybe it’s that they’re created from humanity's negative thoughts, maybe it’s because they reflect the ugly nature of humanity right back at them and that’s not allowed.

Humans created them, so isn’t it only natural for them to take responsibility?

It’s only right; they’re made of the same stuff.

This, though, whatever it is. It’s different.

The curse’s soul- or whatever it is- lines its entire body. Filling up the husk entirely and ebbing out and away- as though it couldn’t bear to be contained. At the core of its human shaped body is a dark, coiling mass.

It’s not shaped like a rock or a fine piece of jewel to grab and shape, no.

At the core of the curse is something that’s the closest to what Mahito can recognize and categorize as ‘soul’.

But it’s not really. It’s shapeless and more like the flowing currents of a waterfall or the ebbing flow of an evening tide of the ocean.

It’s coiling around itself. Coiling and coiling, swirling into itself as though to contain itself.

At first, Mahito couldn’t quite sense the curse. Like he usually can with Jogo or Hanami.

He thought that maybe it was a cursed womb, like Dagon. Still weak and shaping up to be something more powerful down the line.

But it wasn’t, he can see it clearly now.

The curse has around the same presence as Jogo or Hanami. It just hides it better. Its core is a single mass of something. Perhaps it’s something that could be categorized as a soul, but it’s a hideous one.

It’s one that is undefined and shapeless.

Is it the soul that shapes the body; or is it the other way around?

Naturally, it’s the shape of the soul that shapes the body. If you change the soul, you change the shape of the husk that goes around it.

Just like how Jogo’s soul flashes a bit red if you look closely at it after a while and Hanami’s soul has jagged edges that look like branches from an ill tree if Mahito tilts his head a certain way.

So what does this soul shape? What does a boundless, shapeless thing create?

Mahito looks at the curse in front of him. Bearing the same human features. With markings on one side of its face. Not quite burn marks, but Mahito doesn’t know what else they can be. He hadn’t seen those patterns before to recognize them.

Other than the curse’s white hair and odd clothes, it looks mundane. It looks normal- it looks human.

And if Mahito were to close his eyes and just rely on his senses alone. From its smell to the feel of its energy-

It feels human in all the right ways.

But that wasn’t it.

It’s not normal.

This thing in front of him wasn’t normal. It’s soul wasn’t right.

And so he opened his mouth and he asked-

“Why does your soul look like that?”

It feels wrong to ask, even, because Mahito’s rationale was screaming at him that it wasn’t it- that it looked all wrong and was just a trick of the vision and that if he rubbed at his eyes long enough, everything will right itself and-

But his instincts are different.

His innate nature, as they put it. It says that- whatever that thing is, it’s still a soul.

The curse’s lips stretch into a smile.

It’s a good one in the way that it’s natural and human; it’s one that Mahito hadn’t gotten down pat even after his time ‘alive.’

It’s human in all the right ways and it makes Mahito want to smile back in some facsimile of human interaction or whatever they’ve got going on.

But that’s not right.

This is a meeting between a curse and a thing.

“It comes with dying,” the curse says. “Thrice.”

Mahito hadn’t the slightest clue what that meant.

‘Death’ for curses is just as it is for humans. A once in a lifetime thing because you’ve only got one chance at it and you’re gone for good. Sure, the same concept of ‘you’ might be revived later but it’s not really you anymore. ‘You’ will be different and your soul will be just as well. It doesn’t matter how powerful you are- unless you’re the mighty Sukuna and got split up into pieces- dead means dead.

You do not come back from the dead; not once, not twice, and certainly not thrice.

He half wanted to call the thing a liar.

But, for some reason, he can’t.

Because maybe- just maybe-

What do souls look like when you’re dead?

Mahito doesn’t know. Dead means dead and if the soul shapes the body-

When the body passes, the soul must’ve already departed.

Dead means dead and souls disappear after death.

It’s grinded up or crumbled into little shards that disperse into the wind or wherever the hell it goes.

But what happens to a soul after death if it doesn’t go? What happens then to those shards and fragments?

The soul shapes the body.

The soul may be all powerful over what shape the body takes. It can change the body in unimaginable ways. It can change a human into a thing in between curse and human. It can do whatever you will it to if only you try hard enough- it can influence so many things about the body and yet-

It cannot leave the body. It cannot leave the husk it calls its home.

Dying thrice-

Mahito thinks he has a clue as to what happened.

Even if he knows the answer, it doesn’t make the thing in front of him any less unsettling to behold.

Perhaps it’s even more unsettling to be in front of, now that he knows why its soul is the way it is.

It’s the mark of something that has defied nature, thrice.

It’s something that had its soul go through death thrice and has become unrecognizable for it.

If the soul shapes the body, and its body is still mundane- then something else must’ve become utterly deformed. What is it, then?

What has the soul changed about this curse in front of him?

Mahito cannot see anything out of the ordinary, and that is perhaps why he’s all the more unsettled for it.

They spent a moment more observing each other. It is an exchange where neither speaks and Mahito is trying to look beneath its skin to find out what freakish thing is hiding underneath while it’s studying him with a categorical intent. Gazing from head to toe with minute precision, its gaze moving smoothly as though practiced. Not a glance wasted before it was done marking him up for all he’s worth, not a single change in its expression of apathy.

He feels marked, somehow. It’s the kind of thing that Jogo says comes with experience. To observe your enemies and to judge their strength.

Jogo says that he’ll grow into it. That it’s innate and that it’ll come to him one day.

But Mahito thinks it hasn’t come early enough, that he can’t quite look beneath this curse’s skin just like how he can’t quite gaze through the surface of a murky lake.

Its expression is neutral and blank. Unlike the expressiveness of Jogo and Hanami’s intentful words or Dagon’s animated body.

It’s like a smooth surface of a rock, the soul ones. The ones that’s dark and murky and Mahito has grown so used to looking at he forgets to consider that he can’t see through it and know what it’s hiding other than ‘soul stuff.’

It’s the second time in a short while that Mahito felt the gap between a grown curse and a newborn.

The first was with Sukuna, when he stared down at Mahito from his lofty throne and lifted a mere finger to critically injure him.

But that felt different. Sukuna looked at Mahito as though he were an annoyance or a mild inconvenience.

This thing?

It looks at him and it seems to want to dig under his skin and take him apart, piece by piece.

While Sukuna attacked him out of annoyance and anger, this thing feels like it’d attack him without a reason or cause. Without a single fluctuation in its expression. As though it were normal, to take out one’s kind without nary a thought.

“You’re a curse,” Mahito remarks. “And you’re encroaching on my territory.” It is to say- so what’s your reason for picking a fight?

The curse stares at him for a moment before nodding.

“I am,” it says simply. As though a challenge. But it does nothing more than to stare at him. No movement to attack or to leave, as though waiting for him to say something or not.

He glances back at it, with its white hair and odd clothes and he looks at it- really looks at it and he-

“You’re the curse that Hanami faced.” Mahito realized at last. It is a bit of a slow realization. But he can blame it on his attention being diverted on the curse and its, to put it lightly, odd soul.

The curse quirks a brow, it is a motion that is human.

Again, unsettling because it seems so mundane. It makes Mahito itch to find out just what this curse is hiding- what terrible thing its soul has shaped. What lurks beneath the surface of a polished rock- Mahito wants to know and he wants to grab ahold of its soul just to feel what it’s like to grab onto the undefinable.

But, in equal parts, he wants to divert his eyes and retch away from the thing that is supposed to be a soul but all wrong because it defied the laws of nature and came out all the more terrible for it. A coiling mass that doesn’t quite know what to do with itself or how to get back into its original neat form and is all the worse for it.

The curse should, probably, be raving mad. Or insane from how its soul is shaped. Because souls are not meant to be that way. It’s meant to be shaped and defined.

But it’s not. And that’s wrong.

“You’re one of us,” Mahito says. Even if a part of him really, really doubts it.

But there’s really no doubt that they’re both curses. Even if one is undeniably wrong.

The curse shrugs, as if it couldn’t care less.

“You’re a curse,” Mahito says. There’s a question lurking on his tongue. So why did you attack Hanami? How did you die once and twice and thrice and get to live? Why are you human shaped like me? Why are you so mundane? What twisted thing are you hiding?

What lurks beneath that mundane exterior of yours?

“But you aren’t right.”

It’s not a question, it’s just a statement of fact.

Mahito waits for its reaction. Waits to see whether it would deny his claim and make things right again- say something that would make its existence right- a nigh impossible task but he wishes all the same.

Instead, the curses merely smile. It is the same bitter thing.

“Yeah,” it says, as though it were natural. “I know.”

It’s self aware of its own wrongness. It knows precisely what is wrong with it and that’s wrong.

It feels wrong, somehow. To have a curse with a soul that defies nature and yet somehow is so normal and mundane. That knows that it is wrong and yet does not a thing to showcase the monster lurking beneath the depths.

Mahito hadn’t heard about this curse nor that it caused any incidents.

And that feels wrong, too, somehow. It feels like the curse should be out there causing havoc on humanity and becoming a name to fear. But it’s not. It’s just here and there and barely a whisper in the wind, even when they tried to look for it to recruit it.

They were all waiting with bated breath for the new special grade curse and what disaster it’ll cause after the stunt at Jujutsu Tech. But then nothing. It vanished into the air with not a mention of it anywhere. As though it never existed at all.

Mahito even suspected that it was exorcised by Gojo Satoru for its actions and appearance. It would’ve been a tragic loss. But nothing that they couldn’t get past.

Mahito would’ve really preferred that option, now. Instead of whatever it was.

Whatever machinations it had- it’s kept it discreet and it’s hidden it. Until now. So there must be a reason why it came to him now.

And if it didn’t attack him yet, then maybe-

“Are you looking to join us?” Mahito hedges. Trying to read its expression but coming up with nothing at it simply stares at him with a blank face. So neutral that Mahito had seen mirrors that were more animated.

“Join you?” the curse intones slowly. Its voice is a scratchy thing. It's right but also wrong because it’s so human.

It’s like Mahito, a curse formed from human malice and fears of each other, probably. But it’s wrong in that it’s nothing like him at all. It’s nothing like how Jogo and Hanami and Dagon can sort of relate to each other because they’re curses of humanity’s fears of nature.

This curse is supposed to be like him, but it’s all wrong because it looks like him and it sounds like him and it’s even more human than him but its soul is all wrong.

“Join us curses,” Mahito says. “In righting the world.”

Finally, there is a drop of water on the tranquil surface- a crack along the marbled stone. The curse’s expression takes on an odd note. It is barely perceptible but something about Mahito words seems to resonate as it finally shows something.

It makes Mahito think he’s on the right track.

“Fix this world?” it says, there is something belaying its word like a second skin. Something odd and human and-

“We curses are superior,” Mahito forges on. He doesn’t quite have Jogo’s confidence or conviction but it is something that will come with time, or so they say. “And yet humans- so flawed and yet so numerous- they reign over us and get to live above ground.”

Their souls are the same. So what if curses are aggressive towards humans? They were created by them- so it’s only right, isn’t it?

Its gaze is intentful.

“Hanami, that curse,” it drawls at last. “It’s the plant one, right?”

Mahito nods, wondering what exactly it was that clued the curse in.

“It’s the one that escaped, right? After attacking Itadori Yuuji and his friend.”

Itadori Yuuji, Mahito rolls the name over his tongue and onto his mind and some twisted feeling comes to rise atop

“Sukuna’s vessel,” Mahito says. The words are a wistful, yearning thing. Wanting to grab and ruin and I’ll make you pay back what you did to me-

The curse stares at him more, there is something in its expression as well. Not quite like Mahito’s, no, but it is something.

Again, Mahito isn’t the best at reading expressions. It is something that will come with time, as he grows from a newborn into a real curse.

That day can’t come soon enough, he thinks, and wishes he can grow faster. Become bigger, better, stronger- to pry apart the smooth, marbled surface of an apathetic stone and find out what lurks beneath. To know what expression the curse is making in front of him now just like how the curse can tell what expression he is making.

Whatever expression it is, it morphs soon enough into something more decipherable.

That is- if its soul wasn’t clear for Mahito to see. If the writhing, mass didn’t go from whatever disorganized mess it was before to a screeching, screaming-

“I don’t think there’s anything else to discuss,” the curse says.

Mahito blinks, unsure of what the curse means.

But in between that one moment and the next, the curse moves and-

Mahito dodges aside, a sharp weapon hangs in the air, held up by the curse’s hand right where Mahito’s heart would’ve been.

“You don’t want to kill Itadori Yuuji,” the curse says. “You want to use him.”

It sounds calm, but its soul was anything but.

Like a prisoner against its chains, the thing shrieks and roars and it ebbs away from the husk that holds it back.

From the core- Mahito can see something-

“Using vessels to fix the world,” the curse says, something odd in its voice, almost like laughter. “You should learn a thing or two from history.”

It moves again and sharp vines grasp at Mahito’s legs.

“Don’t.”

The fight is brutal, that is what Mahito will summarize it as.

It’s a match between a newborn and a full fledged curse.

It’s a match between a newborn and a curse who seems to go all out and yet will not use its domain.

It’s a match wherein Mahito reaches for the curse’s soul only to be met with air. Grasping at nothing but what he thought was a body, his mind racing as the curse stabs something jagged and pointed through his chest.

The curse stares down at him with red, red eyes. Standing atop the waters, ripples forming under it. As though it weren’t intangible just mere moments ago.

It’s not wounded in the slightest, it’s soul a screeching, haunting thing despite its placid demeanor.

It seems to want to end the fight quickly.

Even so- it seems to toy with Mahito at the same time. As though Mahito wasn’t worth the effort to expand its domain. As though it can take out Mahito, another special grade, with nothing but its own powers, domain withstanding.

It’s incredibly insulting- it’s incredibly arrogant- it’s incredibly like Sukuna.

It’s like how Sukuna sat on his throne and stared down at Mahito with his disdainful eyes and drew two fingers across time and space and-

It stares down at Mahito, now, with red, red, red eyes. Spinning and spinning and its expression is a thing of humor, although Mahito doesn’t know what or why it smiles like that.

Mahito feels mocked. He feels like he is standing in front of Sukuna once more. Sukuna who will not put Mahito in his eyes and who can crush Mahito as easily as he can an ant.

Sukuna-

The curse stares down at him, its eyes red, red, red-

One of them won’t leave this place alive, Mahito realizes.

Unbidden, Mahito parts his lips and he-

Domain Expansion.

Mahito gazes into its eyes and-

The world warps.

Is this it? Are you finally using your domain? Are you-

There is a moment, then two before Mahito regains his bearing.

There is a bright light blinding him.

The clouds part and in front of him is a full moon.

Beneath it lies a beast.

Its sole eye is red, red, red.

It looks at him.

Its ten limbs rise up to the sky.

Its mouth stretches open, numerous teeth lined its mouth.

It roars.

The moon is bathed in red.

Chapter Text

The roar from the beast vertebrates along Mahito’s body, sending dust afloat and making the mountains crumble.

The world is remade in red. The bright light from before has dimmed, now all that remains is the beast’s red, red eyes and a world in scarlet. The moon appears as though it has been dyed in the colors of blood. Staying lofty above him and the thing within the cloudless skies. The light scattered from the moon makes the world hazy and almost ethereal.

It is a bloody moon.

It is a desolate world.

Within this world, there lies a monster.

It’s a curse, yes, but it’s much more than that. It feels like more.

It has the strength of the special grade, but none of their sanity- their intelligence.

Instead, it is warped. Twisted, Mahito would say. Its soul is the same as the curse from before. A mess of scattered fragments of a has-been and fractured soul.

It roars and the world holds its breath. It roars and the clouds part for it, and only it.

It roars and there are cracks forming in the moon. There seems to be something within it.

Mahito does not know what it is, the thing that stands before him. With one sole eye and a body that eclipses the biggest of mountains.

It is not like Sukuna, no. Because Mahito at least knows Sukuna. At least knows that Sukuna is a curse, like him.

But this time? Mahito hadn’t the faintest clue.

It looks like a curse. But it doesn’t feel like one.

It feels like more.

It reaches its body up, up, up. Towering higher and higher still before it covers the moon entirely. Its eye still trained on him, red, red, red. Swirling with something else within. Just like that curse.

Is this it? Mahito wonders. Is this your true form?

The mortal facade is nothing but just that, a facade.

This, whatever beast this is, must be the real form.

Is this it? Is this the grand secret? The grand and terrible truth?

The beast rises to full height, covering the moon with its back as it roars again and reaches towards Mahito in a blinding display of speed.

It is just a moment.

Then no more.

There is a stinging pain-

The beast roars. The moon cracks. There lies a thing within it, wrapped around by the moon’s shards like a cocoon. The world collapses. The red dissipates.

Before Mahito is the sewers once more.

The curse stares down at him, human and fake and not human-

“What did you see?” it asks, its voice finally a something. It’s asked quickly- rushed, the curse almost seeming to crouch down as though wanting to shake the answers out of Mahito.

Mahito wants to laugh at the way it’s playing with him-

No doubt it must know, it was its domain, after all- its soul-

“You,” Mahito says, there is something wet lining the back of his throat as he stares into two full eyes. Now black with not a hint of red. But oh, Mahito knows now- what thing lurks behind it- the red, red, red- “You’ve been holding out on this world.”

His voice is weak. He’s wounded- he’s not about to make it out alive, he thinks.

That’s what happens when you go against a thing as a newborn curse.

The curse looks at him, its expression no longer a marbled thing of stone. But rather something infinitely human. He doesn’t know why it makes that expression- but-

It’s a thing of fear.

It takes a step back, and then two- bringing a hand to its abdomen as though it was the one wounded. Its face turning pale as it looks at him and looks down at its hands and it asks again-

“What did you see?” it asks again. Its voice could be mistaken for neutral if Mahito cannot see the way its face scrunches up just the tiniest bit. In what could be categorized as almost urgent.

Who is the one about to die here? Mahito wonders, it is a funny thought, almost.

“I saw you,” Mahito answers. His world shaking and twisting on its hinges. Mahito almost wants to look up and look at the sky. Wonder if the moon is still bathed in red and remaking the world into a scarlet one.

He thinks he’d like to, before he dies or whatnot.

Maybe he’ll be remade again as another ‘him’, once humanity’s hatred for each other condenses again. He wonders who he’ll be, the next time around. Whether he’ll take on the same form or a new one. Whether his voice will sound the same, or whether his hair will be the same shade. He wonders if he’ll look at the moon and remember red or not at all.

He wonders if his soul will change.

The curse is taking an awfully long time, Mahito thinks before looking back at the curse.

Or, the place where the curse was.

Instead- now, there is nothing that remains except the slightest of ripples.

Mahito thinks he’s confused.

He wonders why he’s been given the right to live.

It is his last thought before he collapses.

There are not a lot of things Obito fears.

Fear is natural for people, but not very good for shinobi. It’s not something useful outside of ‘fight or flight’ and even then, it’s not useful when you want to make a last stand. To do so, you must discard your fear of dying. To embrace the fact that you either live or die and that you don’t mind dying now if it means you’ve got a shot at living.

To do so, means to strangle fear in its cradle and let yourself be remade with nothing but the acceptance that you’ll either remake the world or die trying and there is no going back now.

Fear was natural to Uchiha Obito, the boy.

Uchiha Obito, the man, is different.

He has long strangled his fear to accept the fact that he’ll become the savior of the world.

Yet, here Obito is now, feeling the same juvenile emotions running through his veins and making him feel chill like the first time in decades. Making him draw a hand around his stomach and wanting to grasp at the thing within to strangle it alive.

He had felt it during the fight. When that curse had opened his mouth and-

Obito didn’t know what happened between one moment to the next. But during that infinitesimally small moment, he had felt it. He had felt it as the curse collapsed to his knees and looked up at Obito with something like wonder in his eyes.

There are not a lot of things Obito fears.

But one of the things he does-

Obito feels its chakra twisting and winding and shrieking to be let loose. It is a familiar sound to hear, but that doesn’t mean that it’s comforting. In fact, it's the opposite. It reminds Obito of a terrible, terrible day wherein he had touched upon the surface of the moon and let it shatter. Wherein he had stood above the clouds and atop the skies. Wherein his skin became alien and his chakra became that of a monster’s.

One of the things Obito fears is the Juubi. In all its terrible, grand glory.

It had been drawn out of him, after. And he had died, or something like that, when the statue was drawn out as well.

But then he lived as Naruto willed it.

And then he had died again, surely to never see the thing again whether they lost the war or not.

He is wrong.

The thing is with him now.

Brought to the future or to wherever the hell he ended up in because of course it would.

The beast roars from within him and its roars burns.

It roars and roars and roars and it wants out.

It seems as though it had been sleeping and something awoken it and now it wants the world to burn.

Obito cannot let it.

He thinks he wants to laugh.

All this time, he has searched for a link to his past. And it turns out all he needed to do was look within himself.

All this time he had prayed for both a confirmation or denial.

He should’ve known that the world only knew how to grant his wishes but make it go so wrong.

He wouldn’t be an Uchiha if it didn’t.

Obito is in another time or place and yet he’s still a danger to the world.

He reaches up to his hair, white and unnatural and he laughs.

He doesn’t know why it has been silent until now. He doesn’t know why it hadn’t roared before. Whether it was asleep or not, whether it was him or the curse that awoken the Juubi with whatever it did-

Obito really doesn’t know. And what happened to reawaken the Juubi doesn't matter so much now when the thing has been done. When the Juubi has awakened, does it matter how it has done so? Him knowing what woke it up won’t change the number on the cards. The dice has been casted and it has landed on ten. There is no reversing the dice, no putting it back into the hands that casted it.

Obito doesn’t know what to do.

What can he even do? There is no way to kill the Juubi properly, nor is he competent enough to seal the beast in the moon or something of the like.

Obito is stuck in another time, another place with a world destroying monster stuck alongside him.

It is a regular day. There is really nothing to set it apart other than another phone call to Yuta and another job to take care of. It is another curse, another exorcism, there is nothing to be said about it.

It is, all things considered, a regular day. A good day by Satoru’s standards, if not a bit boring.

But when you are a god amongst men- what is not boring now and then?

It is a normal day. It is a fine day.

And then it all shatters into fine, little pieces of glass.

One moment Satoru is strolling the streets, phone in hand and ready to annoy one of his students, or maybe Nanami or maybe one of his other colleagues.

The next moment, there is a screech of nails on a chalkboard. One moment things were normal- the next-

Something comes to a screeching halt, that something is Satoru’s fine mood.

In his ears he can hear a high pitched buzz, like a twisted, tormentented roar. A thing that makes Satoru grimace. It is a high pitched thing, garbled in all the wrong ways. Mouth forming words that don't exist and shouldn’t- a roar- a declaration of something before it shutters to a finish, a crooning edge to the noise now as though it were beckoning. Waiting.

Then it was gone, abrupt just as its entrance.

Special grade, Satoru thinks. At least that.

Its cursed energy feels familiar. And yet, Satoru is sure he hadn’t heard such a haunting cry before. He’s sure of it.

You don’t forget a sound like that for a lifetime and then some. You just don’t. It's the kind of thing you hear once and take to your grave because it scratched itself into your mind and made its home there forever.

Satoru glances in the direction of its cry. His gaze catches below ground. Down, down, down-

Its cursed energy is familiar.

Not many are familiar to Satoru- not many get to live to be familiar.

But this?

Oh, this is personal.

Satoru presses his fingers against his blindfold. He thinks he wants to laugh.

Oh, great ancestor, Satoru thinks, almost mockingly. Just what have you left for me?

His eyes do not offer an answer. The person has long departed from this world. But if there was a way to commune with the dead, Satoru thinks he’d like it.

Well, first he’d like to talk to a certain someone else.

But second, he’d definitely want a piece of whatever his ancestor was thinking. What madness must it be to know what danger they must throw the world into all for one man to live? To take a look at Uchiha Obito dying and decide that thousands- if not hundreds of thousands- could die so that one Uchiha Obito could live. What madness lies there? What exactly laid in that person's head?

Satoru thinks he wants to know and doesn't at the same time. It is the kind of knowledge that's long forgotten for a reason. That's been buried in its grave and is calling out a siren's song for anyone mad enough to listen. It is a song meant for one man's ears- his. Because he's Gojo Satoru, god in human form, and he's the only one that can possibly find out what must've gone through that no-good Gojo's head the moment the blade drops and Uchiha Obito is facing death.

That roar is not human.

Uchiha Obito, whatever he’s shaping up to be- it’s not human.

It’s monstrous and it’s terrible and it’s everything taboo.

Satoru imagines, an eon or so ago, wherein a Gojo looked at a dying man and traded the lives of thousands for the life of one.

What happens when the strongest creates a curse?

The world is about to find out.

“What happened to Mahito?”

Hanami shrugs, helpless.

“And the curse residue, you recognize it?”

At last, Hanami nods.

“It’s that curse.”

“It surfaced,” Kenjaku observes. “And only for it to do this.”

Mahito lies before them. Kenjaku does not know what to think. But what he knows is this:

“That roar earlier, you heard it as well?”

Hanami nods.

Something troublesome has just surfaced.

Yuuji stumbles in his steps. There is a distant ringing in his ears.

Then, quiet.

Chapter Text

Mahito is in statis. It is a strange thing to see, perhaps concerning if they were all human. But it is not. Mahito is a curse and therefore they know that Mahito will live, it is just a matter of when he is stable enough to open his eyes again.

Curses are not fragile like humans. If even a scrap of them remains, if they have not been exorcised- they will live.

Curses are better than humans, Kenjaku would say. But it is not like there are going to be any objections here. The others all gathered because they believe in Kenjaku’s ideal- they believe in him to lead them to a greater world.

Jogo is still brewing with rage. It’s not concern for Mahito, not anymore now that Mahito’s body has been dragged up from the sewers and atop the fine sands of a beach.

Even though Jogo doesn’t say as much, there’s a fire brewing at the top of his head and steam coming out atop of it. He’s enraged though he doesn’t say a thing to break the tense atmosphere, perhaps he’d think it’d make him weak. To care and whatnot.

It’s awfully human, Kenjaku would say. But then Jogo would no doubt go for the head if Kenjaku were to do so. Not that he’d succeed. But again, it’d be a shame to lose a special grade on the board after planning for so long.

But with Sukuna in his hand, a special grade like Jogo isn’t necessary.

It’s not like he’ll say that, though. Somethings are best kept close to the heart.

Jogo is certainly tense enough to try to get himself killed if Kenjaku even says a word, though. Body on a hair’s trigger the moment that he saw Mahito’s mangled body through that door. The air is tense and no one is keen to break it.

The tension is even thicker now that they’ve heard the challenging roar from the curse that seemingly did this. A resounding sound that strikes within their body and digs up from beneath Kenjaku’s human skin. Making him feel as though tiny bugs were crawling within him. It’s that kind of roar. The kind that’s part challenging, part beckoning, part threatening.

He doesn’t feel fear, not really, he’s beyond that by now. Having gone face to face with newborns and watching the greats rise and fall tend to do that. One tends to stop fearing things after watching legends and myths fall while you continue to live. Rather, It’s more like an age-old instinct acting up even in a mortal coil.

Now, that, that is somewhat interesting, Kenjaku must admit.

The idea of his curse instincts, long having been tamed and docile, acting up once more is an interesting thing that hasn’t happened in a long, long while and it makes Kenjaku want to dig out his own insides to see what’s ticking there now. But, ah, he- or at least the ‘him’ now- would die if he were to dig inside his body.

Not die, probably, but it’d be pointless.

And besides, it’s not like he can purview his own instincts from digging into his innards. That’d be quite silly, Kenjaku thinks.

It’s been a long, long time since Kenjaku has heard his instincts rear its head and tell him, fight or flight, what will it be?

It’s the kind of roar that makes you brace for impact. Something like that. That makes you look up to the sky and see what curse spirits are in a mood for a fight today and what mountains or palaces they’ll destroy on their whims. It’s a thing that’s long been buried, it’s sort of like humans and their silly little customs that come and go.

For a split second, after hearing that roar. Kenjaku braced for impact. Awaiting a natural disaster or two. A brief hint of something running through his veins that just makes him want to go- Oh? What’s this? and gaze at the strange, new thing that ran through Japan and left it in shambles.

But then, just as abruptly as it had resounded, the caller vanished.

It’s quite an abrupt thing, that, and it makes Kenjaku scratch his chin and bit and come up with nothing.

The curse that Hanami saw is no doubt human in shape. So it must be human born. Fear or hatred of each other or whatnot.

And yet, that roar is beastly. It is anything but human. It’s anything but withdrawn. It called out to the world and it dared for anyone to come for it- dared them to go for it and be eaten up into messy little pieces.

It’s not the fear of humans towards each other, but rather the fear of something much, much more monstrous. Something that Kenjaku hasn’t felt since ages ago, perhaps.

He has long lost count of how many curses have come and gone, but he remembers what they were like. Their marks on the world are just like scribbles atop the sand, swept away by the tides of the new era. Kenjaku, though, is not like them, rather- he’s more like a grain of sand instead, having history etched upon him but outliving their makers.

The curses now are nothing like then. With the marching of time, the age of towering beasts and vicious ghosts have long passed. Humans no longer fear the unknown nor the archaic anymore.

There will no longer be a legend like the Kyuubi nor a monster akin to Shuten Doji.

Instead, the curses now make up for their lack of pure strength with cunning and wiles. Their inhumane skins have long been shed, rather, they’re the reflection of humanity’s fears of itself. Becoming more intelligent and more human to match their creators.

It’s just the passage of time, the passing of the ages. The handing of the torch from one generation to the next. The adaptation of curses from one form to another. To be better, stronger, greater.

The evolution of curses is rapid and unrelenting. To survive is to be strong. It doesn’t matter how strong you are if even the King of Curses can be cut up into tiny little pieces and sealed away for generations upon generations.

If even the great Sukuna can be sealed, what can you do, as an insignificant curse?

What can you, a weaker curse do except to evolve to grow with the currents?

Be better, be smarter, escape and cower with your lives. That’s how they live.

Growing ever better, ever greater to strive to catch that ever perpetual idea of ‘purpose’ in their hands.

Well, this whole ‘curse spirits are evolving’ theory is purely conjecture of course, but Kenjaku is really the most accurate source there is on conjecture between the change of curses in between eras. And it’s not like there’s anyone out there to verify him other than Tengen, who’s wasting his life being a tree, or something like that.

(Well, maybe it wasn’t really Tengen’s fault he’s a tree, but Kenjaku still thinks that perhaps he should do something better with his life, something like helping humanity evolve rather than making silly little barriers to keep them protected. But, who was Kenjaku to judge on the life choices of a man with an immortality technique whose mind has probably rotted by now.

Goodness, Kenjaku dreads the idea of his own mind rotting, it’s a good thing that he’s not like that old Tengen.

Poor Tengen, really, mind stuck rotting in a body that’s far too old. Kenjaku should really help with that.)

It’s a fascinating area of study, really, if a bit lacking in material simply because there aren’t many that live to document it.

Well, sorcerers try but by goodness, do they fail. It’s not a matter of them not being observant, because, well, they are observant when it’s their little lives on the lines. Animal instincts and whatnot.

Or maybe it was about their observations. Because sorcerers can’t quite see curses beyond themselves, really, egoistic little things they are.

They see curses and they write about anything but how they’re changing. They only write about the ever perpetual ‘present’ and they only look at that. They don’t look to the past nor future. Which is a shame, really, but no less to what Kenjaku expects of that narrow minded bunch.

But regardless, the old curses and their grandeur are gone. Now there’s curses that are growing more and more human. From shape to thought.

Kenjaku thought he was one of the last of the old guards in modern Japan. Having outlived the rest because he is better, stronger, greater.

It’s only natural. Some curses are born to rule an era, some are born to change humanity itself.

Kenjaku is born for greater things than to rule. He isn’t like the willful Kyuubi nor the arrogant Shuten Doji. He has no need for infamy nor notoriety.

Goodness, ask anyone and they’ll no doubt not know a lick about who he is. Kenjaku thinks he’s rather humble that way.

Besides, ruling is an extensive task for someone looking to change humanity. Can’t research on how to evolve little humans when you’re busy levying taxes and whatnot- well, maybe that was the human way of ruling, but Kenjaku digresses.

Humans have their silly little taxes, curses just eat sacrifices whole. It’s rather similar if you subtract the blood at the end of the day.

Besides, curses that are born to rule only rule for an era. Kenjaku? He has lived longer than any curses have ruled to say the least.

He is one of the last.

But there appears to be another.

Kenjaku would know, he hadn’t heard this one before and oh, if its roar is anything to indicate- he’d remember.

That, on top of the fact that Kenjaku can boast that he has a rather good memory, too.

One of the best, in fact.

(It’s not like there’s anybody else who can remember what fish tasted like in the Heian era, but Kenjaku certainly does.

Tengen? That silly old tree? Bah, dismiss the thought.)

So yes, this is probably a new curse by the pure virtue of Kenjaku being unable to recognize it at all.

This is an ancient curse born in the modern age. Only if its status as a newborn is true. Because, well, Kenjaku can’t quite trust any source of information outside his own being true.

Hanami and Jogo try their best, really, but they’re certainly not the smartest. Again, curses have evolved to be smarter, but they haven’t grown to that caliber yet.

Again, if the above holds true, this is an ancient curse born in the modern age.

This roar isn’t something modern curses do. It’s relentless and it’s aggravating and it’s full of an animalistic desire to take, take, take.

It’s a bit disconcerting how fast the curse changed, how it went from a modern curse to an ancient one. Kenjaku can’t quite make heads or tails of it yet, but once Mahito wakes up, there is no doubt he can have something..

But, ah, that would require Mahito to wake up.

It’s a bit ironic considering how Mahito usually yammers on about souls and ethics and philosophy from the silly humans books he scourged up without a stop (interesting topics, yes, but gets awfully stale when you’ve gotten to the tenth rant on how souls are shiny rocks and how that relates to the nature of humanity) but now when Kenjaku needs him to ramble, the chatty thing is silent.

Kenjaku wants to breathe a quiet, tired sigh or something, but it comes out a bit playful and teasing, albeit not of his own will.

It’s the habit of a long gone human. Long dead and long having been scraped out of his body, replaced by something new, something better.

It’s fascinating, really, the long beaten habits of a single body by a single human. It’s something Kenjaku is long used to.

“Did its curse residue lead anywhere?” Kenjaku asks, his voice coming out in a familiar drawl at this point. The sentence trailing off carefully as his lips quirk up, again, not of his own will.

Hanami looks distressed, shaking their head in a helpless gesture. “No.”

Kenjaku’s eyebrow raises on its own as his hand comes to rest beneath his chin in a pondering motion. “Nowhere?”

Hanami shakes their head, a bit of frustration leaking through. They’d no doubt searched far and wide and were unable to come up with a single trail for the mysterious curse that almost laid their comrade to death.

Kenjaku would say that it’s a bit human.

Kenjaku would say that, but then no doubt they’d laugh him out of the room. It’s a bit of a weakness to them, probably. Being human is never a good thing when they’re so fragile and, well, human.

Curses have a bit of empathy. Just not for humans.

It’s like you don’t look at an insect and feel sympathy when you step on them. A tiger doesn’t look at a rabbit and think, Poor you. Rather it thinks-

Why should the strong protect the weak?

Kenjaku wants to laugh, or maybe that’s not him, it’s another ‘him’, another person that once existed.

It’s not a pretty laugh. But it’s pretty handsome, he thinks. He’s pretty sure that’s what the standards of this time are and he’s rather fitting of it. Or at least, his vessel is.

‘He’ is above average in many ways, though being ‘handsome’ is probably the least advantageous of the many things that come with being ‘him.’

He’s gotten rather lucky with this one.

The same cannot be said of Mahito, though. It must be said that misfortune came to visit him instead.

Kenjaku is not the first to see Mahito waking up. He has better things to do with his life than to waste it watching someone being in statis.

But he’ll admit he was one of the first ones after.

Well, not that there are a whole lot of curses awaiting Mahito’s awakening for it to be an achievement for Kenjaku to be one of the top five.

In fact, he is the fourth to see Mahito wake up. Which isn’t quite as impressive if one suddenly realizes that there are only four awaiting Mahito’s awakening in the first place.

But regardless, they’re gathered and they’re awaiting the first words to go through Mahito’s lips.

Mahito takes one blink, then two, his eyes opening up to the eternal sunny skies within Dagon’s domain. It doesn’t take him long to adjust, if any time at all, but he seems dazed, somehow. Staring up as though he doesn’t quite know what he’s seeing.

There’s a strange glint in his eyes as Mahito sits up abruptly. It’s an abrupt motion that makes Hanami reach their hand over in concern and Jogo say a, “What’s the deal with you now?”

Mahito says nothing at all for a moment, only staring at the sun before turning his head back to them. And he asks:

“Is the moon red?”

“What?” Jogo replies swiftly. He’s always keen on doing that, rushing in without a single thought. Typical, really, of special grade curses that don’t know their place. But then again, he does have his uses.

“The moon,” Mahito repeats, as though Jogo was daft. Something that Kenjaku would largely agree with. “Is it red?”

“No, Mahito, why would you ask that?” Hanami is the one to reply this time. There is a hint of urgency in their tone as though wanting to force whatever that befell Mahito out of him.

Kenjaku has no doubts as to why Mahito asked. It’s not hard to piece together. From between Mahito being his usual soul obsessed self and him now, there’s only one thing that it could possibly be.

His encounter with that curse.

The only question now is the so-called ‘red moon.’ The moon must’ve appeared red to only Mahito, as Kenjaku is sure that if anyone were to see such a strange sight, he’d know by now.

And the world isn’t in due time for a total eclipse. Nor would that be such a sight for Mahito to cling onto, even after a near death experience.

So that leaves only a domain.

A red moon isn’t something so special in a domain. Yes, it’s perhaps aesthetically unique, but things and sceneries warp and change all the time in domains. It’s the perception of your power alongside the twisted nature of curse energy mixed into one, a red moon isn’t so much a wonder of nature as its relating to the curse at hand and what it could possibly entail.

Red moon. Perhaps humanities fears of the supernatural, but then again, that is far too vague to make heads or tails of.

Humanity fears many things about the supernatural, not as much as before, but still plenty to go around to power newborn curses relating to it.

But, ah, those that become special grade are centered on a concept of a ‘story’ rather than just a vague label of ‘ghost.’

The idea of ‘ghost’ is perhaps too vague for something powerful to manifest from it. Every take upon ‘ghost’ is different from the next and there is no real way to be a strong curse with the idea of ‘ghost’ unless there’s a face that’s put to that. Like the Kuchisake-Onna, a woman with a slitted mouth. A ‘ghost’ given a face, a name to manifest and to draw power upon because there’s no vagueness to be had there. There’s a name and there’s a face and that’s enough to get humans fearful- to get them to be the fuel to a curse that exists only due to them and their own created stories.

Again, there hasn’t been anything revolving around a ‘red moon’ recently, and if it had, Kenjaku certainly would’ve heard about it.

So Mahito, what did you see?

It’s a question Kenjaku will have to ask himself, he supposes, since no one else here seems to be catching on to anything except how utterly bizarre Mahito is acting.

It’s a bit disappointing, really, but then again Kenjaku hadn’t had any high expectations for them in the first place.

“What happened during that encounter, Mahito-kun?” Kenjaku asks genially, making his way to be at the front of the pack. To stand in front of Mahito and gaze down at him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but does its purpose just fine. “Go on, you can tell us.”

There isn’t a choice, really, Mahito either tells them now or he’ll tell Kenjaku later there is no choice.

It’s nice to give the illusion of choice, though.

Almost as though he is a runner and Kenjaku has just given him his signal to go, Mahito begins rambling.

“It looked human,” Mahito begins, there is something like a smile worming up to his lips. “But, ah, it’s not, it’s soul isn’t like ours. It’s weird and it doesn't feel like us curses do, you know. It’s not quite a shiny rock. Well, I think it was a shiny rock, at some point, but then it died and now it’s soul is all messed up. Which is quite fascinating, actually, I haven’t seen something like that before-”

There is a lot to unpack there.

But mainly-

“It died?” Kenjaku drawls slowly. Typical of Mahito to be ranting about souls and whatnot, and while usually it’d be meaningless drivel-

This time it’s not so.

Mahito seems slightly displeased at being interrupted. But like a child getting one toy yanked away only to be given another, Mahito latches onto the new topic immediately with a drive that Kenjaku can only attribute to the word ‘newborn.’

Kenjaku is far too old to be trying to draw information from the mouth of babes of all things, but he digresses.

“Thrice,” Mahito says, a smile on his lips as though he’s playing with a shiny new toy. “Thrice! Not just once, mind you- can you imagine what that does to a soul? I always thought that the stone is shattered or disappear, but no- it’s-”

Whatever words Mahito says next isn’t quite as important as the idea that the curse has died, apparently, thrice.

“And it told you this, Mahito-kun?” Kenjaku prods.

Mahito, again, looks displeased that whatever drivel he was going on is interrupted once more.

“Yes, it told me,” Mahito says, as though it were redundant. But it’s not, really, because oftentimes Kenjaku finds that Mahito mixes the facts together with his own silly theories. Meaning that Kenjaku can never be too sure when the rambling thing is speaking the truth or whether it’s lambasting Kenjaku with theories that may or may not be true- theories of which Kenjaku finds none too interesting to delve deeper upon.

Again, that means that this isn’t one of Mahito’s hypotheses but a word from a mouth of a curse Kenjaku hasn’t seen a lick of yet.

Which means- one, it could just be lies. Lying isn’t something that curses are keen to do. Afterall, who do they lie to- their soon to be dead enemies? Or the annoying insects called sorcerers?

But, still, with the advent of intelligence and cunning in place of monstrosity- it’s natural that some curses have taken upon lying.

Though what this curse has to gain or lose by lying is still a mystery. But, again, a possibility.

But two, it could also be speaking the truth.

The fact that its soul is ‘different’ somehow in Mahito’s eyes lends credence to this. Because for all his pointless diatribes, Mahito at least knows what he’s talking about when it comes to souls.

Now, that is far more troublesome.

But that brings to the question of- how?

There is only one way to live past once.

That is by dying as a sorcerer and being brought back because you haven’t died right.

But then after that, after being exorcised you ‘die’ again, and for real this time.

There is no coming back after that.

And even then, it’s your second death. Not your third.

“It’s a fake human curse, you know. It’s too human, but-” Mahito begins to say again. After another pointless ramble or so on ‘its soul is different and perhaps that’s how it's relating to death and-’. “In its domain I saw its real form.”

It sounds more like a boast than it should’ve. All considering that Mahito almost died from said domain.

“It’s big enough to cover the moon,” Mahito says, something like wonder in his voice. And oh dear, do they have a case of hero worship on their hands? “And when it roars-”

Mahito stretches his hands up as though reaching up for that aforementioned moon.

“The world shatters.”

A ‘human form’ and a ‘real form.’

Dying thrice.

An ancient curse born in modern time.

Ah, but what if it were not born in modern times at all?

It died thrice, didn’t it?

Once as a sorcerer. The ‘human.’

Twice as a curse. The ‘real form.’

Then what is ‘thrice?’

Thrice.

Ah. There is only one way for a ‘thrice.’

Thrice is to die like Sukuna.

Torn up into tiny little pieces and tossed out around all of Japan.

Thrice-

Thrice is to be sealed.

And there is only one curse that has been sealed in all of jujutsu history.

Ryoumen Sukuna.

So who was this one, then?

If it was not lying then-

Is there a history beyond that which Kenjaku knows?

There is a moment, then two. A terrible moment in which the world lurches beneath Kenjaku’s feet and he hears a man laughing distantly in his ears, bearing his voice- a mocking, haunting laugh-

Impossible.

It must be lying.

“Mahito-kun, what does this curse look like?”

Kenjaku cannot be wrong.

Chapter Text

The room is dusty and old. There are candles strewn about, seemingly at random before you tilt your head slightly and realize that, actually, there was a pattern and it’s for warding off ghosts and demons and whatever else.

It probably was useful, Satoru must note. About a century ago or so when there were actually special grade curses that were ghosts and demons born from folklore.

But now? Not so much.

The candles are just placed there now for decorum and appearance’s sake. There is a certain mystique to the lighting, Satoru thinks. But it’s dampened heavily when you realize that there’s nothing of substance to it and just a bunch of old men wanting to keep up appearances.

Satoru must admit that even he, as a child, went ‘oh, shiny’ when encountering the mysterious candles. But it’s less so the fact that they were any sort of wonder but rather Satoru’s natural affinity for wanting to poke and prod at things he shouldn’t.

The elders’ smug expressions died pretty fast when Satoru, eight and going on nine, admitted that he wanted to extinguish all of the candles just to see what would happen rather than expressing any sort of awe for said candle arrangement.

But, really, what were they expecting from a child? Satoru was eight, candle arrangement be damned- Satoru didn’t even know how to appreciate fine cuisine, let alone candles of all things.

Satoru still dislikes the candles, it clogs up his nose and makes him want to blast a hole through the wall just to get some proper ventilation. The elders certainly don't seem to notice nor care for the cloying air. It’s probably all pretense, knowing them. Or they think that the smell is austerity or something grand like that when it’s just smoke and more smoke.

It’s a terrible fire hazard, probably, but since when did the elders care for petty things like that?

They care for other, much pettier, things.

Not today, though, surprisingly enough. Or- well, unsurprising given what has just happened within the week.

Though the elders aren’t as attuned as Satoru when it comes to curse energy, because, well, he’s Gojo Satoru, they can certainly tell that something’s up judging by the new slew of curses popping up and their concerningly abnormal behaviors.

Satoru has given Nanami three guesses as to what’s what and Nanami got it within one. Nanami is a bit of a lame guy, you see, no suspense there with that man. Only the straight answer would suffice, he’s a bit of a no-nonsense kind of man. Refusing to indulge in Satoru and his pop-up quiz show of one audience member and one participant, both of whom being Nanami himself.

(Nanami is the kind of man that would get a surprise interview on the streets and when asked for his answer would just say ‘no comment’ and leave.

He’s that kind of man. The kind of man that meshes terribly against men like Satoru.

Too bad he’s stuck with him, though.

It’s a no refunds kind of deal, for probably forever. Or until the day Nanami keels over due to some lethal reason, Satoru doesn’t have foresight but what he knows is that there is no chance that Nanami is outliving him.

It’s just sort of a fact, really. Nanami is from a non-sorcerer family, Satoru is from the Gojo clan and the winner of life’s lottery for the next few hundred years or so until the next Gojo brat comes along. There is no question that Satoru will outlive Nanami, it’s just a question of ‘when’ and ‘how’ and when it comes to their profession Satoru can only hope the ‘how’ will be quick and painless.)

The point is, the elders have started to realize that something’s up recently. Which, to their credit, is true this time and not one of their dithering paranoia speaking. Because something is up, but it’s not like Satoru is going to confirm a goddamn thing for them.

Satoru is sitting in the Chamber of Terrible Boredom and Mind Games with Old Men and he has to answer for something that his ancestor did.

Well, not answer for it because even the elders themselves don’t know what’s happening. So it’s not like they’re going to question him on it.

(Hah, maybe they’d know if only their ancestors didn’t erase it all. But it’s not like Satoru can say that his own clan is any better when there’s not a lick of records to be had within the Gojo library either.

It’s kind of amazing, really, how easily information can be wiped away and how a person can go from friend of a clan head to nothing in mere moments simply because the world has decided that said person is a stain on them and their legacy.

It’s cruel.

But jujutsu society has always been like so.

It doesn’t make it any less wrong.)

“The curses are acting up,” one elder says. No shit, Satoru thinks dryly. It takes a truly daft sorcerer to not notice that.

“There must’ve been something that happened,” another says. And again, no shit.

“This cannot continue.” Satoru wants to roll his eyes, but he does not do so because there really is no point to rolling one’s eyes behind a blindfold wherein no one can see it.

The meeting is just the elders throwing their weight around by speaking things that are obvious to all those within said room.

It’s them just throwing words around and making themselves feel important because it’s their voice that’s speaking in this room that is beholden to history.

Perhaps they, themselves, wanted to be the one of many that get their name etched down for generations beyond to see.

Hah, the thought almost makes Satoru want to laugh.

It won’t be the fun kind of laugh, no. But something dripping with malice. It’s like the kind of malice that’s targeted at not just one person but perhaps all of those whose hand was entrenched in that terrible tragedy.

Doesn’t everyone want to be remembered in history? Having their names be etched down and having it recited by everyone?

But not everyone gets the right.

Most get forgotten entirely except for their name in the footnote of history.

Some even get swept away by the currents itself. Their names not even a footnote. Their names erased from history itself because it’s been deemed a stain on so-and-so’s legacy.

Your legacy is not something you can decide. It’s awfully ironic, in some ways.

“Surely you must've noticed something, Gojo-sama.”

And here they go.

Satoru’s been pushed up to the batting cages and the referee has blown his whistle. The meeting has started and it’s for real this time.

Satoru really, really must emphasize that he’d rather them tell him upfront about what they want instead of playing theatrics and pointing fingers at each other before all those fingers shift to point at Satoru.

Satoru does not give as much of a damn about propriety. But oh, they certainly do. And every meeting is a fight to see who backs down first. Whether it’ll be Satoru undercutting one of them or tossing barely veiled insults that they all know only he can get away with.

“That’s what curses do, Gramps,” Satoru drawls. “They act abnormally. I mean, weren’t they like that in your day, too? Or are you going senile?”

This is an example of the latter. It’s a barely veiled sarcastic thing that comes with Satoru realizing that he doesn’t care to play word games with the elders and he has less time than they do to pick up on it. So instead, he’ll opt to do the exact opposite and bulldoze his way through any conversation with them.

It’s rather effective, he must say.

One elder makes a sound of indignation. Most others? They’re used to his antics by now, a shame.

“They’re not just their regular selves.” They’re frowning behind that blank screen of theirs. It’d be hard for many others to notice but Satoru can’t stop himself from doing so, nor does he want to. “They’re starting to be needlessly aggressive.”

Satoru might have an inkling as to why. But he’s not going to say that.

“A sorcerer normally can step into a cursed area without being swamped by them,” Elder B points out. “But now they’re attacked even if they cross a threshold.”

There is a murmur that runs across the room. Even Satoru has been pounced on once or twice (unsuccessfully, of course) by lesser, weaker curses when he encroached upon their area.

They normally don’t have the nerve.

But something has driven them rabid.

Making their beady eyes swell and making them bare their teeths or their claws or whatever have you as they stand up to a god as an insect.

With a torrent of something lurking beneath their bravado and bristled fur.

If Satoru could compare it to something, it’d be like a cornered animal lashing out.

“Gojo-sama?”

Satoru knows they’d rather not call him that.

It’s a title of respect that he doesn’t deserve, to them. But they must, because it’s tradition. Because it’s what you’re supposed to do.

“Maybe it’s mating season or something,” Satoru jokes blandly. Checking his nails for purposeful aggravation.

There is a moment and two and Satoru is already counting down to zero and ah-

“Gojo Satoru,” one elder hisses. From the Kamo clan, of course. “This is a serious matter.”

Satoru, again, shrugs.

“It’s serious, sure, but does anyone have any idea as to what’s behind it?” No responses there. Of course. The thing that’s behind it has long been erased from history by the hands of their like. It’s almost ironic. “So what am I supposed to do, then? Exorcise all the curses in Japan? Do something about the thing that’s happening that no one has a clue as to why?”

A moment and two and Satoru has long known the timing of when to let things sit before stirring.

“Good grief, I’m starting to think you’ve raised your expectations too high there, elders,” Satoru says, saccharine. “First, you want me to be a good sorcerer and now a detective, too?”

The candles flicker and sway. The room is cloying with the smell, Satoru is sure.

Satoru wishes that they could’ve chosen scented candles, but alas.

“You’d find that I’m a good detective when I want to be,” Satoru acknowledges. “But do you want me to be?”

It’s almost a challenge.

Because Satoru is a good detective, just like he is good at many other things.

But oh, the things that he finds-

They won’t like it.

A conspiracy buried under decades and years has come knocking upon their door. The red tape has been torn apart. Something has dug out of its shallow grave and its rotting coffin has been left open and now the world will have to face what it means for a god amongst men to create a curse.

All that’s left is to let the walking corpse speak.

“You’re getting a bit out of line, Gojo Satoru,” the same Kamo says. “In fact, we were suspecting it due to Sukuna and his influence. Isn’t it odd how they only act up now, when that boy has started to consume those fingers?”

Like a train riding on a thread of hair- it snaps.

The ‘it’ being Satoru’s patience.

“You think that, what, less than five fingers is enough to affect all of Japan?” Satoru smiles, it’s not pretty. “You’re either overestimating Sukuna or underestimating the curses. So what is it, Gramps, has it been too long since you’ve been out in the field? Do you need a refresher course?”

The Kamo elder has no doubt been someone at one point in time. Hell, maybe they were even good. But now? They’re just another one of those blubbering elders that does more speaking than saving.

“But fine, I’ll indulge and I’ll play detective,” Satoru says mildly. “Maybe my first case will be finding that woman- you know, the mother of your clan’s heir. That’d be sweet, wouldn’t it. Mother and child reunion for the Kamo clan.”

If there’s one thing Satoru can always count on, is that there’s always dirt beneath the elders and their pompous figures. There’s nothing too deep to be dug up, not if you’re Gojo Satoru with the entire Gojo clan’s resources beneath your fingertips and a network of obedient sorcerers to listen to you to most things short of treason.

“You-”

They both know the sensitive matter of Kamo Noritoshi and his mother. The woman who left for him to become heir of the Kamo clan because his father’s proper wife could not bear a child with the technique.

It’s a shameful thing.

But what would be more shameful would be to have a clan heir with no technique at all, is what they must’ve thought.

And so it is. Whether it is that Kamo Noritoshi is truly lucky or unlucky is a matter left up for debate. To be born with power, and yet to be taken apart from one’s mother.

Your mother, or power. There is no doubt what a child would’ve chosen. But to these elders? These cynical men?

It’s power.

It’s power over the mother and the child.

It’s just another thing that’s swept under the rug and not meant to be said in polite conversations because that’s just what it is. It’s not the most vile of things for them, just distasteful, is all.

It’s a true testament to the state of the jujutsu world.

The edges of prestige are long gone. The once grandeur of the elders that once sat in this room has been replaced. From the candles, to the screens, to the placement of it all.

It is from another time. It is another era’s prosperity and grandeur. It is their glory and achievements. The men here know of the history but they have not lived it. They did not create these arrangements, they know the meaning of it all, perhaps, but they do not know truly.

It is a relic of another time, another era.

It’s time for it to end.

You can’t keep doing the same things over and over and over again.

It’s clear to Satoru that the curses are growing.

For them? Growth is power. It’s to change with the times and match the humans that create them. To change is to be better.

The beasts that once roamed Japan eras ago are gone.

Now?

The curses are more human than ever. They’re changing and they’re becoming more powerful and powerful and-

The fire has been lit.

Curses grow.

So, too, must sorcerers.

For curses, growth is power.

For sorcerers?

Tradition is power.

If you pit these two ideals against each other, Satoru knows which would win and it’s not the outcome that anyone would want.

The past is over. It’s gone and it’s in ashes.

To cling to the past. To want for it-

It is to be like that no-good Gojo. It’s to cling onto a dead man and their shared past and doom the world in the process.

It is but an extreme example. But it is one that is relevant because that no-good Gojo’s mistakes have caught up to them all.

A dead man is alive once more by the strongest’s wishes.

Uchiha Obito is a curse, but he offers a chance for something, not just for Yuuji. He’s not just an information source for vessels and the like, not anymore. Satoru realizes that he’s meant for more things, that he can use Uchiha Obito in this long stalemated game between him and the elders.

Uchiha Obito is, perhaps, the winning piece that Satoru needs.

Uchiha Obito’s story is a tragedy. A forgotten one. But buried with it is more than just Uchiha Obito’s. It’s the rest of the clans and their own hands in burying the lead. It’s a ticking bomb in essence. It’s a bomb waiting for a trigger to blow it up in all their faces. It’s a scandal that no doubt will shake the jujutsu world as a whole.

Satoru has no doubt of what he’s doing.

He’ll be placing the Gojo name under heavy scrutiny when it’s uncovered. When it’s discovered that it was a Gojo who created the curse.

But, ah, he’s indispensable and so is the Gojo clan. With their Six Eyes and Limitless, sure, it'll be a hit to their reputation, but beyond that?

They're untouchable.

But the others?

They aren’t so lucky. Well, maybe the Zen'in and the Kamo will be left standing, but surely, they've had a hand in it, too. After all, they're the great three clans. In glory and in suffering, the three of them, together.

But most of these elders aren't untouchable like the great three are.

Uchiha Obito is a chance to destroy this stifling tradition.

Uchiha Obito is the ticking time bomb that’s been left for too long. That’s now ready to blow up in their faces and Satoru will be the one to light the fuse.

Once they’ve resolved his curse, once everything has been uncovered-

It’ll be a scandal that will rock the jujutsu world.

Because, well, if they could bury one thing- if they could bury a whole generation’s worth of history.

What’s to say they haven’t buried more?

Satoru will need a walking corpse to speak.

And he knows just the thing- or, ah, person- to use.

Well, back to business.

“Is the meeting over yet?”

There really is nothing more to be said, Satoru thinks.

“Well, I’ll dismiss myself in that case.” Satoru purposefully makes his footsteps as loud as possible. “I’ve got some detective work to do, after all.”

He’s not lying this time.

Oh, and, a wayward student to pick up.

The air is familiar.

It’s probably a bit silly to think about that, Yuta thinks. Call it sentimental of him.

But the air of Japan is familiar and it makes him relax just a smidgen.

The hustle and bustle of the airport, though, is anything but.

“Yuta-kun!” Gojo Satoru calls him over. Calling out Yuta’s name from over the muttering of countless others at the busy airport. His teacher’s lanky frame and white hair making him amazingly easy to spot amongst the crowd.

Though, it certainly helps that there is a strange circle around the man. Whether it is due to the fact that he’s using his infinity for meaningless reasons again or whether no one wants to stand five feet near the blindfolded weird man is up to anyone’s guess.

“Sensei,” Yuta greets genially. Sounding as happy as one can when, well, having been subjected to several hours on an airplane stuffed with people and noises and Yuta desperately wants to shower and stretch his arms to no longer feel so confined.

“I’m glad you’re back so quickly,” his teacher says jovially. “I was getting real sick of hanging out with the gramps.”

Yuta would be assassinated on the spot if he were to call the elders ‘the gramps’ of all things, but being Gojo Satoru has certain exclusive rights like that.

“Is it another boring meeting, sensei?” Yuta inquires. It’s a normal inquiry. Normally he’d get a response like, ‘yeah, they just want me to annihilate Yuuji-kun, how mean, right?’ or ‘yeah, they want me to do so-and-so atrocities, it’s kind of a pain.’

“Oh, you bet,” Gojo-sensei says casually as he walks casually through the crowd. The crowd parts for him. Again, it’s just one of those things that happen to Gojo Satoru. “It’s about- oh, you weren’t here yet, well, long story short-” Yuta already feels an impending headache, and it’s not from the flight. “A certain student’s curse ancestor has lost a bit more of whatever humanity it has left and, well, it announced for all of Japan’s curses to hear and now all the curses are on alert. Which is not fun when you consider that they are creatures of instinct, to put it simply, when you go against a cornered animal it attacks anyone almost indiscriminatenly.”

Yuta is right.

He is getting a headache and he’s feeling a bit faint about it.

“What did it say?” Yuta asks faintly, a part of him not even sure if he wants an answer.

Gojo-sensei shrugs casually, as if he hadn’t just announced that Japan is probably in a bit of pickle because of Yuta’s ancestor.

“I’m not sure, I can’t speak curse, you know,” Gojo-sensei says casually, again, as though he hadn’t said that Yuta’s ancestor has caused a problem that spans all of Japan. “But if I were to guess, it’s probably a threat or challenge or something something relating to curses and their territory. Since, well, sorcerers don’t get jumped outside certain areas, only if they step in it, do they get injured. But, unforunately, your wonderful teacher doesn’t speak curses.”

That is a bit specific for someone that doesn’t speak curse, but Yuta will take what he can get at this point since, well, Gojo-sensei usually knows what he’s talking about.

“That’s bad,” Yuta says dully. Not quite sure what else to say to the nation wide chaos that is happening because of his ancestor.

Was Yuta going to have to pay for this? Is he going to be put on trail for his ancestor’s crimes? Has the airplane mania gotten to him?

“Sure is,” Gojo-sensei replies cheerfully. “But it’s nothing too bad. But, well, it might get worse the more a certain student’s ancestor spirals.”

Yuta gulps.

“You know how sick grandparents get all happy when their grandchildren visit, right?” Gojo-sensei says, asproros of nothing. “So, I’m thinking-” Oh no. “It’s time for Yuta-kun to visit his great, great, great something something grand ancestor!”

Yuta is going to lose it.

”What?” Yuta loses it.

And no, it’s not because of the flight.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Obito has bad days. It’s the type of day where he wakes up and he wants to claw his own eyes out.

Or one of his eye, the other eye? He doesn’t know where the hell it came from. An Uchiha, sure, but which? Whose eye was it? What was the name of its owner? Their age? Their appearance? What kind of life did they lead? What were their last thoughts before their fellow clansmen killed them?

Obito doesn’t know; they’re dead. The dead don’t speak and they definitely don’t speak to their killer.

Obito wakes up sometimes and he remembers that he only has one true eye inside his socket, the other eye? He has no idea who it once belonged to, but he sure as hell knows it wasn’t entrusted to him.

(It was taken from their cooling bodies. A final act of desecration before the fire is lit and their bodies are reduced to ashes, the evidence erased into the fire. He had plunged his own fingers into their eye socket- because who else could he trust besides himself? Danzo? Hah, the man had taken his own fair share of eyes. Zetsu? The thing would sooner eat the eyes than give it back in one piece- he remembers the feeling. It was wet and bloody and his own Sharingan had spun, spun, spun.

Perhaps it was his duty, as an Uchiha clansman, whatever Uchiha clansman means now when only three are left alive and two are kinslayers while the last is a child of seven.

He was their killer, it is only right for him to stare into their eyes one last time before he becomes a doujutsu thief, too.

They were right about Obito being a failure. They were just wrong about what kind.

They always thought him a failure because he was too weak, his blood too thin and his body too frail.

They thought wrong.

It’s not a question of strength or blood. It’s not a question of Sharingan or no.

It’s a question of the means and the ends. The goal and the end. The goals and the bodies it’ll take to reach it. Whether he thinks he can shape the world- if he even has the right-

It’s a question of-

Shinobi all have a hard line they won’t cross. They say it’s to keep you sane. Your limits define who you are. It kept you standing and kept the nightmare from eating you up alive.

Obito had scoffed. They were all shinobi, what lines must not be crossed?

But he was doing it for peace, what about them? He had justified. It’s the shitty kind of thing where he thinks himself above them and waved away the blood on his hands because it’s for peace.

So, Obito had failed. On every front. Every decision.

The means or the ends? Do you forsake your goal for your morals? Do the means matter when the end is for the betterment of the world?

Each time, the line is pushed, pushed, pushed-

And finally, on that one sordid night-

The line is broken.

Once Obito became a kinslayer, once he weighed the world against his own family and tossed his own blood into the fire. Once he gazed into old Kagura’s eyes and remembered carrying her bags across Konoha as he stabbed her through the chest or old Kenzo’s as he remembered the old man lecturing him on one thing or another as he slashed across his neck-

Obito thought he had grown up.

He thought that it was his coming of age. That this was it. Maybe now he can stop feeling this guilt. This burning sensation inside his chest that threatened to burn him whole and leave nothing but the remnant of the boy he once was. It’s like having liquid fire be running through his entire body and feeling it work itself up to his throat.

He thought that once this was over. He wouldn’t have this feeling anymore. This suffocating- terrible- burdensome-

Guilt.

I’ve graduated, Obito had thought. A morbid joke to keep himself afloat from the blood and gore. Lest he thinks of it more as he drowns in old Yuhiko’s eyes or old Yuri’s scream. Trying to keep himself afloat and alive even as he is drowning on land. Blood in his lungs but he’s not sure who's, he’s killed too many at that point to distinguish. Surely, this must be where it gets easier.

Obito was wrong.

It was never a question of strength.

It was a question of:

What are you willing to give?

And Obito wasn’t wise enough to realize that it’s a trick question. That by giving one step he’s already giving a mile. By killing his own blood he’s already cemented the road to hell.)

Obito wakes up, sometimes, and he wants to claw his eyes out.

They’re both his eyes, now, but sometimes-

Sometimes he can’t seem to remember that. Sometimes he gazes at it through the mirror and wonders what life it saw before he took it from its owner. What a life it must’ve led, what sights it must’ve seen.

Obito does not cry, he has long lost that ability. It went and left when he became a good shinobi.

It went and left when he stabbed poor old Teru clean through his back.

(They knew each other. Poor old Teru used to complain about his back and Obito would laugh and say how much he’s an old man and poor old Teru would hit him lightly with his cane and Obito would laugh again and his grandma would come to fetch him and Teru would complain to her and-

It’s not like that matters now.

They once knew each other.)

So he rests and opens his eyes and he does not cry but instead just clenches his fist and hopes it goes away, to top it off, there’s a low roar at the back of his mind. A shitty reminder of a shitty monster that should’ve died or at least away from Obito but is now back for some godforsaken reason.

The Juubi is a long ancient beast. Obito died before knowing what really happened to it. The first possibility is that it is once again sealed in the moon. But if that were so, why is it with him?

The second is that it won and the world was destroyed. But if that were so, how is Obito here? The world is gone, therefore Obito should be as well. He shouldn’t live to open his eyes, less have the Juubi inside of him.

But this is a third possibility that wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s back but not really. It’s back and it’s stuck with Obito. Tied together because Obito was once its host and being stuck with Obito is better than being stuck sealed inside the moon. That perhaps, once Obito reached out his hand for the moon and shattered it- they were tied together. The Juubi and him.

That is probably good for the world. Better that it be stuck in its former jinchuuriki than be out in the wild.

But what about Obito?

Obito knows enough about jinchuuriki to know how they work.

They live and they hold a beast in their gut until they pass away as humans do and pass it on to the next.

If they die with the beast in, then the beast reforms a few years down the line.

But what about Obito?

He’s a curse.

And curses?

They live forever.

If he gets exorcised-

What if the Juubi gets reformed?

The world cannot handle Obito risking it for a mere guess. A mere stab in the dark and a hopeless dream of wanting to be freed from an eternal life of unlife.

The Juubi is not a monster, no, it’s more than that. It’s something twisted and horrible and screeches with the sound of a thousand and one ghosts. It took the Sage of Six Paths to stop it. Split it into nine parts and separate them into their own calamities.

The Juubi is all nine calamities combined together and then some.

And Obito has that same thing stuck with him. Scraping against his mind and deafening his ears.

It wants something, Obito knows not what.

Murder? Mass extinction? It’s mother? Hell if Obito knows, he doesn’t speak in roars.

What Obito does know is that he hates it right back. Does it hate being stuck with him? Well, guess how Obito feels being stuck with it?

Not pleasant is an understatement.

If there is a guarantee that Obito could take it down with him in death, he’d do so right now. But there is none, so now they are. Two shitty beings stuck with each other because the universe runs on karma and yet Obito hadn’t seen a lick of Madara and so they’re both here. Unwilling inmate and jailer. Juubi for mass murder crimes, and Obito, also for mass murder crimes.

All they’re missing is Madara.

“Shut up,” Obito says to the Juubi. All it gives back is a series of low roars that deafens his ears regardless.

The sentiment is mutual, it seems. Fuck if Obito knows. They can’t communicate for shit and Obito doesn’t have the Sage’s genes in his veins to know any better.

(Well maybe he does, with Hashirama’s cells and all. But so far, no dice. The Juubi roars and roars and it’s all incomprehensible and annoying to Obito’s ears.)

Today is a shitty start to a shitty day. Obito already knows.

It is a shitty thing to realize that the curses are treating him differently. They once used to pass him by until he grabbed them by the scruff of their neck or whatever else. Repeating meaningless phrases that are minor complaints at best and something entirely pointless at worst. They stare straight ahead with button-like eyes, looking at him but never really seeing him.

He is a part of the faceless crowd. Right up until the moment he killed them.

At least, that is so for the weaker ones. The stronger ones, they see him as a theat and they pounce.

It feels familiar, in a way, bringing Obito back to temperate days beneath the sun of Suna or the shades of Konoha or the clouds of Kumo. Walking amongst civilians and simply just being, breathing and acting and going along with the traffic. Blending in despite the odd mask or so and cloak that covers him from head to toe because he simply was just one of them. Civilians tend to dismiss a whole lot of oddities and chalk it up to ‘shinobi and their quirks’.

It’s different now, though. After the strong curses have been sent to hell by Obito’s hands and now all that’s left are the weaker ones. The ones that’s easy to crush like a bug if Obito wills it.

He expected them to stare through him, again, but they do not.

They stare at him with their beady eyes. Intentful and purposeful and there are a thousand and one words there but they do not say a thing. Instead, it is unsettlingly quiet as Obito walks down the halls of a hospital building. He can hear the chitter and chatter of their nails and claws and whatever else bony appendage they have scraping against the floor as they scuttle away like bugs from a fire.

They’re forming a bubble around him. Watching him but not approaching. There is a thin palphation in the air, as though they’re awaiting for him to do something.

Obito does not know what.

He’s here to kill the lot of them to get back to a routine, to relief stress, to make the world better.

And yet they look at him and it’s-

The Juubi makes a low sound, quiet and pleased. Like the cat that got the canary. The curses part for them, look up to them.

Obito isn’t sure what the hell is happening, but he knows that he doesn’t like it.

Would Yuta say that he likes to be in a veiled hospital at one in the morning? No, because he is a normal person. But then Gojo-sensei said something along the lines of, ‘Whoops, sorry Yuta-kun, I forgot to mention that your ancestor is kind of a night owl.’

It’s probably a curse thing that his ancestor is a night owl, but Yuta takes that as another point that they’re hopefully not related. But at this point he knows he’s only trying to fool himself.

Because, well, copy? That’s kind of a unique thing. Kind of a ‘within the same clan at some point in jujutsu history’ kind of thing.

But Yuta can hope, in vain, regardless.

He feels the name nervous twitchiness in his hands and veins and everything as he walks upon the halls.

It’s partly due to the curses and their behavior beneath the veil.

They’ve gotten more vicious, Yuta can say that much. They attack him and it’s like he’s threatening to take something away from them.

Yuta’s not, truly. But they look at him like he’s a villain, which he’s probably is to them, and they attack with a fierceness Yuta hadn’t quite face from such weak curses before. Usually they’re more pack and likely to flee.

But now? They fight like there is no other option.

Yuta really, really gets what Gojo-sensei means by fighting a cornered animal.

It really, really is not pleasant.

The other part of his nervousness, though, is due to what he’s here for.

His ancestor.

Uchiha Obito. ‘Obito’ for respectable person.

It’s an old name, for an old curse. Though Uchiha Obito’s parents must’ve meant well. To name your child something like that, they must’ve cared for him, somewhat. It’s not a name meant for grand expectations or for your child to be a great sorcerer.

It’s just-

It’s just some forgotten parents and their wish for their child to grow up and be respectable. Be someone good. Someone that’s respectable. The humble wish of a pair of parents to their newborn babe who hasn’t known a thing about the world.

Uchiha Obito is a name that doesn’t go well with its curse status.

It’s kind of ironic, now that Yuta thinks about it. In a sad kind of way. To have your name be your parents’ blessings upon you and just have it ruined like that, all because someone else decided that they cared more about you living than you being happy.

Yuta tries to imagine Uchiha Obito, and he comes up with a fragmented image of the curse.

He imagines someone old, maybe with graying hair and deep set eyes. Someone who has black hair like him and the same black eyes. Someone who looks like they’d be ‘respectable’. Adorned with period fitting clothes and sad, sad eyes. Someone whose going mad, slowly but surely.

He wonders, briefly, if they could’ve been family. Had Uchiha Obito been born later and Yuta been born earlier. He wonders, briefly, if they can get along.

It’s kind of a useless thought, he knows. But the thought nudges at him from time to time when he imagines the curse’s face and how it slowly morphs into something Yuta would see in the mirror years from now.

What he comes face to face with is a man around Gojo-sensei’s age.

The man stares at him, Yuta does not know when but the curses have long stopped nipping at his heels. Instead, around him is a strange disquiet.

The man does not have graying hair, instead it is all white. The man’s eyes are a deep black, yes, but they’re much darker than Yuta’s- almost as though someone has dipped them in ink. The man’s clothing is odd and he looks tactiturn and withdrawn.

There are scars on one side of the man’s face.

Though, most importantly-

Ah, he died young.

It’s not as young as Rika had been, of course, but it’s still not old enough. It had been easier to envision a man that is near half of a century old when he died rather than a man that’s around Gojo-sensei’s age. Grown, yes, but still a lot of growing left.

It’s a lot older than Yuta but it’s not old enough.

Yuta wonders, morbidly, if the man’s parents attended their own child’s funeral.

“Who are you?” the man asks, his voice is scratchy and in an odd timber, almost as though he isn’t used to speaking like so.

Yeah, that tracks, Yuta thinks distantly. If Uchiha Obito has been dormant for well over centuries.

Not a lot of speaking to be done there.

Yes, Yuta knows he’s detracting from the question a bit. Mainly because he knows while Gojo-sensei promises that he’ll protect Yuta. it’s still nerve wracking to be in front of a curse and admit that they’re family.

Yuta knows more, though, that he cannot delay.

So, he opens his mouth and says-

“I’m your descendant.”

The sentence echoes down the hall.

There is a moment, then two.

It stretches on, perhaps, for an eternity.

There is something brewing in the air and just like a weight hanging on a thread-

It snaps.

The man stares down at him with red, red eyes and he asks-

“Proof?”

It’s just a single word. A simple one. And yet.

Yuta is drowning on land.

There is something on his tongue; it tastes like grief.

There is something clogging up his throat; it feels like guilt.

There is something digging at his chest; it feels like madness.

Something has snapped. The man’s neutral face seems different now as his eyes swirl red, red, red.

“I can’t exactly show our family tree,” Yuta admits evenly, since, well, erased records and all. He sounds much more calm than he feels. Perhaps he should thank Rika for building up his tolerance. “But I can copy techniques.”

Yuta pauses here, to glance up at the man and make sure that Gojo-sensei wouldn’t have to interfere just yet.

“And I hear you can, too?” That sounded much more unsure than Yuta had hoped. But it is the best they are going to get, he supposes.

The man stares at him for a moment. There is a calamity behind his eyes. Something like hurricanes and tornadoes and he stares at Yuta and it’s like he’s looking for something that he’s not getting and it’s suffocating them both that he’s not seeing it.

“We don’t exactly look alike, but,” Yuta says after a moment, gesturing to their hair and grimacing that, yes, they look quite different. “But it has been some time, now, since you and, well, me.”

There are probably much more eloquent ways to put that. But Yuta would challenge anyone other than Gojo-sensei to try to be eloquent when being faced down by this strange curse energy that threatens to drown them whole.

There is a moment, then two.

It feels like an infinite amount of seconds has passed and nothing at all at the same time. The man looking to Yuta’s hair and Yuta’s eyes and he opens his mouth and he says-

“I had black hair.”

It is an innocous statement. It’s simple and it’s clear and yet it feels important, somehow. It makes Yuta wonder, briefly, what happened from then and there to change the man’s hair from black to white. To bleed out the man’s hair and its color and turn it into the pale slate it is today. Whether it was due to the fact that the man defied nature or whether its indicative of the man’s true age.

Most importantly, though, it feels as though-

“... you believe me?”

Yuta wouldn’t believe even himself.

But he must.

You remember what to say, right, Yuta-kun?

The boy has black hair and eyes. It’s a thing that’s common, Obito notes. In the bustling streets of this strange city and place. Back in Konoha it was the same. Although the Uchiha was just-

More.

Darker hair and deeper eyes and sharpened features. It’s hard to describe it but if you put an Uchiha and someone with similar colors next to each other it’s a moment of ah, I see.

It’s just a thing that you can’t quite describe. It’s just the Uchiha look.

The boy has that, somewhat. Perhaps it’s the way his hair parts or the way his eyes are shaped it’s just-

Maybe Obito’s delusional, maybe he’s a bit-

It just looks a bit like Sasuke.

Even the sword the boy carries, slung around his shoulder instead of his hips reminds Obito of the boy that could’ve been good instead of ruined.

The boy says he can copy ‘techniques’. Obito isn’t so daft as to not understand what the boy is insinuating.

The boy does not have a Sharingan, though. And his eyes stayed resolutely black even when faced with another Sharingan. Staying just like it has been dyed in ink and refusing to bleed red.

Obito isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed. He isn’t sure whether he wants to see a familiar eyes or whether he wants the dead to stay dead because Obito is a pathetic man who can’t gaze into another Sharingan without remembering that one of his own is a fake that he dug up from some poor corpse he killed in cold blood.

Maybe it’s a mix of the two.

Perhaps the boy is lying. Humans do that, lie.

But for what purpose? Obito doesn’t know.

But Obito doesn’t know why the boy seeked him out either, nor why he admitted to being a curse’s descendant when he appears to be a sorcerer.

It’s a hard to believe thing, really. That somehow the Uchiha clan survived until now, whenever ‘now’ is.

If Obito were to be truthful, he thought that the Uchiha clan would die out with Sasuke.

Sasuke gave up his future for his goals. He’s a candle that has burnt itself out trying to burn bright for the first few phases of its life.

Sasuke is a boy that’s lost and grieving and never really grew out of that.

Sasuke, when Obito saw him last, was nowhere near ready to even reconcile with his team, let alone start a family.

So yes, it’s a bit hard to believe. To look at the boy in front of him now and try to reconcile the image of Sasuke and family and somehow that family survived onto the future.

Is this the future, then?

Rather than another world, is he in the future?

Has the Sharingan long been gone- has the curse that ailed the Uchiha family faded out- just like that?

All those years of conflict, war, strife-

And just like that, just with time, it went away?

There’s something on the tip of his tongue; it feels bitter.

There’s something on his chest; he feels suffocated.

Obito is in another time, another place and-

Possibly, he’s in the future and he’s meeting face to face with the descendant of his own blood.

The descendant of a family he helped ended.

Perhaps he’s wrong; perhaps the boy is lying-

But what if he’s not?

The man shrugs. It’s a casual motion that could mean an infinite amount of things. But most importantly, it’s not a rejection.

“You’re a sorcerer,” the man says, forging on pass Yuta’s question. It is a statement of fact, and Yuta knows there is no denying it.

They both know that the man didn’t answer Yuta’s question, and they both know that Yuta can’t force Uchiha Obito to do so either.

Yuta nods.

“So why come and admit to being relatives with me?” the man asks, his voice is the neutrality of a polished mirror once more. “I’m a curse.”

Yes, that is a very good point.

“I don’t imagine they take kindly to fraternization,” the curse says. It’s voice a touch of mockery, Yuta thinks. There is a story there, probably and the ‘they’ in question are the elders. And Yuta thinks that there’s definitely a story to be had about Uchiha Obito and the elders if what Gojo-sensei tells him is true.

“They don’t,” Yuta admits. Because it’s true. They would’ve executed Yuta on the spot for having Rika if it weren’t for Gojo-sensei and they definitely would’ve done away with Itadori if it wasn’t, again, for Gojo-sensei.

“So why are you here, sorcerer?” It’s a blunt question, to the point and not subtle in the least. Yuta imagines the curse feels as flummoxed as he is.

If you struggle to think of what to ask-

“I am the only one left of my branch,” Yuta admits, blaise. “I just-”

- just ask what you really feel, Yuta.

It’s a bit pathetic to admit, and definitely treacherous but-

“I just want to know why there’s only me left.”

Because it’s true, isn’t it? Gojo-sensei and him may be related tangentially, but he’s really the only one left of the Okkotsu now. They’re not even a minor clan. They’re just-

They’re a civilian family. Their blood more normal than sorcerer and Yuta hadn’t the faintest clue what happened. How they went from being related to Sugawara no Michizane to being just the regular Okkotsu family of today.

They must’ve been something of prominence, back in the day, they must’ve been a big clan. Soemthing like Gojo-sensei or the Ze’nin or the Kamo. With people and clansmen abound.

But now there’s just Yuta left, with the Okkotsu name being nothing but an ordinary one. With him not having a clan at all and just-

Just being Okkotsu Yuta, the last of his family.

Maybe it’s a bit selfish of him to ask this, when Gojo-sensei would’ve probably wanted a better answer, but Yuta can’t stop thinking about it. Everytime he look to Toge and his family or Maki and her complicated relationship with her sister that’ll probably end in a crime or so-

Or just look to everyone else and their families and just realize that he doesn’t have a clan, even though he should.

To wonder what happen to them and think that maybe they just faded out as minor clans do. It’s certainly a reasonable explaination. Clans do that all the time.

And yet. It couldn’t stop nagging at Yuta that they were related to one of the greats. It’s not that easy for a clan like that to become civilians.

When hearing of Gojo-sensei’s theories, he couldn’t help but think-

What if?

He couldn’t help but think-

If you’re my family and your traces erased-

It’s a treacherous thought.

Did our family get erased, too?

It’s a cruel thought.

But the jujutsu world has always been cruel.

Ah, Obito thinks.

This must be karma.

Chapter Text

There are ghosts crawling on his back. Their hands are cold and intangible, gripping at his spine and clawing their way up to his neck. He feels them pulling him down to their level, feeling the grip of the decades worth of decay gripping at the edges of his clothes, feel their ghostly fingers clam onto his back and neck and forcing him to face forward. Turning his eyes to the front and telling him to look.

Look at the boy in front of him. With dark hair and darker eyes. With an anxious face he can’t quite hide and a boyishness about him that would’ve been stomped out years ago if the world had a say in it.

He looks like Sasuke, from before, before.

Like the Sasuke from the faded photographs that hangs around in the Uchiha head’s home. The one that Itachi had touched with bloody hands and smeared across, leaving nothing behind but a smiling picture of one happy boy.

Obito would know, he’d seen it.

It’s been stored away in one of the many files and cabinets on the Uchiha massacre. Under lock and key unless with high clearance.

But it's never too difficult for someone with Kamui.

It’s a thing that Uchiha Sasuke had not wanted to pick up again after.

Obito gets why, it’s macabre and a reminder of what he’s lost. The fact that only Sasuke’s face remains untouched in the photograph adds more salt to the wound and a terrible reminder that Itachi was a teen who made terrible choices in the name of wanting his brother to murder him in cold blood later.

(Sasuke was a happy boy. He had a smile that was a touch too bright for his family. A touch too wide and a smile that was infectious, in some ways.

It’s a thing that only spells trouble for someone who carries the Uchiha name.

Obito remembers seeing his own smile with Sasuke.

Albeit his was never quite as shy, quite as withdrawn.

He remembers thinking-)

The boy looks at him.

The ghosts claw his neck and open his eyes and they say for him to look.

The boy asks him why he’s the only one left and Obito feels like the decades worth of karma has finally caught up.

It drags him back to that one, bloody night. Wherein the moon shines bright. Wherein two played god and the rest paid for it.

(The streets are flooded with blood. They stain the walls and streets and lights and Obito thinks that they’ll never get the stain out, even if they try.

They’ll never get the ghosts out.

They had met again.

Uchiha Itachi had stood in front of him. Mask on his face and blade in his hands. He looks cold, apathetic. But the shakiness of his fingers and the slightest tremors in his breath told a different story.

Uchiha Itachi had cried.

He had cried and he stood in front of Obito now and Obito could not say anything to his junior except what Uchiha Madara would’ve.

He stood in front of Uchiha Itachi, a teen barely a few years his junior and he really thought for a moment- he wanted to reach his hands out and knock the mask out of place and put his hands on Itachi’s shoulders and just shake him for all he’s worth- shake him and say-

You chose this, you don’t get to cry.

It’s a thing that comes from the deep recess of his heart. It’s angry and hateful and a part of Obito called Itachi pathetic for crying, for wavering-

Once you have a goal you stick to it- once you have your ideal you do what you will and you do not hesitate. You don’t falter and you don’t cry. You stand tall and you be a good shinobi and you don’t cry.

Crying is for those that regret it.

Crying is for bad shinobi.

Crying is for-

What are you doing? Obito had thought. As Itachi’s hands shook and his figure always swayed with the wind. Why did you cry? You’re alive, they’re dead- you don’t-

It’s a bitter and hateful part of him. Is the part that never quite died- it’s the part that says-

Only the dead deserves to cry.

In the end, Uchiha Obito doesn’t say a goddamn thing to Uchiha Itachi.

Because he’s always been good at that. Being good at being a coward and just withdrawing his hand and going to Kamui and pretending that the blood on his clothes don’t belong to his clansmen.

Uchiha Itachi had cried.

Then Uchiha Itachi had died.

There are words that are left unsaid on Obito’s tongue. Forever buried alongside Itachi’s corpse.)

He parts his lips.

It feels dry, he notes. Dry and arid and he feels like he’s breathing in fire all the while trying to choke up lava. There’s a fire in his heart and it’s burning him alive. Each glance, each look the boy gives him only spurs it on. Spurs on the ghosts on his back and the fire burning him up alive.

The boy isn’t Itachi, he isn’t Sasuke but once he said he’s a descendant Obito couldn’t help but see it.

It’s a thing of folly. For him to see two people where the boy stood. Two people whom he never really knew.

So now, Sasuke’s descendant stands in front of him and he asks-

Where is my clan?

Obito has the Uchiha clan blood on his hands. He’s dyed in it, even. He’s inextricably linked to it.

The ghosts are clawing at his back.

They’re clawing at his eyes and they’re telling him to keep his eyes open and look.

They’re telling him to answer.

It brings him back to a night with a full moon. Wherein the streets of a clan compound are dyed forever in blood.

The answer lies on the tip of his tongue.

It’s a cruel answer. It’s an answer that’ll bring nothing but pain.

To lie is to escape from his sins.

To tell the truth is to unearth a long-dead tragedy.

Either option is terrible. It’s picking between two poisons and choosing which type of bitterness you’d rather die to. It’s picking between bracing the cruel currents of Kiri or trapezing through Suna when the sun is at its highest.

It’s picking between peace or your clan.

It’s a choice you can’t quite make without feeling the bitterness of regret well up inside you and a torrent of what ifs haunting your sleep for the rest of your life and then some.

This decision is nowhere near the weight of Itachi’s.

It’s rather pathetic, in a way, for Obito to be comparing the two of them when Obito hasn't had to look at the tip of his blade and realize that it’s stained in his parent’s blood.

Between the two of them, Obito was always the greater coward.

So he stands in front of Sasuke’s descendant, now, the boy asks-

Why?

There are a thousand of why’s.

The Uchiha had grown too dangerous, the elders has grown too corrupt, Uchiha Itachi decided that he could burden the entire world on his shoulders for his younger brother-

Uchiha Obito decided that he wanted to outgrow his younger self.

There are a thousand and one whys.

None of them feel sufficient, now. None of them are right.

There are a thousand and one whys. None of it could ever be enough to justify what was done.

Their story is a story with an unhappy ending. It’s a bitter and terrible tale of the once great Uchiha clan. It’s a story with no clear morals or purpose.

It’s just a story of human greed and human mistakes and at the end of it all remains just a single, bloody survivor.

It’s a tale with nothing but an unhappy finish and an ending that’s just bittersweet. The clan has perished, the elders are gone, your beloved older brother is dead and gone into ashes. Now all that’s left is you.

Now-

Now the story has been erased. The Uchiha clan is nothing more but one, single boy. You. Now you’re looking for a curse for an answer and the story that curse has to tell is nothing but ripe with tragedy and it’s a bittersweet thing that does not promise a happy ending. It’s a thing that’s unfinished and forgotten and erased because somewhere along the lines someone stopped telling the story because they realize-

It has passed. The Uchiha clan has died, what does it matter, for an unhappy story to continue getting told?

So now-

What do you say?

What do you, as the curse- as the kinslayer- say to the boy whose clan you’ve ended with your own hands?

There is a moment, then two.

Uchiha Obito parts his lips and he looks at Yuta and it feels like he’s looking through him.

His expression is a slate stone. It’s a marbled thing that gives nothing away other than the fact that the man’s looking at him and his eyes are dark black.

Somehow, the man looks ominous, like that.

Perhaps it’s because he looks human, now, without the unnatural red eyes.

Making the line between curse spirit and human blur until there’s nothing left but simply-

Uchiha Obito.

The man parts his lips and he says:

“Why?”

There’s something on the man’s lips. It looks like a wry grin. Someone old and sharpened by age. Vicious, almost, in nature. And infinitely wretched.

“It doesn’t matter, what matters is that they died on one bloody night and the world moved on.”

It feels like the rug has been pulled from beneath Yuta’s feet. He feels like he was prepared for the answer but there’s suddenly a gaping abyss staring back up at him beneath what he thought was a simple pit. It’s a thing of secrets and hushed words and burned records.

The abyss has grown hands and claws and it’s dragging Yuta down by its jagged teeth. Gripping onto him tight and refusing to let go as Yuta’s spine is soaked in liquid ice and his heart drops down into the gaping unknown.

“It’s erased for a reason, boy.”

It’s almost a quiet admittance if the man didn’t look so-

Yuta doesn’t know what that expression on the man’s face is but-

It’s not a pleasant one. It’s a thousand and one tragedy wrapped up beneath a cover of silk. His dark eyes are a haunting thing as he stares at Yuta like he is a foolish, foolish child for asking. Like he’s going to shatter Yuta’s image of his once family and he’s going to enjoy doing so.

“You should stop asking about them,” Uchiha Obito concludes. “It’s a mess of a clan with a no-good ending.”

There is a flash of something on the man’s face- it’s almost-

“Sometimes, things should stay dead.”

The man’s face is almost a thing of marbled stone. But for a moment- for a fraction of a moment-

Yuta could’ve sworn he looked sad.

Yuta doesn’t have time to ponder upon it as the world warps and quivers around Uchiha Obito, pulling him into a space unknown.

The last look Uchiha Obito gives him is a warning.

The first thing Yuta says to him as they meet again is:

“He told me not to dig any further and yet-”

Yuta laughs, it’s a breathless thing.

“And yet he told me they all died on one, bloody night.” Yuta almost looks lost. Pulled between two contradictions. Pulled between the curse that says ‘stop looking’ and yet slips something so vital up. It’s a mess of an answer, no doubt. From afar, Satoru could see the conflict on the curse’s face before something resolute takes its place.

Perhaps it didn’t mean to let the truth slip.

It probably wants the truth buried.

But, ah, the thing about hesitation is that it always showed and that-

That slip-

Perhaps it was its true thoughts.

Satoru laughs, it’s not a pretty thing.

“Why, Yuta-kun, it sounds like a massacre.”

Chapter Text

There aren’t many similarities between Okkotsu Yuta and Uchiha Obito when you put them side by side together.

It was something clear to Satoru the moment he looked at Yuta when the boy returned from overseas. Though Satoru’s memory is excellent, there’s a part of him that perhaps thought that Yuta’s face would change more when he returned. Go from boyish to something more.

Something more like Uchiha Obito.

But it was a terrible gamble from the very start.

You cannot expect a child to look like a curse in a few short years. You cannot expect the sunrise that promises the idea of ‘tomorrow’ to shift into the setting dusk that bemoans the fate of the yesteryears.

It was a losing gamble from the start to expect Yuta to be anything like his ancestor.

Yuta is a special grade sorcerer, that is a fact. He is strong and he is the future of the jujutsu world. He has the blood of one of the greatest sorcerers to live in his veins. He has created a special grade curse even as a child that knew nothing of jujutsu.

From the moment he cursed Rika, his chances of becoming a normal child were burnt away.

He became a child that’s destined for something. Something grand, something great. It doesn’t have to be good but oh, it’ll be something. From the moment he cursed Rika and made her a special grade-

There is no way to escape the jaws of the jujutsu world.

And Yuta became great. He became a name that could be spoken alongside Satoru’s.

(Though never quite side by side because he is Gojo Satoru and gods do not stand beside men.)

Yuta carries that weight well, for a young man, he carries it better than most of his peers would, no doubt.

But he’s still young. He still has the baby fat of a child and nervousness of inexperience that leaks through his composed demeanor now and then and that’s fine enough because Satoru is here to guide him through the traps and pitfalls that are inlaid before him.

To compare Okkotsu Yuta and Uchiha Obito is the difference between a rising star and a star that collapsed upon itself and became a black hole for it.

It’s that kind of difference, it’s not quite heaven and earth, no.

Heaven and earth do not meet.

But a rising star can become a black hole, one day, one distant day and-

Rather, it’s just simply a matter of time.

Time that Okkotsu Yuta, frankly, will never have.

A while in another part of the world isn’t enough to shape Yuta into his ancestor.

It’s a while, that is true, but what are those moments to Uchiha Obito? A mere blink of the eye? A mere yawn? A mere whisper in the wind?

Uchiha Obito has laid dormant for eras. The madness that dwelled within it is far more than anything Yuta has experienced with Rika and will ever experience with most curses he’ll ever meet. The monster that lurked within the depths of whatever it’s hiding threatens to swallow the world whole if it is not kept under locks and chains. It is eras and eras of accumulation, of waiting with bated breath for that one domino to tip over and for the world to collapse.

(It is eras and eras waiting for one person.

It’s almost like sleeping beauty, in a way. If only the beauty weren’t the monster at the same time and her prince has long died and the poor sap that’s awakened her is much more handsome and much better than the original prince in any way but that’s beside the point.)

Okkotsu Yuta is seventeen.

It’s a bit ridiculous when you put it like that. For Satoru to expect Yuta to resemble his dead ancestor at all other than a passing glance.

Their hair aren’t even the same color.

But perhaps, most importantly, it’s in their faces. It’s in the way they breathe and blink, it's in the way that Yuta is human and Uchiha Obito is pretending to be one when it is no longer alive.

This is not quite their third meeting, but Satoru thinks that thrice indicated a pattern of behavior and he doesn’t know what to make of the fact that Uchiha Obito still refuses to breathe and blink like a normal human despite its stubborn resistance to being a curse.

It almost feels like Uchiha Obito is on a precipice. Swaying between human and curse and ending up in the nebulous place in between.

It’s a bit of a perplexing thing.

Something odd happens on this night, though.

If before, Uchiha Obito is like the unperturbed surface of a lake with writhing cursed energy that speaks differently.

But today?

Today it feels like the chains that are holding whatever monster that lurks beneath the veil of humans is being tested.

It’s not quite strong enough yet, but oh, it’s a curse that promises a reckoning. Satoru can’t feel it yet but from that roar he knows it’s a greedy, greedy thing that wants to grab and destroy and swallow the world whole.

But not yet, it’s a fledgling thing for now. Like an egg waiting to hatch- waiting for Uchiha Obito to finally take the plunge and be more curse than human.

For Uchiha Obito to last this long is already a miracle.

There is no telling when the miracle will give out and one day Uchiha Obito will look at the world and there will be an all consuming hunger that’ll devour him whole. One day Uchiha Obito will look at the world and the chains will be long gone and there’ll be nothing left to separate the man from the beast.

The ending to this sordid story doesn’t seem that far off.

Yuta says something and Uchiha Obito’s eyes bleed red, red, red and-

It feels like the world stutters to a stop, but that’s not exactly the right wording for it. The world doesn’t exactly stop because there’s still the distant flap of a moth’s wings or the faint footsteps of some salarymen stumbling around or the bustling metropolis awaiting just beyond the veil.

The better term for it would be that it feels like the world has shifted, ever so slightly. As whatever control Uchiha Obito had slips through its hands, a slight unraveling of the bindings and chains.

It’s a brief thing, but oh-

A monster gazes at Satoru from within Uchiha Obito.

A singular eye peeking out at Satoru forming from the writhing mess that Uchiha Obito’s cursed energy. It’s gone a bit wild and a bit suffocating and a part of Satoru feels like he should step in and readies himself to do so as the eye turns to him and glances at him almost directly.

The eye curves up, almost like a half-formed moon before it closes into a flat, crescent curve like-

A taunting smile.

It lasts for a mere moment before it’s wrapped up in chains and binds. Behind shutters and tightly locked gates. The yearning abyss now nothing but a quiet whisper and the passing wind as Uchiha Obito regains himself and the monster closes itself into a yawn.

But, oh-

In that moment-

It saw Satoru.

It recognizes him, he thinks. It’s not unusual for curses to recognize him on sight. But that gaze felt different somehow. It felt personal in a way that many do not.

There is a moment, then two, wherein Uchiha Obito finally looks at Yuta and the surface of the tranquil waters finally breaks.

Uchiha Obito looks at Yuta like he is something great and terrible all in one, it looks at Yuta like a promised failed and a ghost haunting.

It looks at Yuta and it’s almost like looking at a cherished pearl but then that eclipses into nothing but grief.

It looks at Yuta and his lips mouth words that Satoru can’t quite hear but feels heavy all the same, and then the world warp and distorts and it takes Uchiha Obito into its fold as the curse vanishes.

It’s a version of Satoru’s Blue. It’s meant to be a thing of destruction, of pulling the world in on itself and forming a void so that the curses are pulled in to fill it.

But, ah, Uchiha Obito has made it a thing of transport, instead. Not just combat.

To completely vanish and leave not a trace. To fall into itself instead because it can’t quite control the world but it knows itself well enough to channel the idea of ‘infinity’ within its body to make a new thing entirely, a thing that’s terribly fearsome in that it leaves no trace and even Satoru can’t spot where it landed and-

Uchiha Obito must’ve been awfully talented.

Satoru can see it, almost, a man that was once alive. With a smile that’s a touch too sarcastic but charming and breathing that wasn’t so formulaic and a body that was warm. With the blood of one of the strongest running through his veins and a strong clan backing him up with the strongest themselves as your comrade and bearing the honor of being a vessel and a talent that’s almost monstrous.

Uchiha Obito’s story should’ve been a positive one. One that is told and would make you smile and think it’s somewhat inspirational, if not a bit too perfect.

But perhaps it was because Uchiha Obito had such a strong start- had such a perfect life that something had to give, something had to balance out.

And the ending of his life is a tragedy instead. One that is left to rot in its shallow grave.

The world has a funny idea of balance, Satoru thinks.

Satoru wasn’t sure what to expect from Yuta’s meeting with the curse.

Satoru knows that Uchiha Obito is a guarded being, and drawing answers from something like that is generally harder than drawing blood from a stone. Because while Uchiha Obito has no trouble speaking, it’s more about the things that it’s saying.

Uchiha Obito gives answers, sure, but those answers? They’re cryptic at best and an outright lie at worst.

The tricky thing about trying to gleam anything from Uchiha Obito is that Uchiha Obito gives nothing away and can lie with the best of them.

That is unless you’re Gojo Satoru, of course. But the point here is that Uchiha Obito isn’t something that gives answers without a fight, and even then, it’s answers have to be deciphered through reading its reaction, it’s a minute thing that can only be observed in person with Satoru’s Six Eyes.

And today Satoru can’t exactly be there in person because he knows any attempt at an answer would be shut down immediately.

It’s just a thing. You don’t exactly say things about your long gone family in front of a stranger that bears your friend’s dead face. Nor would you risk letting anything leak because you know well enough the power that said stranger holds and the things he could do with that information.

So, frankly, Satoru wasn’t expecting much from this meeting at all.

That is not to say he wasn’t expecting gains, of course. Because one, this meeting would’ve at least gotten the curse acquainted with Yuta, which would lead to it being less guarded in the future, presumably.

Because Uchiha Obito seems like just that sort of sentimental. From the way it searched for Yuuji and the way it looks at Satoru, it’s not hard to tell that Uchiha Obito deeply clings onto its past. Whether it belongs to the man that once lived or the fragmented ghost of that man trying to cling onto its humanity is up to anybody’s guess, but the fact remains that it’s there and Satoru isn’t so upright as to dismiss the obvious weakness that’s being thrown in his face.

Is it underhanded? Possibly.

But when has Satoru been righteous?

Probably never.

He wasn’t born for that. He was born to take curses down, by nook or crook. Perhaps it’s a bit of a moral failing, but morals hardly have a place in the jujutsu world and Satoru’s blend of morals is rather on the ‘nice’ side compared to his peers.

That’s not saying much, considering that apparently his peers have once committed a massacre.

It doesn’t take much to have better morals than that.

Oh, yes, did Satoru mention how he wasn’t expecting much?

Well, it turns out that Satoru underestimated the impact of a new family member on Uchiha Obito and overestimated Uchiha Obito’s control on itself.

It’s understandable, though.

You tend to look at a suddenly new family member with very different eyes if you presumed all of them has been killed in a massacre.

It must’ve been quite a choice, Satoru thinks. To stand there before what you thought was gone forever and have to decide whether to let your oblivious family member know the sordid truth or let it all be subsumed by time until one day even you, yourself, cannot remember.

Satoru played a low risk gamble, and he’d won the grand prize. He has gotten what he wanted. He has won, he has gotten something to upheave the entirety of the jujutsu world if only he can-

He thinks he should be happy. He thinks a part of him is.

But another part-

Just feels infinitely bitter.

He thinks of Uchiha Obito.

Kento does not know when is it that his comfortable apartment became Gojo Satoru’s playing ground for his treasonous and terrible conspiracies.

But the fact stands that apparently it is decided for him as Gojo haphazardly takes his shoes off as Gojo’s student, Okkotsu, Kento isn’t that familiar with the boy all considering, politely neatens the shoes and mutters a soft, “sorry for the intrusion.”

Kento instantly takes a liking to Okkotsu. He takes one look at the boy trying to clean after Gojo Satoru’s mess and he thinks he sense a kindred spirit in those eyes.

Of course, this is all speculation, but you can generally just sense who around you is a fellow cleaner for Gojo Satoru and his messes. For example, Kento and Ichiji’s camaraderie and Kento and Utahime’s sparse chats when they have the chance to do so and Kento and Yaga exchanging glances of it’s him again? whenever they hear back from another branch of just what chaos Gojo Satoru has wrecked today.

It’s just one of those things you can immediately feel out, if you’ve had enough experience.

And right now? Kento senses that first, Gojo Satoru is about to ruin his world again, and second, Okkotsu is a kindred spirit.

Kento wants to give Okkotsu a pat on the shoulder for the future that he’ll have to endure. Because being Gojo Satoru’s comrade is one thing, being his student?

Infinitely more trouble.

Just look at the way the boy has been trained. Already picking up after Gojo’s slack and carrying those desserts in his hands like second nature. Kento has no doubt that Okkotsu has probably memorized Gojo Satoru’s top ten dessert orders and stores by heart due to sheer exposure. Kento feels for the boy, really. The moment that you realized you memorized Gojo Satoru’s top ten anything is moment you realize that perhaps your life has spiralled out of control and there is not a thing you can do about it.

Okkotsu’s fate for the future is grim. And Kento senses that Okkotsu won’t be given a big enough salary to compensate for it either.

“I can’t believe you’re still up so late, Nanamin,” Satoru derides, casually directing Okkotsu to place down the desserts onto the table. Something that was done with little to no thought and Okkotsu even had half the mind to hand Satoru’s favorites to the man himself.

He was given a thumbs up for his servitude.

“I was asleep about half an hour ago,” Kento says, there’s little to no malice to be had, there. But Kento would be lying if he wasn’t mourning his Gojo Satoru-less night. He was having a rather good night, all considering. With a night routine performed properly (and without Gojo Satoru) and being able to go to sleep rather early one (without any life changing texts from Gojo Satoru) only to be woken up rather abruptly by a text that explains nothing except, Sorry, I’m going to crash your home in about five. Which left Kento no time to prepare anything except that Gojo arrived in fifthteen instead, which feels like a direct stab to Kento.

Yes, it appears that everything about how well Kento sleeps at night depends on Gojo Satoru- or rather the lack of him.

It’s a sobering realization that makes Kento want to turn on the Do Not Disturb function of his phone for maybe forever if only Gojo didn’t actually contact him for real emergencies sometimes.

“Sorry, Nanami-san,” Okkotsu says apologetically, even bowing a little and by goodness, it’s a wonder that Gojo Satoru is this boy’s teacher.

Now that Nanami thinks about it, most of Gojo’s students are rather nice, poite things. Aside from Itadori, but that one’s extra nice to compensate for the lack of politeness.

Perhaps its the years of training cleaning up after their teacher. It’s probably that. Fushiguro Megumi was far from polite to most. He was a little hellion of a thing, according to Gojo’s biased retelling of the boy’s childhood. But he’s rather decent young man now, usually, despite his face that seems to be challenging any elders that he comes across. But Kento can chalk that up to Gojo Satoru and his terrible teachings, too.

Even Kugisaki is a polite thing, sometimes, polite enough to her elders, Kento would think. From the reports about her. A bit passionate, sure, but there’s really nothing wrong with that. Though she’s a bit more talkative than Fushiguro and definitely more likely to get into trouble, she’s quite a normal one, considering who her teacher is and her teammates. Kento would say that she’s shaping up to be someone like him or Shoko, an ‘ordinary’ amidst the insane.

Kento would be lying if he wasn’t looking forward to a fellow ‘ordinary’ from the graduating class. There’s an awful shortage of that around the jujutsu world and Kento is already drawing up a list of bakeries and normal things he could talk to Kugisaki about.

Maybe they can even commiserate about Gojo Satoru together, that’d be nice. With Shoko to the side and Utahime over the phone and Ichiji, too, if the man wasn’t so busy.

And perhaps, if Kento is thinking too much, it’s because he does not want to be thinking about Gojo Satoru’s definitely treacherous conspiracy theories at some early hours in the morning where he’d rather be asleep and, well, not talking to Gojo Satoru.

The aforementioned man is out directing Okkotsu to place down each dessert in a separate dish on Kento’s ordinary silverware.

Why does Gojo Satoru know where Kento place his dishes?

It’s not even the normal kind, either, the kind that’s stashed away in his dishwasher but rather the fancy kind with nice patterns that his parents give to him that Kento rarely uses unless for some occasion or another.

He is very sure that they’re stashed away very neatly, in some obscure cabinet.

So how?

The question makes Kento realize that perhaps, just perhaps Gojo Satoru has been over at Kento’s apartment for enough times to know so. Which is a depressing thought all on its own because it indicates that they’ve been spending time off work for one too many times and that, perhaps, they could be considered to be ‘hanging out.’

It is a thought that almost makes Kento want to collapse in on himself because it was just too terrible to bear.

There is another thought that occurs to Kento.

With his knowledge, Okkotsu must surely think Kento and Gojo are close.

It is a thought that brings nothing but dread and makes Kento want to clarify, very loudly, that no, they aren’t close. And rather it being a friendship, it’s more like a relationship between a parasite and its host.

It’s a thought that occupies most of Kento’s mind for the rest of Okkotsu’s set up and Gojo’s concise directing.

It’s Kento’s residence, but right now it does not feel like that.

“I know you must be brimming with anticipation,” Gojo announces suddenly, stabbing a fork much too aggressively into his slice of cake as Okkotsu sits down on one of Kento’s dining chair. “So I hereby announce the start to our wonderful and very not illegal meeting on the duplicitious nature of history.”

Oh god, this is going to be a thing.

Inside Kento’s apartment, at that.

Kento very suddenly, want to announce for no one in particular to hear that he has no part in this and that, if they are caught, he really didn’t want to be the host to one treacherous Gojo Satoru and his polite student.

Okkotsu claps politely, like this is in any way normal and commendable.

Kento crosses out any considerations he had for Okkotsu being normal, because clearly, he’s shaping up to be another maniac, except hopefully less of a treacherous maniac like his teacher. And hopefully just a normal maniac with a few screws loose in the common sense department.

“Last meeting.” It was not a meeting, Kento would like to say that it was not a meeting and that he was forced to listen. “We concluded that Uchiha Obito was the Rika to my Yuta and how my no-good, really ugly ancestor did a thing that they shouldn’t have.”

That is an understatement. But Kento will take it.

“And we also logic’d it out that Yuta-kun here is probably Uchiha Obito’s descendant becuase, well, copy,” Gojo continues. Okkotsu giving a slight bow and raising his hand as though he wasn’t the only one here that bears the name ‘Yuta.’ “And that’s maybe kind of dubious but it’s confirmed now!”

Confirmed as in-

“Yes, Uchiha Obito confirmed it itself!” Gojo croons. Though, if Okkotsu’s face is anything to indicate, the meeting didn’t go as swimmingly as Gojo’s smug tones implies it did.

Kento tries, very hard, to reconcile the image of the curse with the boy sitting in front of him right now and he cannot do it.

Gojo, as if knowing exactly what Kento is thinking, says:

“Oh, yes, Uchiha Obito apparently had black hair in its alive days.” It’s stated so casually as though it weren’t important. As though the ‘before’ for a curse of that nature isn’t important-

As though this isn’t confirming that Uchiha Obito has spiralled, that this unnatural hair is one of the first to indicate for the monster that it’s shaping up to be.

“It’s a pity, it’s like an old man’s,” Gojo says cheekily, as though he weren’t consdiering the possibility at all. Though Kento has no doubt the man has.

Because for all that Kento bemoans Gojo Satoru’s blatant lack of care for strategies or tactics during a fight other than ‘blast that thing to death’, he cannot deny that Gojo Satoru does have a knack for strategy if only he applied himself. And that the reason he usually is dismissive of it is because he’s already strong enough that often the best strategy is to just ‘blast it to death.’

So the only reason Kento thinks that Gojo isn’t mentioning that here, now, is Okkotsu Yuta. Uchiha Obito’s descendant.

Maybe-

It’s probably a kind of mercy. An act of empathy from Gojo Satoru that not many expects.

(It’s a thing about Gojo Satoru. Say what you like about the man, but it’s hard to deny that Gojo Satoru has a heart somewhere beneath all that pomp and arrogance. That the man plays it up for an invisible audience but it’s hard to not see that he’s just as protective as he’s callous.

That he holds his students in his palm in the same breath as he’s pushing them to their limits with a casual smile and dismissive shrug. It’s not often said because many just sees Gojo Satoru as a cruel, callous man who has little to no empathy for anyone because he’s Gojo Satoru.

It’s often hard to see Gojo Satoru’s intention, and most times, Kento cannot see through the constant act the man has on. But he knows- with conviction that he doesn’t have for most things- that Gojo Satoru cares in his own, twisted way.

That he’s pushing them to swim or drown, all the while with a safety net that’ll fetch them out of the sea he’s thrown them in.

He’s a contradicting mess of a man.

Sentimental is a word that often doesn’t get attached to someone like Gojo Satoru, but-)

Okkotsu picks at the strands of his hair, as though trying to match the image of the curse with the same shade of hair and ending up with nothing. Because it’s kind of hard to imagine, Kento thinks. It’s just like how you can’t imagine Gojo Satoru with black hair even if you tried. It’s just stamped onto your mind and you can’t quite paint over that stark shade of white with a black paintbrush and come out with an image that doesn’t look off in some way.

“While that is all well and good,” Kento begins. “That doesn’t explain this visit.”

And while Kento doesn’t like to hear about Gojo’s ridiculous theories on the best of days, he’d prefer it if it was said straight.

“Are you that excited to hear what Yuta-kun and I have uncovered?” Gojo teases. “My, Nanamin, I didn’t know you were so invested.”

Kento is not, really. He just rather Gojo get to the point rather than dance around the subject all the while giving Kento the most stress of his life.

“I’m not,” Kento denies. But denial is usually a moot thing in front of Gojo Satoru as the man bulldozes over Kento’s answer with the casualness of a bull in a china shop and says:

“I know you are!”

Okkotsu’s brows climb to near his hairline as he looks part embarrassed, part apologetic.

Kento gets it.

Kento only offers a sigh because usually, when it comes to these things, any resistance is moot in the face of Gojo Satoru’s everything.

“So long story short.” Not this again, Kento thinks and a part of him wants to shrivel up already because whenever Gojo Satoru says ‘long story short’, he’s about to- “The elders went and ordered a massacre on Uchiha Obito’s clan and Yuta’s ancestors survived that, somehow.”

This is what Kento means.

When Gojo Satoru says ‘long story short’, it’s a shorthand for ‘I am about to ruin your day and life and you will sit there and watch me do so because there’s nothing you can do to shut me up.’

Kento shouldn’t be here right now. Whatever he’s listening to? It’s above his paygrade. It’s above his station, it’s perhaps even about Gojo Satoru’s station because whatever Gojo Satoru is saying it’s-

“What?” If Kento’s voice sounds a bit shaky that is because it is.

Kento would dare anyone to take such news with composure and poise.

Okkotsu Yuta looks almost pained, there is a grimace on his young face and Kento can see the boy’s knuckles turning pale as he clutches at his pants beneath Kento’s ordinary dining table.

It further cements the fact that Gojo Satoru isn’t kidding around and that is a terrible realization in and of itself.

“Elaborate,” Kento says very quickly, because he knows a serious matter when he sees one and this?

This is above any of their paygrades.

Gojo is leaning towards Okkotsu slightly. There’s an edge about his lips and the way he tilts his head. If Kento didn’t know any better he’d think that man was just changing up his sitting posture a bit. But that’s false, because Kento knows better and he knows that at this moment the focus of Gojo Satoru’s mythical eyes are on Okkotsu and he’s watching with a quiet focus that many wouldn’t attribute to him.

“Ah, well, you know Yuta-kun is sorta related to the greatest sorcerer in jujutsu history, right?” Gojo drawls out casually. “But now his family is a bit civilian, you see. So we just wanted to ask Uchiha Obito if it knows if anything happened, and see-”

Gojo smiles, it’s not a pretty thing.

“It said that they all died on one night,” Gojo says. “And the world moved on.”

That’s-

There’s no doubt that it implies a tragedy unheard of in jujutsu history.

Unheard of because it’s been erased- gone, tossed away.

“This brings us to several possibilities,” Gojo says. There’s almost a manic edge about him. Something to the curl of his lips and the way Kento can almost imagine his unearthly eyes shining beneath his blindfold.

“One, the elders ordered it after Uchiha Obito became a curse,” Gojo says. “This brings several questions. First, did the elders know Uchiha Obito became a curse? Second, what was so important about Uchiha Obito’s clan? Third, how?”

Gojo’s three fingers are up in the air, it’s a faux casual thing. Playful when it shouldn’t be and Kento can tell it’s mostly forced.

“We can answer question one as ‘no, they did now know’ because there’s no mention of Uchiha Obito nor of anything relating to my clan. Meaning that they either knew and let that no-good Gojo go without even a reprimand, which is improbable or two-”

“Your ancestor hid it,” Kento says. “But hiding a curse of that magnitude is-”

It’d be almost impossible, Kento would say.

But is it?

Kento thinks of that curse, thinks of its spiralling, chaotic energy that screams special grade and then-

Nothing.

Almost human- almost less energy than a human should have at a cursory glance. If you didn’t pry enough- if you didn’t look enough-

Uchiha Obito is almost a human from curse energy alone. And if it were humanoid in the past as it were today, there is no doubt that even the best could be fooled if its face is kept away from sight and mind.

“He’s hard to sense,” Okkotsu admits slowly. “When there’s a buzzing of other curse energy around him and he’s just-”

Okkotsu’s hands moves as though to visualize something.

“There’s just an absense of it around him. It’s quiet.”

That’s telling enough on its own, because while Okkotsu is young, there is no denying that he’s a higher grade than Kento.

“So answer to question one: did the elders know? No. Which brings us to question two, ‘why?’”

It’s not hard to imagine why.

Okkotsu’s face looks grimer than ever and there’s an answer that’s running through all their heads and it’s not pleasant to speak aloud but nothing about this whole thing is pleasant.

It’s a terrible thing that brings bile onto Kento’s tongue and he almost can’t quite comprehend it. The whole magnitude of it- the whole-

“Because they knew,” Okkotsu says. His voice is a quiet thing, but there’s a shimmering fire there. There’s an edge to his eyes and a sharpness to the downturn of his lips. “They knew the truth, didn’t they?”

It’d be hard not to, Kento thinks. Considering that Uchiha Obito was one of their own. No doubt at least well known due to his status as a vessel.

It’s still cruel, nevertheless. To wipe out a whole clan for a reason like that? Just for that?

“They were a strong clan,” Gojo says. “But, ah, is that important enough? You are the generation who ended the practice of vessels because it failed. It’s such a stain on your legacy. What would they say about you in the future? Would they say you’re all a bunch of failures? Would Uchiha Obito’s clan really let one of their own, talented clansmen die without a whisper? It’s obvious that their power would decline, you both know they’ll never be given a chance for prominence in a long time because of Uchiha Obito. It’s obvious they wouldn’t take this lying down- so what do you do? If you want to keep your power and legacy-” Gojo almost looks like he wants to laugh, but it’d be the pathetic kind of laughter, the kind that’s too rough around the edges and a tad bit wry. “- Just nip the problem in the bud.”

The problem with Gojo Satoru and his theories, Kento thinks, is that it makes sense.

It’s horrific, but it’s horrific because it all seems so plausible.

“The third question, how?”

This one also answers itself.

Because with the way the elders are set up right now they’re-

“It’s not hard for three major clans and then some to simply…” Gojo scratches his fork over the fine surface of Kento’s plate. “Erase a clan in one night.”

The elders, as they are right now, are mainly either from major clans or well connected with them.

And it’s not hard to imagine the non dilemma that they’d been in.

They all had a hand in this together. All of them. So they need to do what they must.

“Final question, how did Uchiha Obito find out?” Gojo’s voice is loud in the quiet space of Kento’s residence. “It became a curse, hidden away. And it’s not hard to imagine it wouldn’t be let out during such a time so-”

There’s a small pause here, as though Gojo was thinking of an answer himself.

“How?”

“He- it seems familiar with that night,” Okkotsu offers quietly, brows furrowed in thought. “It said that it was a ‘bloody night’ and while that’s usually assumed with the high amount of deaths, it’s just-”

Okkotsu seems to flounder for a moment before Gojo interjects:

“You believe that it saw that night in person?”

Okkotsu nods quickly, then hesitates, “well, it’s just an assumption and it could’ve been told that by your ancestor, sensei. Actually, most likely it was told that and-”

“Would you tell a curse that it’s family has just been slaughtered?” Gojo interjects. It’s a pointed question and it makes Okkotsu flinch and draw back his answer and Kento can see why.

For all that it’s reasonable for the previous Gojo to just tell Uchiha Obito- would they, really? Would you risk telling a special grade curse that it’s family has just all been erased? Would you take that kind of risk to let it go mad?

Kento knows not of the complicated relationship between Uchiha Obito and that dead ancestor. But he reckons that even that ancestor would hesitate to tell Uchiha Obito during such a precariou time. So that only leaves-

Kento can’t even imagine it.

To be transformed into a curse against your will- to be hidden away like something taboo and terrible- to have to endure all that and then one day-

One day you seek out your family and somehow that day ends up being the day that they’re all slaughtered in cold blood?

Uchiha Obito’s life seems like a giant joke from the world.

Uchiha Obito should’ve gone mad a long time ago. Should’ve went mad with just those emotions from that night but somehow it’s not and it’s sane despite what happened so how?

It’s simply not logical for it to somehow stay sane against the world that doomed its family. For it to not kill sorcerers on sight for what they did.

It must mean something, but what?

“But, ah, that brings us to the second possibility,” Gojo Satoru says, as though reading Kento’s thoughts. “What if this happened before Uchiha Obito became a curse?”

Both Kento and Okkotsu exchange quick glances at each other and there’s something about that. It feels like the world has come to a stutter and what awaits them is rabbit hole they can never climb out of.

One: did the elders know that Uchiha Obito became a curse?

That’s not important because Uchiha Obito was still alive at that time.

Two: why?

Gojo Satoru smiles, like the cat that got the canary.

“Replication is a scary ability, isn’t it. Perhaps…”

The fork tips over as Gojo pushes it to the side.

“It’s a bit too scary if it can even copy the heralded Six Eyes.”

Three: How?

The same answer as above.

And four: How did Uchiha Obito know about it?

Simple-

It was there and-

If what Gojo implying was true then it no doubt saw what happened in front of its eyes and rather than its clan dying because of it being executed-

It was executed because it couldn’t let its clan die.

Imagine that- you are a vessel. You think you’re doing good, you think you’re on the right side of history.

Then-

Then comes along the world. Then on one night you’re told that your power is too much. That it disrupts the world. All because you did something you shouldn’t.

All because your friend, your comrade decided to teach you his heralded technique, all because you did it and now the world knows that ah-

Your clan can disrupt the carefully build balance, your clan is a bit too powerful and the powerful doesn’t like their throne being encroached upon, and now the world has come knocking. And you open the door and there’s only one choice.

You can’t hold back the curse inside you anymore because it’s either that or your clan dies and you either choose to let the curse go and pray that you can control it- that this is it, that this gamble either pays off or it won't and you hope by god it'll pay off because you think you're strong enough, you think you're talented enough, after all- you can emulate the Six Eyes, can't you? So it's either this or your family falls and so you toss the dice onto the monster's court.

Five: Why does Uchiha Obito not resent the sorcerers?

It’s simple, isn’t it?

A curse doesn’t simply obey. Sukuna certainly hasn’t when Junpei died in front of Itadori.

In fact-

It’d do the opposite. Because that's simply the nature of curses, especially ones that's been bound to a sorcerer exorcising their own clan.

And so, it'd make sense, wouldn't it. You can't exactly hate someone for doing something when you, albeit unwillingly, helped them.

You can’t exactly resent the sorcerers when you’ve got the same blood on your hands, when you-

When you let a curse go loose to save your clan only to end up with their blood on your hands because you played a risky gamble that you lost.

Rather than resentment- there’s only a bone deep regret to be had there. Maybe enough to lay down your neck and accept your death and let this tragedy be buried.

No one says these words. It’s almost- it’s just not something you can even comprehend. Let alone say aloud.

“Let’s hope it’s the former, hmm?” Gojo says, a casual lilt to his voice.

Chapter Text

Kamui is a realm made by the gods.

(Or so Madara said. Obito was inclined to believe in him.

Madara had looked at him with a cold gleam in his eyes that was far more pleasant than his usual gaze and a part of Obito flocked to that like a man starving to a scrappy meal.

“It’s a good ability,” Madara said slowly. Obito, having thought it was kind of lame compared to eternal fire and whatnot, immediately nodded. Feeling something like heart palpations. “It’s very useful.”

You’re very useful. Was the implied meaning.

Obito didn’t mean to smile, he really didn’t. Kamui was gotten from Rin’s death, after all. That terrible, bloody day entrenched into his mind and refusing to leave his waking and resting moments alone and just-

He smiled, nonetheless. Like a simpering fool as Madara gave him the first praise of few.)

It’s awfully quiet, Satoru observes. It’s the thick kind of tension that Satoru can almost taste on his tongue and touch with his infinity. It’s tense and quiet and it’s precisely the kind of environment he has learned to thrive on.

Don’t get Satoru wrong, he doesn’t like sitting in a room that’s filled with a bit too much tension, but the fact stands that he often must. So, as any good Gojo does, he adapts.

(Satoru much prefers the quietness of an empty field than anything. Most would call him dull for that, and it probably is. It’s kind of and old man thing to want to just lay back on a grassy field beneath a tree or so with a soft blanket beneath you and look up at the sky and either draw pictures of the clouds or try to name the stars.

Maybe he just prefers something ‘new’, something ‘novel.’ Being in a stuffy room with stressed people is near one of the most common experiences he has. It’s quite dull at this point, and a day of lying down on the grass and staring up at the sky with nothing ado is a much rarer occasion.

It’s not like Satoru can do that, though, he has things like duties and jobs and responsibilities that encroaches on his sleep everyday and makes him want to chew through a whole bakery and then some.

Sometimes, he feels like if he even takes a vacation, the world will go to shit.

And it’s probably true.)

The desserts taste like ashes on his tongue, now, it’s something that makes him want to frown and spit it out but he doesn’t by the pure virtue that it’s fueling his entire existence.

“Well, there goes the mood,” Satoru muses. It’s much less so an observation and more of an ice breaker. Because if he doesn’t speak up then no one will and they’ll be in this perpetual state of shiftily staring at each other or down at their hands and Satoru gets that, he really does, but he doesn’t think Yuta want to have some very deep thoughts about his family in a near stranger’s apartment.

Yuta seems like the kind of kid to prefer stewing in his own thoughts, all alone. He’s not like Yuuji who would rather sit alongside everyone and just stew with his troubles. He’s much more solitary, whether it due to his upbringing or character.

(Well, Yuta likes having company just fine, just not when he’s dealing with all of this.)

Yuta almost jolts at the sound. Color has already been drained from his face, but he seems even more pale, now. He glances between Satoru and Nanami, there’s something in his eyes and a twist to his lips that indicates he wants to say something before deciding otherwise.

It’s not something you can hide from Satoru.

It digs at Satoru’s curiosity. It digs at an old part of him that just wants to grab at Yuta and shake him for answers until there’s nothing about him that Satoru doesn’t know, from thoughts to fears to secrets.

It’s an old thing that’s ravenous and hungry and wants to devour all the knowledge it can, to look under the crevices of well worn rocks and forgotten nooks and crannies. To look beneath the skin and blood and know there is to know about a person. To look at them and read and consume their thoughts- to let it all be subsumed into Satoru’s.

It’s a bit of a thing with the Six Eyes. They’re born knowing all there is about the world about them. So when there’s a gap, it makes them want to fill it.

Again, it’s a long dead part of Satoru because you don’t dig answers out of allies. Especially allies that have just had their world rocked and had their clan speculated on about a massacre of all things.

So, instead, he observes Yuta and the boy’s absentminded mannerism. His thoughts in another place, another time, perhaps, as he methodically cuts up Satoru’s cake into finely sliced pieces.

Nanami doesn’t seem to notice, stewing in his own thoughts.

It’s rather hard for him to process, Satoru would imagine. He’s from a civilian family. Probably had aspirations of ordinary means and an ordinary life. But he’s stuck here, now, in the jujutsu world with the extraordinary happening everyday and a long buried secret coming knocking at his door.

It doesn’t help that he was the first to see Uchiha Obito, either.

He had reported on Uchiha Obito, of course, but the report suggests Uchiha Obito to be much more benign than it actually is. Mentioning how it had an ‘evasive’ technique rather than replication, with no real mention of its appearance other than ‘humanoid’. Because Uchiha Obito doesn’t quite need that big of a target on it yet.

Todo’s silence was rather easily bought, as well. The boy being just unambitious enough to take a ticket to his favorite idol’s show as a bribe and just smart enough to know that it’s better to keep his mouth shut.

As for Yuuji? Satoru imagines the boy doesn’t know how to file a report, let alone want to report Uchiha Obito.

(He’s gotten a bit attached, you see. It’s a bit of a troublesome thing when Satoru will have to one day exorcise Uchiha Obito. But that day is neither here nor there.)

Though, for now, that is to Satoru’s advantage because that means that Yuuji won’t say a peep, either.

And with that, all the mouths of those who can say of Uchiha Obito’s appearance has been sealed.

Really, Satoru feels like Uchiha Obito should thank him.

But then again, Satoru is the reason why Uchiha Obito is awake, now, so maybe Satoru should thank it for helping him take down the jujutsu world.

Or maybe, they were even.

Satoru certainly didn’t ask for a curse to be linked to him.

And Uchiha Obito certainly didn’t ask to be alive.

(“The gods gifted it to you for a reason, boy,” Madara then said. There is a cold glint in his eyes, like steel and kunai and then he had said-

“They knew you were meant to fix things. I know you’re meant for greater things, right, Obito?”

It’s a terrible thing to say, Obito knows, now, to a boy grieving and wanting to do anything to bring back his dead first love and his dead halcyon days, but back then? Back when he was a runt with nothing more to his name than a damaged hitai-ate and broken body? Back when he was still reeling from Rin’s death and Kakashi’s betrayal and having nowhere to turn?

Uchiha Madara had offered out an old, wrinkly hand. There’s no warmth to be had in his eyes nor face. There’s no warmth to be had anywhere by Madara’s side.

But the world? It was hell. Arid and hot and burning everyone out there alive- slowly but surely and Madara wasn’t like that. Madara wanted to fix things. Madara didn’t hold the hypocritical warmth that Minato had- promising to be there for his students and letting two die.

Madara wasn’t like the rest of them. He was greater- colder- more terrible than anyone else.

But to Obito?

He was his teacher. He’s like the old man Tooru from down the street who would snark and grunt at Obito but teach him how to complete his rite of passage, or old man Teru who would carry around a cane and lightly knock Obito with it whenever Obito tried to pull a prank on him but offer Obito a set of kunai for his gradation with a snide world or another.

There’s no warmth to be had by Madara’s side. The man doesn’t offer a warmth like the cottoning of oneself from a soft, woven blanket like Minato does. But it’s infinitely better. Madara is rather like a whetstone, offering no quarters or rest but offering for you to have a chance to be better to fix this hellhole of a world once and for all- and-

He’s offering Obito a hand. He’s looking at Obito- the runt of the lot, the deadlast, the one that they say will never amount to anything and he’s saying-

You’re useful. You’re meant for greater things, I know it.

He’s saying-

Kamui is a realm made by the gods and they’ve chosen you.

He’s offering a hand out to Obito. It’s wrinkled and old but oh-

It meant the world.

Obito still feels the slick blood of the Kiri nin on him from that one, bloody day. Wherein Rin died and revealed the true face of the world. He still feels the pang deep inside his heart from Kakashi’s betrayal, he can almost still feel Rin’s blood wet on his hands as he grasps for her body and tries to will her back to life.

Obito still felt terrible. But at that moment?

His suffering had purpose.)

Obito knows, now, that Madara saw his chance and took it. That the old man knew precisely what to say to get Obito to be his attack dog. It’s not hard, Obito imagines. To look at the past him. All young and not so naive anymore but still so idealistic that it hurts, having your dreams broken down in front of you and just practically begging-

Give my life a purpose. Give me a direction- Rin’s death can’t be for nothing-

My death can’t be for nothing.

Does Obito resent the man?

He should.

Yuta feels like the world is lurching under his feet. He’s not sure how he should be feeling or what he’s even feeling aside from the abject horror welling up inside of him.

It’s making him feel light headed and heavy hearted in the same breath and he’s a whirling mess of emotions that are spiraling out of control the more he sits there and think. Gojo-sensei’s words pounding against the walls of his heads and he just wants to clutch at his head and just-

Just what? Unhear the words? Shake them out of his head?

All of them in this room know that there’s no unhearing those words after they’ve been spoken. There’s no shaking them out of your head- let alone forgetting. It’s a permanent stain on a once spotless canvas.

Yuta knows that the jujutsu world certainly isn’t kind.

But this?

It’s beyond unkind. It’s a different breed of terrible and more terrible. It’s the meaningless slaughter of a dozen or so or more for the sake of pride and hubris and whatever else.

There’s the choice between them dying because they knew too much or could do too much and either reason doesn’t justify a damn thing about it.

He tries to imagine it, he really does, he tries to imagine that night. Them looking up at their once comrades and realizing that the blade that cuts the sharpest aren’t from a monster’s claw but rather that of an ally.

He tries to imagine them in their last moments, choking on blood or having their last moments be looking into their once ally’s eyes and seeing the dead around them and-

He thinks of them, dying, he thinks of the betrayal hot on their hands and the blood slick on their tongues, he think of what he’ll feel at that moment- he thinks of what he’ll do and all he can imagine doing is using up his last breath to lay one, final-

I’ll curse you.

Their voices intermix with his own- a childish, boyish screech from a boy that just wanted his friend to not die. It’s mashed together with the harsh renditions of ghosts and ghouls that want to hurt just as much as they’ve been hurt.

Is it in his blood?

Was Rika the result of an ancient grudge? An ancient resentment that dwelled for centuries until a descendent finally uttered those words? Wanting Yuta to use Rika to-

To what-

Avenge them?

It was originally almost impossible for a boy of Yuta’s age to create a special grade curse.

But if it were fueled with the resentment that lasted for centuries? That’s fueled by Yuta’s heritage and blood?

It’s much less likely for a special grade to be born under those circumstances.

It’s a terrible thought and Yuta glances up at Gojo-sensei and Nanami and-

He feels like he should say something.

And yet.

Yuta glances back down to the table, setting apart another plate of desserts for Gojo-sensei.

He doesn’t say a thing.

Does Obito resent the man?

He really, really should.

But a part of him, distantly, feels a shred of admiration for Madara. Who saw his chance and took it- who looked at a deadlast and decided- you’ll do.

It’s a kind of supreme arrogance not many can match and pull of.

But Madara?

It’s a question of ‘when’ and not ‘if.’

Even now, Obito can’t tell what’s fake and real.

Is Kamui truly a realm made by the gods, or was Madara just bluffing?

Obito can’t tell but his Kamui doesn’t feel like his. It feels like his and Madara’s. The man having never stepped foot in here but he was the one to give meaning to a Mangekyo Obito thought useless other than for evading.

If Obito is the holder of Kamui, Madara is the one to make it into a legend.

There would be no Obito without Madara.

Obito would still be the same deadlast, untalented and weak. Madara is the one who forged him from hell.

Obito still can’t-

Kamui is the realm of the gods.

So ghosts can’t haunt you here.

And it’s true.

There are no ghosts in Kamui. They no longer cling to his robes and dig at his eyes.

It’s eerily silent and there’s nothing around except Obito and-

Does Obito resent Madara?

There’s something in the air lately, Yuuji can’t tell what but it’s there and it’s bugging him to no end. It’s like one of those things that put you off the day entirely but you can’t tell why. Like waking up on the wrong side of the bed but every morning.

It’s like someone is constantly poking at his back and when he turns around they’re nowhere to be seen but Yuuji could swear that he was being poked. It’s that kind of annoyance, that kind of bother.

It feels like someone’s all up in his personal space and he wants to take a bite or two out of them. It’s kind of an odd description of it but it’s also kinda apt. Which, again, bothers Yuuji because no one is up in his personal space but he feels like someone is and he wants to give them a good punch to the face.

He tries describing it to Megumi and Nobara. They both just give each other glances and share a shrug.

“Maybe you’re just on edge from the Kyoto event,” Megumi suggests.

“You two did see a special grade,” Nobara adds. She’s checking her nails and while they aren’t yet painted over in a soft pastel shade or bright neon, Yuuji can tell she’s thinking about it. Though, it’s usually not done because painted nails and daily handling of sharp objects usually don’t go so well together, as Nobara often bemoans.

Yuuji doesn’t feel nearly as shaken from that. Maybe it’s odd, but he doesn’t feel fearful, not really. He just feels a mild ‘well, that could’ve been dangerous.’ Maybe he’s a bit arrogant, but he just feels safe, somehow. Like it’ll somehow all work out one way or another and Yuuji feels like he has an expiration date and that day wasn’t it so he feels safe in that he wasn’t going to die.

It’s an odd thing, probably. Because the profession he’s in is dangerous and fraught and Yuuji could’ve probably died but he doesn’t feel like that. It feels like he’ll only die when he eats up the twenty fingers and that until then- whatever danger he’ll face there’ll be Megumi, Nobara, and Gojo-sensei by his side to fight with him and protect him.

He has died before, once, when Sukuna dug out his heart. But even after that he doesn’t know what he feels about death. He knows he is going to die but when he thinks about it it’s just a jumbled mess of everything that ends up being nothing. That he tosses to the back of his mind because thinking about death is morbid and terrible and Yuuji is fifthteen and he might be dying before he can even go off to college.

He doesn’t know what to feel about it.

Death is just an abstract thing you know that’s going to happen to you when you’re old and wrinkly.

Yuuji is going to die young.

He thinks he’s afraid of it but it’s also nice to know that he’s dying at twenty fingers and no less.

It’s a weird mess of feelings but in the end it just means that when another curse comes knocking and holds a knife to Yuuji’s neck it’s just a thing that happens and feels like nothing compared to the looming thought that one day his teacher will kill him.

“I don’t think that’s it.” Is all Yuuji says in response, shrugging his shoulders casually as he does a loud sip of the soda making Nobara bellow out an ‘ew’ and Megumi looks away from him as though not daring to be associated with Yuuji.

It feels different. It feels like someone has somehow moved the world two inches to the left and now nothing’s quite the same.

Yuuji doesn’t know when it started, but it’s not stopping.

“Are you feeling ill, then?” Megumi suggests, taking careful bites out of his meal. His eyes are calm and benign. There’s a quiet kind of concern in them. Yuuji wouldn’t really have been able to tell if he doesn’t know Megumi enough, but he does and that’s a fact worth celebrating all on its own.

“I thought idiots can’t catch colds,” Nobara comments snidely, earning herself a roll of an eye from Megumi and a quiet admonishment for being childish. Nobara just sticks out her tongue but there’s a mischievous glint in both their eyes that can’t quite be mistaken as they take turns to stomp on each other’s feet under the table after Nobara gives Megumi a mean nudge.

Yuuji ends up laughing at them, feeling like the world has been shifted an inch back to the right. Neither of them are pleased that he’s doing so and he has earned himself the position of carrying Nobara’s shopping bags for the next week (which he always does anyways) and the target of Megumi’s dogs tracking training (which, again, he always does anyways, besides Panda sometime taking up the spot if Panda isn’t too busy).

It still doesn’t feel normal, but at least it feels better, he thinks.

(He thinks of an old man. When Obito’s nightmares were at their worst, when he can’t even close his eyes because he sees the dead he caused and will cause and they’re grabbing at him and sometimes he can’t move and- Madara looked upon him, with deep set eyes and a mocking smile and the man says to him-

“When the ghosts cling to you, when they scream at you, when they haunt you-” Madara said, quiet and distant. “Go into that realm of yours.”

Obito had glanced back and Madara reached out to place a cold finger beneath Obito’s eye, as though wanting to dig it out but he’s not and rather he’s tracing the edges of Obito’s cheek as though wanting to distract him.

“The gods will protect you.”

It’s almost like his grandmother’s old tale.

It’s a thought he can’t erase.)

Obito breathes in the stale air of Kamui. He feels the shifting block beneath his fingers. He feels the current of an unknown wind pass him by.

The ghosts no longer cling to him, scream at him, nor haunt him-

Kamui is the realm of the gods.

Does Obito resent him?

He really, really should but-

He doesn't know.

The full moon is what greets Obito when he walks out of Kamui.

It’s a thing that brings back memories of terrible decisions and a terrible life lead.

He doesn’t much feel like doing anything on days like this, not anymore. The full moon now just makes him feel lethargic as his old mistakes come to dig at his brain and makes him just want to bury his head in the sand and not think at all.

This is not at all helped by the Juubi and its sudden increase in energy when seeing said full moon, as though being able to delude itself that its mother was still alive up there.

Fuck if Obito knows, though, Kaguya could very well be sealed up there.

“She’s dead,” Obito says. To the Juubi, maybe to be cruel, who knows, but the thing certainly can’t understand him so it feels like a practice in futility.

It keeps roaring and roaring and Obito hates every moment of it.

He needs something to distract himself tonight. Something more than mindless murder and trying to bury his head in the sand and try to sleep it off because if he even closes his eyes now he swears he can see the Juubi in its shadows.

Though the question is-

What to do?

Again, Obito would like to restate that he’s not here for nefarious purposes and that his terrorist days were over and this was a check-up visit that was more for a distraction rather than something important.

He hadn’t seen the kid in a long time, either, so it wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Having thought so, he slipped through the walls of the boy’s room once more. Feeling, again, the edges of Orochimaru’s shadow looming over him. But he swears that he wasn’t here to take over the boy’s body or draw him to the dark side or make him betray his village.

Really, even amongst the Akatsuki Orochimaru was one of the weird ones and that was saying a lot considering that his opponents were Hidan and Tobi.

Itadori, as it seems, is asleep. It’s no wonder. It’s in the middle of the night, after all, and Obito knows that teenagers need their well deserved rest to grow.

A part of Obito didn’t want to wake Itadori up, but another part felt that it would be really creepy to just stare at the boy while he sleeps and then leave.

Then there is a quiet shush.

If Obito was a worse shinobi he’d jolt. But he was not so he stands, casual and light on his feet as his eyes darted about. Searching for the source of the noise.

“Let’s not wake the brat tonight, hmm?” A sarcastic voice drawls. “After all, the adults are talking.”

It’s a voice that embodies arrogance.

(It’s almost like Madara, in a way. The great and terrible. More terrible than anyone else, but he was-)

Obito’s eyes catch on Itadori’s sleeping figure.

A pair of eyes open on Itadori’s cheeks as the disjointed lips move into a malicious smile.

“I think we have a lot to talk about, you and I.”

Chapter Text

The king of curses.

It is an ancient title. But it is no less feared for it.

It is a title passed on by time. A title earned by blood and bodies. A title to be had by one and no other.

It once changed by eras, or so it was said.

But now?

When you say ‘the king of curses’, there are no other names that come to mind other than, ‘Ryomen Sukuna.’

The curse that had become the apex out of them all. The curse that took the title and never let it out of his grasp.

The story of Ryomen Sukuna has long been lost to time. Chipped away by the deluge of sand within an hourglass. Taken in by the dark currents of the changing eras and having been shaped by it. What once was a clear cut tale is now nothing but hearsay and what ifs. A cloudy vision that offers no clear answer to what could’ve created this calamity other than that its name is Ryomen Sukuna and that it bears the limbs and eyes of two men put together and the strength of a thousand combined.

Perhaps Ryomen Sukuna is made even more fearsome by it. For no one knows where it came from or its origins. The further one goes back, the harder it is to discern which records are real and which are mere tales.

Perhaps it’s not a case of the records being ‘lost’ but a case of the opposite. Wherein too many speak and in the end, the truth becomes just another ‘story.’

But the fact remains that Ryomen Sukuna remains no mere story. The king of curses is not a remnant of a bygone era. It is not a mere fable, nor a mere stroke of paint along the canvas, giving a glimpse into a forgotten past.

Rather, it is just that-

The king of curses.

A fickle being that fears no gods or deities. A fickle being that lives by its whims and the world is shaped around it. Whether you die now or die later, it is up to Ryomen Sukuna and his ever changing moods, its ever changing wants and desires.

It is that type of being. The type that cannot simply be reasoned with for it does not care for such.

It is, perhaps, the most fearsome type of curse.

The type that has the intellect of a human, but the strength of a calamity.

The type that knows precisely its strength, so things like rationality or predictability are not things that it needs not that into consideration.

It is a terrifying curse.

An eon old curse.

Perhaps, there is predictability to be had in the unpredictable.

If one bothers to look, bothers to think of this eon old curse.

One would realize what a dreadfully boring life it must’ve been. To live within a box for centuries and centuries. From a mighty king who once did as he pleases and saw all the sights there was to see-

From a being who lived vicariously, greedily-

Selfishly.

It must’ve been terribly, terribly boring.

The sights of the modern world is forgein to it. So it’s quite a nice thing to look at, at first. All the sights and people and clothes and everything about it. All through this teenager named ‘Itadori Yuuji.’

But at some point, the modern world becomes a passing fancy. And what excitement it once held becomes a boring sight compared to the shining pearl it once was.

For a being like Ryomen Sukuna. It would never be enough to just live in the modern world.

No.

It wants more. It wants the thrill of living life however it wants. To cause chaos or order. To topple cities or emperors. To kill or let live. It wants and wants and wants.

Other than one named Fushiguro Megumi, it finds itself utterly bored of the world.

It finds itself wanting the old enemies and old battles. It finds itself wanting blood on its hands and the old cries of fear and the familiar pleadings for life.

It wants a fight, it wants something familiar and unfamiliar all at once. It wants the rush and thrill of a good hunt to be had and a territory to be gained. It wants a challenge, it wants the novelty of something new, something exciting that it can relish in before stomping beneath its feet into tiny, shattered pieces. It wants an opponent that can outlast a strike, or maybe not even that if they’re entertaining enough. It wants to feel the old rush of battle within its body and wants to hear the sound of clashing worlds around itself.

It wants many things.

But, Itadori Yuuji does not offer it such.

(The boy doesn’t even offer Ryomen Sukuna the chance to fight against the holder of the Six Eyes. It’s a terrible annoyance, and terribly dreadful to think about.

To die without even a fight.

What fun is there to be had? Just laying down one’s head and praying the blade falls down fast enough?

Pathetic is the most apt word for it.

The sorcerers probably think it’s brave or whatnot. But true bravery would be to bite at the blade itself and take Ryomen Sukuna to the grave if Itadori Yuuji has the ability. But the boy does not. So he’s laying down his head and dragging Ryomen Sukuna to the grave with him by sheer proxy. An act of ‘good’ that is just so very pathetic.

It’s the ‘good’ that comes with not knowing the world. The foolish naivety that comes with not a lick of experience with the jujutsu world that will swallow you whole if you are not careful.

It’s the foolish heroism that makes Sukuna want to crush Itadori Yuuji in his entirety. It’ll be the best kind of death, Sukuna thinks.

If Itadori Yuuji wishes to kill Ryomen Sukuna, then it’s only fair for Sukuna to kill the boy in turn. In the worst way possible.

Then, only then-

They can both die together.)

So Ryomen Sukuna is terribly, utterly-

Bored.

But, ah, that is not where it ends.

Instead, something begins one day. On one terribly boring day.

Wherein a screech grates against Ryomen Sukuna’s ears.

A challenge. A dare.

A-

If you don’t come to me, I’ll come to you.

It is a thing that, perhaps, had reached all curses in Japan.

It has been quite some time since a claim had been so widely staked, a challenge so loudly stated.

It has been quite some time since Ryomen Sukuna was challenged.

And longer yet, since it has felt threatened.

It has been quite some time since it felt this kind of thrill running through its veins.

And so Ryomen Sukuna lies in wait.

For Sukuna cannot come to it. For Sukuna is stuck in a vessel that knows nothing and thus, does not act on anything.

It is frustrating, oftentimes.

But now?

Ryomen Sukuna is a curse with no clear origin. None that the world knows at large, at least.

But it knows its own story. It knows its own origins, its own birth.

It thinks upon when it was a ‘he’ and where it could smile and laugh and feel the earth and ground beneath its feet, just like any normal human would. It thinks of a time long past and long dead. It thinks of touches that are warm and softly spoken words from a mother to her babe. It thinks of the scent of rain in the air and the feeling of air rushing through its hair as its feet taps against the ground in a fast, rhythmic pattern. As it runs and runs to a horizon unknown, and sees the setting sun in the distance. The thrum of the wide, wide world ahead and an anticipation of the unknown.

It thinks of memories long gone and a tale unsaid for eons.

This is barely a tenths of that, whatever it felt when it was alive.

This feeling of anticipation.

“So defensive,” says the curse to the vessel. Centuries and centuries worth of boredom waiting for a spark. “I just want to talk.”

“What do you want?” the vessel replies, calmly, quietly. Its gaze is a thing of apprehension.

Though, that is not where the true conversation lies, is it.

This meaningless exchange of words is not what Sukuna desires. It is not what it wants. It cares not for small talk. A dreadfully boring thing, unless with the casual bout of threats and such tossed about. But right now, it doesn’t care much for threats, either.

Rather.

What it wants is something else. Something that lurks beneath the skin. Something that prowls beneath the veins.

Something new.

Something novel.

It sees a world of ruin. A world with ashes and dust abounds. A vast emptiness of desolation and destruction. With nothing but the haunting image of a single being. A red moon looms above and there lies a single red eye amidst it all.

The thing looks at Sukuna.

Sukuna looks at the thing from atop its throne.

This.

This is where the true conversation lies.

“You’re a curious thing, aren’t you,” the curse says to the thing and the vessel. It is not a question, not really. But a statement of fact. Because all those who could hear these words know, innately, that it is true.

They’re both curious things. One being a vessel that somehow is still attached to his curse. Living through death and becoming all the terrible for it, and yet, somehow retaining his rationality as though he were alive when Sukuna had seen stronger men go mad under the shrieking of their own cursed energy. Meaning either that he was greater than all of them, or that he’s somehow special.

And the other?

A fathomless being, perhaps it once had a shape, but now it is nothing more but a mirage of images and shadows. Twisting into one another to form a mass that is neither anything nor nothing. Simply existing as a something. With a single, solid red eye peering out from the abyss. The only thing that’s discernable from the mirage of mist. A constantly twisting stream of echoes and haunts.

Together, they’re a pair of abominations that shouldn’t exist.

They’re a blight upon the jujutsu world, Sukuna thinks, almost gleefully. And surely, they must know this too.

Or at least the vessel does. Sukuna knows it has conscious thought, at the very least.

The other being is a mystery in and of itself.

A puzzle waiting to be cracked. A tale waiting to be read. An answer waiting to be found.

Let it be known that the king of curses always rises to the occasion. Any challenge, any call, anything at all- provided, of course, that it’s entertaining enough to bat away the centuries worth of boredom nipping away at Ryomen Sukuna’s heels.

“Normally, this king wouldn’t give you the time of day,” Sukuna says, tapping its fingers against the throne. It’s just a simple fact, really, Ryomen Sukuna has little attention for things that do not interest it. And while a passing sorcerer might catch its fancy, it’s not enough for it to start the conversation, of all things. No, it’s quite a privilege to have Sukuna speak up all on its own rather than being prompted.

It’s a sign that you’re at least a fun thing to toy around with, if nothing else.

“You’ve drawn my interest,” Sukuna praises. It’s a lofty praise that few can claim to have been given. Though this praise usually warrants a curse all on its own, rather than any kind of blessing. “Be proud.”

Though, of course, this is rarely a good thing to have drawn a fickle king’s attention. But, well, it is something, is it not?

It’ll at least be something to brag about in the afterlife.

Not that such exists for things like them.

The vessel doesn’t look any happier. Nor does it look proud of himself. Instead, it just looks placid, calm, the ever still surface of a tranquil pond.

It’s laughable that it thinks it can hide anything from Ryomen Sukuna’s many eyes.

Though, merit is where merit is due, the vessel certainly does a well enough job of hiding which terrible emotion it’s feeling.

There’s a torrent of everything and anything all at once at the core of the vessel. A rampaging thing that’s kept under wraps. Twisting and creaking with the might of a restrained beast, though to no avail as it is suppressed further and further until it’s just a coiling mass of everything all at once.

This makes it hard to discern what the vessel is feeling, though one knows the vessel feels nothing but negativity. And if it were not a curse, curses would’ve already flocked to it or been created by it to feast on its sheer output.

It is, to simply put, a banquet for curses.

The vessel must’ve been like this when it was a human, Ryomen Sukuna thinks. If nothing else, its control over its own energy is a testament to that. For no normal sorcerer would try to constrain their own cursed energy. Not to that extent, at least. Not to the extent where not even a whisper is felt by those that aren’t looking, by those that don’t have all seeing eyes or those that are powerful enough to part the veil to see the beastly thing beneath.

If there exist such a human that has such cursed energy, then-

It must’ve been quite a disaster.

For itself and for all those around it. Inviting curses to come and take a bite- just a single bite- to latch on and never let go- even to the grave.

For such a child to be born, if it were to a normal family, that child would’ve died before reaching five.

Though, of course, this is not pertinent to those born to a jujutsu family.

That crest on the vessel’s back speaks enough to the fact that it once belonged to a clan. It is an ancient tradition, that, wherein clans would wear their crests on their clothes. A sign of honor, a way for them to know who has passed if their clothes even remain when their faces are mangled. Whether it was a clan of prominence or not does not matter. The fact of the matter is that it wears its clan crest proudly and does not bother to hide the uchiwa on its back. Emblazoned in red and white.

If such a child was born into a jujutsu family, it must’ve been quite a blessing.

A child of immense cursed energy. Though, of course, they would draw curses to their side. But what are a few curses to the talent and potential that awaits within that child? What are a few curses to dispatch when the child can bolster their clan up and maybe become the next rising star?

Though, of course, with such blessings would come a drawback.

Children born with heavens defying cursed energy are weighed down by it and are to never walk lest undergo immense agony. And even then, their limbs are to never be as strong as a normal person, let alone their sorcerer peers.

It is, to aptly put, a heavenly restriction.

There is a story to be had here, Sukuna thinks. Looking at the vessel in front of itself.

A vessel that can stand and walk, and one that has the lean muscle of a fighter despite its roaring cursed energy.

Something has just defied the heavens.

Something has just defied the heavens while Ryomen Sukuna lays dormant, unseeing, unknowing.

Such a major event, such a scandalous taboo- such a thing, how can it be missed? How can not a soul speak of it? How can not a thing mention it in its presence?

Something must be afoot. Something must’ve happened.

It all boils down to the uchiwa crest and the ‘Kyuubi’, though Sukuna knows not what.

The first encounter was ordinary. The vessel’s cursed energy is still a regular thing, albeit monstrous. But now?

It is doubly so.

Perhaps it will be hard for those other than Ryomen Sukuna to tell the difference between those with high cursed energy and those that are simply monstrous.

The only way to truly tell is to look at them and see what the heavens have to say. Whether they are all but crippled or whether they are on the verge of being a monster but can still walk and run so they’re labeled as a talent instead.

It is a paper thin difference. But Ryomen Sukuna can tell with just a mere glance.

It comes with the territory of being the king of curses.

It is all but confirmed the moment the vessel appears in front of Ryomen Sukuna once more.

The energy of not just one, but two things intimately tied together. Intertwined together into a jumbled mess of emotions and curses and a quiet whisper of grief and anger and everything at once. It's not a normal vessel-curse bond, that's for sure. Sukuna would know. It is, after all, a curse with a vessel. And it is nowhere as merged together with Itadori Yuuji as the vessel is with its own curse.

“What do you want?” the vessel asks, breaking Sukuna out of its own thoughts. There is a defensive hunch to it, almost. A quiet edge of a blade in its gaze and a thousand words upon its tongue held back as it plays the game of words and riddles.

Again, words and riddles. Shallow games in the midst of the conversation they’re on. But, no matter, Sukuna will entertain them, just this once. For the entertainment that it had brought to Sukuna’s feet.

“I want many things,” Sukuna says. It is the truth. It wants many things, greed is in its nature and it's not ashamed to admit of such. “Though in relation to you?”

One of the things Ryomen Sukuna would want right now is to have a body. So that it could loom over the vessel and do a fun reenactment of cat and mouse. The predator and prey, a game it had done many times to the same reaction that never fails to get its blood going.

A shame, it is, that Itadori Yuuji is the perfect lock to this prison. And therefore, Ryomen Sukuna must stay rotted away until an opportunity arises.

“I want to be entertained,” Sukuna confesses. What use is it to lie now, of all times? Lies are something unbecoming of the king. And Ryomen Sukuna is strong enough to not need lies to bide its time.

Though, it must be said, it doesn’t dislike lying either, if it’s fun enough.

There is more that Sukuna wants, of course. But it is not as generous as to give out all its intentions.

“For now, though, I’ll take some peace and quiet.” Sukuna curves its eyes here into a mocking smile. “That little monster of yours has really been going at it.”

And that is the truth. Sukuna can see through Itadori’s eyes as clear as day. And what it sees is the upheaval of the world of curses. The little petty things scrambling about to hide from a bigger predator that has just shown itself, and the larger, stupider things thinking it can stand up to this new threat and is all the more defensive for it.

It’s an entertaining sight, though, the high pitched noise that is accompanied by it is anything but.

It’s rather an annoyance. A new sound from a new beast who knows not to do anything else except declare everything and everywhere its territory. A cute thing, sure, but doubly annoying when it’s a powerful newborn that manages to grate Sukuna’s ears of all things.

The vessel reels back, as though it didn’t notice.

In another world, another place, a monster fixes its gaze on Sukuna.

Sukuna open its lips and says:

“Quiet. Once is enough.” It’s a lesson all monsters learn with time. Some later than others.

But generously, Sukuna will teach it this once.

The monster stops roaring, it creaks its body as though to tilt its nonexistent head. A poor imitation of a human’s confusion. It’s red eyes peering into Sukuna’s being, as though to threaten to swallow Sukuna whole and everything there is to know about Ryomen Sukuna. To take the idea of ‘Ryomen Sukuna’ apart until there is nothing left to learn and to leave nothing behind except scraps when it is done.

Though, obediently, it stops making a sound. Stop challenging everything around it and instead, it is unsettlingly quiet. Just as all great curses are.

“Once is enough to let the world know,” Sukuna says, again, a generous act. “Twice and thrice and however many times? It cheapens the moment.”

And that is true.

Sukuna needs only say things once, a threat once is enough to carry its weight for a lifetime.

Twice and thrice would only cheapen it, dull the once sharpened blade.

The monster again, creaks its body. Titling its nonexistent head once more as though absorbing Ryomen Sukuna’s words. Tasting it on its imaginary tongue and finding it palpable as it does not say a thing further.

Oh, it is not out of fear, that much Sukuna knows.

But rather, a watchful silence. A curious thing that threatens to drag them both down into the abyss.

“You’re not speaking to me,” the vessel says, bringing Sukuna back into a world where the thing that stares back at him is wholly human and entirely pensive.

Sukuna barks out a laugh.

“Do you even need to ask?”

It’s an answer all on its own.

It’s a true curiosity, though, that for while the vessel and the being within it seems so utterly intertwined- the connection is one sided. The vessel knows not of the being’s thoughts nor actions. But, ah, that is not so in reverse.

It’s an intimate connection, for something that is one sided. It’s a closely intertwined thing. Down to the very soul of one’s being, down to one’s cursed energy- the most intimate thing there is- right down to your core.

It’s a connection that cannot be denied.

It’s a bond linked between two. A scrambled mess of a being that’s made from two whole thing and now is but one.

“Let me guess, that thing isn’t meant to exist,” It’s not a question, not really.

The vessel blinks, its breath stuttering, and that’s all the answer Sukuna needs, really.

“Its existence was a secret, wasn’t it, all hush-hush,” Sukuna taunts. A sharp blade on its tongue and ready to cut.

The vessel reels back- flummoxed.

Ah, Sukuna thinks it is arriving at its answer.

“And one final guess, somehow- you have always had a connection with it.”

If this were one of those chess videos Itadori often watches.

This would be ‘checkmate’, Sukuna thinks.

Sukuna thinks it has arrived at an answer.

Just from this connection- this abomination of a curse. Made up of two and created into a patchwork of mistakes.

And what an entertaining answer it is.

If it is just one being, then they would be under a heavenly restriction.

But with two?

Therein lies the weakness, the strength to defy the heavens itself.

It's a taboo act. It’s a taboo thing to think about.

Two and twice and again and again-

Twins were always an omen in the jujutsu world. For better or for worse, twins share each other’s fate. They take the other’s strength and feast on their weakness. They are one part of a whole.

They are counted as ‘one.’ They share one womb, so one’s fortune is shared and so, too, are the misfortunes doubled. They live their lives for ‘one.’

They are a sign of misfortune.

That girl Zen’in girl is proof of that. Her twin being the only barrier left between her and greatness.

Back in the day, they’d raise one twin- the one with the most potential- and let the other rot. Kill the connection when it was young so that one twin could at least live on and prosper.

But, ah, that is too inhumane for the modern standards, and that practice seems to have fallen out of use. Even for one of the ‘big three’ clans as it were.

But in ancient times, in the times where one would wear one’s clan crest as proudly as one does their weapon? Where ancient curses like the Kyuubi roamed?

It is commonplace.

But that is not what happened here, is it.

Imagine this.

A babe born with immense curse power. One that you know that would draw flack from the heavens.

Imagine this.

They have a twin. One that lacks all the curse power in the world but has a hale and whole body.

If you let them live- surely, they would come to ruin. For one twin would ruin the potential of the other. Surely- this cannot be. So which twin will it be, which twin will you choose? The one that has a monstrous cursed energy- or the one that has none but a body that can trade blows with legends itself?

It’s such a waste, isn’t it.

For one of those talents to go to waste.

So why not take a gamble.

Let two become ‘one.’

Let one become a curse.

And the other becomes the curse’s vessel.

Such a connection-

It cannot be denied.

Such a vessel-

It’s a perfect match.

A bond made from the womb.

To merge ‘two’ into ‘one.’ To defy the heavens itself.

Imagine this.

A great taboo committed. A curse not meant to exist. A secret that must be kept. A bond made from the womb.

A curse with the energy of two.

Imagine that.

How fun, Sukuna thinks.

And so it laughs.

Chapter Text

The title of ‘monster’ is not so much about the character but about the thing lurking beneath.

Then there is the king of curses. A title that embodies both strength and monstrosity in equal measures. All monsters curses bow down to him, for it is the king of curses and there can be no equal. A being that lives and let live based on its whims and pleasures and mood as fleeting as the weather.

You do not raise your head when you are in the presence of Ryoumen Sukuna. That is the type of being Ryomen Sukuna is. A type of monster that can only be classified as the word ‘one of a kind.’ Living wantonly, selfishly, because it gets the right. Because under the heavens it is strong with no equal, in the world of curses, it is a mythical being you simply do not question.

If it says the sky is red, it is so. If he says the grass is blue, it is so.

If it says you die, it is so.

Even mindless curses bow down because their instincts compel them to, lest Ryoumen Sukuna finds them a pathetic challenge to his claim to the throne.

But, ah, this monster was no mindless curse.

It is a thing of intelligence. Lurking beneath a bright red moon with a bright red eye and a fathomless shape.

It, too, had no equal.

It’s not a king, not really, for you cannot rule over just nine subjects and a world entrenched in an eternal dream.

It is no god, either, for it has no one that worships it nor lives along the currents of the whims of heavens.

It is just simply-

The king of curses ‘laughs’. A loud and booming sound that bounces along the walls of this confined world. A vast expanse that seems to stretch on for forever but not quite because while it doesn’t know much just yet, it knows that the world out there is much larger, much bigger-

Much better.

It knows not, yet, of this feeling called ‘want’. But right now it wants.

It wants to hear this sound with its own being, it wants to taste the dust from the outside, it wants the real light of the moon against its back.

It knows that this is a ‘prison’, a ‘jail.’ Not quite like the nine other ‘prisons’ that it remembers. Not quite the one with the thick red bars that can hold back a fox. But rather, a vast canvas that offers nothing at all. Not even the thing called a ‘sun.’

It knows that this is being ‘confined’ in a ‘jinchuuriki.’ Though it knows not what those terms mean, not just yet.

It is a learning monster. An intelligent monster that grows and grows and grows. But this matter escapes it. For it has no experience with anything besides its ‘mother.’ Again, a term that it knows is important, somehow, that sends a lick of something up its spine and into its body and makes it feels like it should remember this world for an infinite amount of time. But it knows not what the term ‘mother’ really means other than the flashes of silken white hair and a towering figure with a human’s body.

It has seen many things.

Though it does not know what most of those things mean.

It is not meant to be intelligent. It is not born as a thing with such, after all. But rather just in its base form all it knew was to breathe and live. Towering above the world.

And then it changed. And then what it knew was to move and roar and send the world crashing.

It is a learning monster.

It is a monster that is the pinnacle of them all.

When it was set to simply be, then so be it.

When it was set to destroy, then so be it.

It knows that it is strong. Perhaps the strongest. It is the instincts of an apex predator. Though it really does not know the hierarchy of power, it knows, instinctively, that it is near the top. Perhaps just below ‘mother.’ But not quite.

It knows not the taste of failure.

Not until that day wherein it lost against this man. Its ‘jinchuuriki’, self proclaimed ‘future Hokage’ in the past long dead and named ‘Uchiha Obito’ by two humans long, long gone.

It knows that it felt something, then. When it tried to move the man’s arms as it wills it, only to be met with failure. A barrier against it that forces it to kneel and keel.

Though it knows not what.

But this, too, will be learnt with time.

It has been set to become a ‘curse’, now, and so be it.

Its destiny is to be the apex of anything it is set to be. Whether it is a plant or a monster-

Or a curse.

And so it learns.

Its instincts compel it to claim every land there is. And so it roars.

Its instincts compel it to learn. And so it learns.

Its instincts compel it to consume. But, ah, it cannot.

For it is stuck within this man.

Then, another apex predator appears in front of it.

They are not ‘equals’, no. It knows that Sukuna is not yet ‘whole’, like itself in the past. And so they are not equals. Because it knows, better than anything and anyone, that the strength of a fraction is a mere ‘ant’ in comparison to the whole.

So, perhaps, they can be ‘equal’ once Sukuna is whole. But until then, Sukuna is merely better than it in that Sukuna carries a wealth of experience and knowledge that it lacks.

Though, since Sukuna is still strong even with a ‘fraction’ it supposes Sukuna’s advice are worth taking.

So Sukuna ‘laughs’ and ‘laughs.’

It waits, it bides its time-

And then Sukuna asks, “What created you?”

It knows, somehow, that this query is directed at itself.

It glances at the moon. It sees a glimpse of long, long white hair and a face pale with the light of the moon.

It says, “Mother.”

Though what comes out is a series of garbled sounds. All of which makes sense to its own ears. But not that of others. For Sukuna merely blinks in ‘confusion’ and then makes a motion with its shoulders that indicates that Sukuna does not have a single inkling as to what it said.

It then learns that it is speaking in the tongues of its ‘Mother.’

For she was the first it stayed within. So, too, was her language which it knew first.

It tries, again, speaking in the tongues of humans. Of Uchiha Obito and ‘Naruto’ and ‘Izuna’.

Again, it fails. The words it says are not in the right ‘pitch’, the right ‘tone.’ It is all wrong.

This realization makes it want to send the world toppling over like a ‘deck of cards’, or ‘pieces atop the shogi board when it's turned over’. It knows not why it ‘wants’ to do so. It knows not of this emotion called ‘anger.’

But all of these, too, is something that it will learn with time.

For time is something that it does not lack.

And so it withdraws. It tastes these human words and language and tone atop its own ‘tongue.’

It tastes…

‘Delectable.’

Obito doesn’t know how he can tell, but he can tell that the cheek with two eyes and a mouth is giving him the wave of dismissal.

It would be a humorous image, somewhat, if it weren’t for the unsettling conversation they just had. ‘They’ being Obito, Sukuna, and the Juubi.

Though Obito doesn’t understand a single word of what the damned thing said, the main point was that it responded. And it listened and is listening, now, as they speak. Or, well, not speaking.

Obito had known that the tailed beasts could hear and see through their vessel’s eyes and ears.

But it still felt like the world had just tilted a bit and now it’s unsettlingly wrong.

At least the Juubi had quieted, though that is not any consolation when Obito considers the fact that it had only done so because Sukuna had somehow heard the damn thing and somehow knew its true nature.

Though what Sukuna knows remains a mystery. But the fact is that Sukuna knows something about the Juubi.

Maybe from the fact that they’re both curses?

“You are dismissed,” Sukuna says. And, again, Obito can just see the invisible hand in the air, waving Obito away as though he were a pest.

It’s some terribly arrogant behavior from a pair of eyes and mouth atop a teenage boy’s cheek. But it feels right, somehow. Like Sukuna should be this arrogant no matter what forms Sukuna is.

Obito can guess that this feeling comes from his instincts, or the newly formed version of it.

Obito doesn’t want to stick around either. Having been spoken to and yet not at the same time and it turns out the other thing being spoken to was the Juubi? It’s certainly not a pleasant feeling to have his insides be peeked into. Feeling like he was bare beneath those eyes that seemed to see everything about Obito.

It’s disconcerting, especially now when the Juubi is silent.

And now that Obito knows it’s seeing and hearing through him?

It’s doubly so.

“Let’s meet again, you and I,” Sukuna says, a finality. Eyes closing shut and mouth sealing away. Giving way to an unblemished cheek once more as Itadori continues to sleep. Breathing rhythmically and none the wiser to the conversation that was just held.

At that moment-

Obito doesn’t know who Sukuna was addressing.

Perhaps it all begins with Mahito being his usual self.

That is to say: being terrible at saying things that are not related to his interests.

Kenjaku is normally dismissive of such habits, being that he really cannot change Mahito’s mindset. Mahito, Kenjaku would say, is like a child with a toy box with all the toys in the world within it.

The toy box being, of course, the world itself. And the toys being, well, the humans.

But the problem with a child with such a toy box is that they usually only focus on the things that interest them. And while that is all well and good and whatnot, the things that interest a child are usually not the things that are important.

Rather, it is Kenjaku that often has to dig the important details out of Mahito’s whimsical rambles about life and the nature of souls and death when Kenjaku just wants to know the details of the brawl that happened.

(It is tiresome and it is a task that is often unthanked because the other curses, frankly, do not care about the logistics. They don’t see the point in Kenjaku asking so many questions. They think it’s a quirk of his that’s a bit grating on the ears but they let him do so to entertain Kenjaku or something of the such.

This is precisely why Kenjaku didn’t let them handle the logistics beyond ‘Shibuya. Fight.’

They’re quite a simple lot, that way. Again, it’s due to their age, perhaps, but Kenjaku often reminisces about the past and just wonders just how much longer until curses can be up to snuff to himself in the intelligence department.

It is fine, though, since Kenjaku is fortunately here to guide them to the right path.)

Kenjaku had thought that he had dug all that is to dig from Mahito’s mouth.

Though, he supposes it is a bit of a folly (just a bit) that he didn’t push further when Mahito just mentioned ‘red eyes and big’ when describing the curse’s appearance and then rambling on about the thing’s soul again.

It is a bit careless of him, he must admit, but it must’ve been due to the way that that roar jolted him back to the past. A century or more ago. Wherein he was wearing a different skin and had a different appearance. Wherein beasts roamed and his coil wasn’t quite as strong as it was now. Wherein he, oftentimes, ignored their squabbles for territory and instead created his own new frontier through experiments and research.

(It’s a ‘thing’, as the humans would say. Curses seek territory like some crazed animal, and there’s no other explanation for it other than that territory means power and curses flock to power like moths to a flame.

Kenjaku lacks that. He does not have a physical territory to his name, nor any land that has his signature on it. They find him odd for it, he knows. Hanami gives him the side-eye here and now and Jogo sometimes would slide over a snide comment or two about his lack of such- all of that is easy enough to dismiss with the excuse that his body is human.

But the facts are that Kenjaku has his own drive for territory, but it’s not quite in the physical sense. But rather that of knowledge.

For, well, land shifts and change. What was a beautiful palace back then can become the shoddy block of rundown apartment complexes today. But the grounds he made in jujutsu history? As Kamo Noritoshi? Oh, it’ll be written down for the ages. For those Kamo descendants to speak about what not to do (Hah, as if they didn’t use his knowledge for their own gains, the hypocritical lot of them), while other sorcerers speak in hushed whispers about what a monster he must’ve been.

It’s a name that’ll be spoken down by the ages. For many and many more to come.

And this body? Kenjaku is sure ‘Geto Suguru’ will be the same.

Kenjaku is quite normal in his instincts, thank you. It’s just that those simple lot can’t understand the beauty of it all. The beauty of territory in the unphysical sense. The territory of being in history and memories of all those around and all those to come.

It’s fine and well enough, he supposes. It’s not like they can live to hear their tales, they’re not him, after all.

The poor things.

In fact, the only one that can understand him is that old tree, Tengen. Who has more or less sheltered himself away as a hermit or some such. Having his whole name be forgotten about unless they’re thinking about his barrier. Becoming somewhat of a background noise.

Tengen, really, what an unambitious fool. No doubt he’s gone senile. Heading to retirement or some such.

A foolish notion when it comes to things like them.

Ah, but then again, it was somewhat him that pulled the strings to Tengen’s vessel being killed off- but, that old fool has always been a hermit. So Kenjaku would say the fault split would rather be one to ninety-nine, out of a hundred, that is. With the one obviously being Kenjaku’s fault.)

But the problem is that Kenjaku had pictured it to be somewhat a defined thing with red eyes that’s either humanoid in features or something that’s resembling some animal or another.

But then Mahito started to do what Kenjaku would label as obsessive behavior and started to try to mold his toys into his new obsession.

This is all well and good, albeit and bit juvenile seeing all the failed fleshy mess strewn about Mahito’s territory in childish anger as Mahito rambled on about something or another about ‘failing to capture the soul’.

It’s all meaningless drab to Kenjaku’s ears, really.

But then the faces of the failed curse all start to look similar to each other.

Weirdly similar.

Mahito had excitedly said something about how he ‘managed to capture a bit of the soul’, which is, again, meaningless drab.

And normally Kenjaku would dismiss the meaningless hobby of a juvenile curse. He couldn’t quite get that face out of his head. He had spent an, admittedly embarrassing, long time staring at the jagged, alien face of the unknown curse before he realized why it was so familiar.

(Tengen had, once before, failed to have his vessels delivered on time due to Kenjaku’s interference before having it all come to ruin because of a Gojo, but well, that is a story for another time.

One can be sure, though, that this time a Gojo isn’t going to ruin his plans, but besides that-

And at that time, Tengen would, ah, shift a bit. His features became more inhuman. More- well, more something. It’s not quite like the other curses, no, because while the other curses were globby, fleshy beings, Tengen is rather a thing of marbled stone, almost. An off color thing that he would often hide behind a veil or fan during the few months before a solution was found- if he wasn’t being a hermit and actually had to, goodness, talk to people.

Kenjaku became quite familiar with that face with one of his previous forms having the memories for such.

It caused quite a panic, and was quite a sensation before Tengen regained his human form after, unfortunately, having a new vessel appear.

But Kenjaku wouldn’t forget Tengen’s appearance. His inhuman form. His everything. It is a striking appearance, too striking to forget.

It’s an appearance that is shaped by Tengen’s otherness. Tengen’s technique. Tengen’s everything.

Many curses do not have that. They are made from humans and therefore reflect what they fear.

But the thing with that is that they must first have to visualize it.

And Tengen? His visage is something that it would be rare to be seen in a curse, due to how odd it is. It’s not so fearsome as it is just that, odd. Odd and inhumane and detached from the world as a whole.

It’s hard for humans to form a curse with that same visage due to the fact that they can’t quite all have the same vision of said curse. And their fears mishmashed together would more often than not create a curse that is somewhat humanoid or recognizable in form. Not whatever Tengen is.

And that is where the problem lies.

This face?

It’s familiar to Tengen’.

The otherness of it. The way that it resembles a human and yet not. Something alien about it- the way that its face feels as though it were chiseled by a sharp tool rather than anything made from the human consciousness-

Perhaps the reason why Kenjaku hadn’t heard a snip about this curse-)

Tengen, you old fool, Kenjaku finds himself thinking.

Marriages were common for sorcerers, especially from one powerful clan to the next.

And Tengen? Back when he was a human, he was an eligible bachelor, or so they would say. His technique is one that many would covet. That many would push their daughters or sisters over for an alliance and to have his blood in their clan.

Tengen just as often rejects it as often as those requests would appear.

But Kenjaku knows of human folly and teenage wants and desires.

It’s almost too shocking a thought to stomach, to even think about-

(Tengen is raised to be a sorcerer, so the man would know the inside and out of how to control his technique.

But a child from a civilian mother? Who laid with a teenager in the midst of passion? Or perhaps just another sorcerer who had to keep her mouth shut? How can she get her hands on a vessel- when Tengen also needs said vessel?

The child’s destiny would obviously be to become a-)

It couldn’t be, Kenjaku concludes. Setting his gaze away and yet-

He still glances at it. Hearing Mahito’s nonsensical ramblings with one ear and the same words exiting the other ear.

He couldn’t help but think-

What if it were true?

But no-

Surely Kenjaku would know-

Surely?

Chapter Text

Here is what Mahito says:

Mahito says that the curse is sealed within a human body. That the curse’s appearance as a human is all but erased from his mind except for his red eyes. It’s a thing with Mahito, the way he sees humans but utterly refuses to remember their faces except for when they truly leave an impression. If asked, he’d just say something about the shape of their soul, which is not all that helpful in the long run of things.

But, Mahito would say that at the time he was much more preoccupied with the curse’s ‘true form’. A beast that Mahito claims ‘can topple all of Tokyo’ with reverence in his voice.

It’s a beast with red eyes. The true appearance of the curse beneath its human facade.

Or so Mahito claims.

Kenjaku is not so sure of that.

Here is what Mahito knows:

Nothing.

Mahito is a newborn. A babe in the mere schemes of things. And what he knows is often based on his limited experience, and all that is to say, in polite terms, that Mahito is most likely wrong on matters that extend beyond the soul.

Here is what Kenjaku knows:

Everything.

He knows Tengen’s appearance. Back a generation or so, or even more. Wherein there was a different Gojo and a different star plasma vessel and a different era. Wherein his plans and schemes toppled over because the heavens blessed those of the Gojo blood and deemed him a failure for going against destiny. Wherein the star plasma vessel passed and Kenjaku, too, passed-

(So this time-

This time for sure-

That pesky Gojo will-

There can be nothing standing between him and Tengen.)

Kenjaku knows Tengen’s appearance, from cursed to human and everything in between.

There is no other being who knows Tengen like Kenjaku does.

And Tengen’s cursed appearance is a strange thing that resembles no other.

It’s a thing that defies death itself.

A mark of immortality, a mark of something that transcends the ‘human.’

He thinks about the curse’s remark, or at least what Mahito says.

Mahito says that the curse has defied death, thrice over.

If Tengen were to have a child. It was speculated that the child would take on his technique, if they were blessed enough.

Speculated, because Tengen never had an heir.

But it is a tempting thing. Immortality.

To die and yet live. To die and die but not because they cannot kill you in the truest sense of the word. To die and live because your technique defies even death itself.

There is one caveat, of course. That being that as one ages, one’s technique also diminishes. A problem that is solved every half millennium by taking on a new vessel to restart life.

Immortality, that is all anyone knows about it.

The fact that it needs to be refreshed every five hundred years. But what about in between. What if the user were to come to a deathly end? Tengen certainly ages, so does that mean mortal wounds affect him just as any other?

It’s presumed that Tengen had either not had any experience with the touch of death. That, or that ‘immortality’ encompasses everything that it means.

To die and live and die and live and die and live.

For half a millennium, at the very least. Until your technique runs dry and you have to take upon a new vessel.

But, ah, what about a child with half of that blood running in his veins?

To die and live and die and live and-

The child cannot be as strong as his father. If he was, Kenjaku would’ve heard of him.

But the child is not, so perhaps there is a limit to his immortality.

Dying thrice.

Perhaps thrice was the child’s limit before becoming a curse.

Kenjaku thinks that there’s a curse to meet and a secret to uncover.

(No one knows Tengen like Kenjaku does and this?

This will be no different.)

‘He’ looks down at his hands. It is a small thing, something that can easily be dwarfed and so, so fragile. It is ‘soft’ to the touch, and yet it is anything but unblemished, with tiny marks here and there that ‘he’ doesn’t quite know how to label.

Calluses, a part of ‘him’ answers.

Yes, that’s right, calluses.

‘He’ glances at his surroundings.

There is something above ‘his’ head- a ‘roof’, made out of fine timber and finer craftsmanship. A shelter from the ‘sun’ and ‘rain.’ Small marks here and there that do not detract from its austerity. There is something below ‘his’ body, a ‘futon’. ‘Soft’ and ‘warm.’ Inviting ‘him’ to lay down, to rest ‘his’ head and never sit up again.

There is the gentle sound of something ‘chirping’, something ‘crinkling’, dancing along the wind as it sings a quiet song, a ‘wind chime’, ‘he’ recognizes distantly. Dipped in the color of blood with ‘their’ mark drawn atop it. A fan to fuel an ever growing fire. Their prestige and pride and honor all in one.

It is ‘peaceful’, almost.

Then there is a quiet sound of something hitting against a surface, ‘knocking.’

Someone calls ‘his’ name.

“You’re going to be late.” They sound familiar, somehow. ‘He’ feels like ‘he’ has known them for as long as time itself has existed and yet it's all wrong because ‘he’ doesn’t even know their name.

And yet.

There is a warmth welling up inside ‘him.’ Like fire except not. Like fire except it doesn’t burn, like the hottest of chakra except it doesn’t melt his insides. It’s different from all the fires he’s known, all the heat he’s felt. It’s different but it’s not bad.

‘He’ wonders why, except ‘he’ doesn’t because this thing, this emotion is supposed to be familiar and yet it’s not and it’s all wrong and yet right.

That should be right, though.

‘He’ is a stranger living inside another’s body, after all.

“I’m awake.”

There is no such thing as an ‘Uchiha’ clan within the jujutsu world. Even after Satoru has toiled over pages and pages worth of history of clans that came and went there is no mention of the name ‘Uchiha’ anywhere within its pages.

There should’ve been, because people like Uchiha Obito do not go unnoticed. Especially with those eyes. The ominous red that threatens to drown your world whole if you stare too closely.

There is no one that knows better than the Gojo clan the honor and prestige that comes with an ocular technique. They are all waiting with bated breath for the next to come. Documenting extensively, any and all ocular techniques that come through the doors of the jujutsu world. New and old, the Gojo clan studies them all.

The official reason is that the Gojo clan, being what it is, is the best suited for doing so.

The unofficial reason is that the Gojo clan is screening all possible challenges to their prestige in the jujutsu world.

As expected, there is no mention of the name ‘Uchiha.’

Satoru hasn’t expected much. But perhaps he thought that there’d be some careless mistake or so within the book keeping pages of his old clan library. But, then again, careless mistakes do not uphold the veil to a long hidden tragedy.

Satoru sighs loudly, even if there was no one here to hear it, as he tosses the old scroll into the pile of discards.

All the records of the Gojo allies and Gojo affiliates were devoid of any mention of ‘Uchiha’, and the farther he goes, the more sparse everything becomes.

If Satoru even brings up any holes in history, he’d be met with a steady dismissal that it was normal for records to be lost or missing in the past. And, frustratingly, there was no logical argument he could pose against that without evidence.

Another day, Satoru supposes, of not learning a single thing.

And then his phone chirps. A cheery tone that echoes loudly against the walls of the old traditional room that smells like aged worn pages and one too many days gone without being vacuumed.

“Yuuji-kun,” Satoru greets his favorite student (well, for this one phone call. If it were another one of his students, Satoru would say that they were his favorite. Nobara calls him duplicitous, Satoru would just say that he has a big heart). “Are you in trouble?”

Satoru doubts it, his favorite bunch of first years had only had an assignment yesterday, and it's doubtful the higher ups would assign them to another so soon.

“Well, not in the physical sense?” Yuuji says, his voice trailing off a bit in confusion as though he couldn’t quite describe the trouble at hand. Well, at least Yuuji hadn’t bumped into a special grade on his way home, Satoru supposes. There really were worse to be had.

“Oh dear, do you need your wonderful teacher to help hide a body?” Satoru says idly, tossing aside another scroll.

“No!” Yuuji answers, very loudly. “Sensei, that’s illegal.”

Really, out of all of Satoru’s students, Yuuji really is the cutest in a baby bird kind of sense. Like a tiny ball that Satoru just wants to squish the life out of, in an affectionate way.

“Hmm, that’s true,” Satoru, a criminal, says. He can almost hear Yuuji nodding quickly from behind the screen.

“Exactly!” Yuuji almost sounds proud, like he’d somehow manage to convince Satoru to never embark down the path of crime despite Satoru being around a dozen murders and an arson attempt (which was more Shoko’s plans and Suguru’s supplies- Satoru just happened to commit the act) or more deep in said path of crime.

Satoru appreciated the sentiment.

“Then what trouble are you in?” Satoru asks lightly, tracing another word or so on the crowded page. Whoever wrote this had terrible handwriting. Who made them the recorder?

“Oh, right.” Yuuji would have definitely forgotten about his original subject if it weren’t for Satoru’s reminder. “Uh, well, how do I say this-”

There is a quiet shuffle and Satoru can almost imagine the boy shifting from side to side in thought.

“Well, Sukuna kinda- sorta- uh- talked to Uchiha Obito?”

Satoru’s finger pauses mid sentence.

“Oh? And what did they talk about?” Satoru asks conversationally, knowing fully well that he feels much, much more tense than what his voice portrays.

“Well, the trouble is- I wasn’t awake when they were saying things and-” Yuuji sounds a tiny bit frustrated, Satoru can imagine the boy’s hand waving in the air in exasperation. “The only way I even knew is because Sukuna bragged about it and now when I want him to actually talk, the great Sukuna is gone.”

“That sounds like him.”

Yuuji makes a sound of distress.

Satoru hears the sound of someone clicking their tongue.

Definitely not Yuuji.

“And now he’s back,” Yuuji informs, a hint of heat in his voice. “You can’t just come and go whenever you please, I’m not like a hotel room you can just check out from!”

Then there is a heated exchange of words that boils down to, “what the fuck is a hotel” and “don’t pretend you don’t know what a hotel is!”

And while, normally, Satoru would be more busy trying to interrupt them on their argument- right now his mind was whirling with the mere fact that Sukuna had made contact with Uchiha Obito.

The king of curses itself had to appear and initiate, for Satoru knows that, unless it wishes, Sukuna does not appear for anything or anyone. Unless, perhaps, Yuuji is unconscious. But that does not translate to sleep.

So that means that either Uchiha Obito said something of merit to draw Sukuna out, or Sukuna chose to appear.

Option one would mean that Uchiha Obito has a purpose for seeking out Sukuna, and a way to draw Sukuna out, which is curious enough on its own.

But option two means that Sukuna had found something curious about Uchiha Obito. Curious enough to seek it out- to actively appear.

Satoru doesn’t know which option can be considered ‘best’, if there even was a best case scenario for this rather than just one of lesser evil.

Neither option spells any good for the jujutsu world. Option one would mean that Uchiha Obito has a reason to seek Sukuna out, a reason that is definitely not benign. The other option is that something about Uchiha Obito has drawn Sukuna’s interest, and things that draw Sukuna’s interests are rarely good.

“I’m done with this drivel,” Sukuna declares as the debate was heating up, or something of the such. “I’ll just get straight to the point.” There is a brief pause. “You, Six Eyes.”

“My, the king himself addressing me?” Satoru says caustically.

Sukuna snorts, it’s not very pleasant.

And then it says:

“You’re curious about that vessel, too, aren’t you.”

It is taunting, the crude edges of a dull blade intentionally meant to make one grit their teeth and bear the pain. And worse yet, it’s stated almost pointedly, almost like Sukuna knows that it’s fact.

And worst, Satoru can’t even refute it.

“Who knows,” Satoru replies vaguely.

Sukuna just barks out a laugh.

“How fun,” is all Sukuna says.

Yuuji makes a confused sound as Sukuna, presumably, disappears.

The line clicks off as Satoru rises.

There must’ve been something new about Uchiha Obito- there must be something new after that day-

Something is afoot.

The next memory ‘he’ lives through is one wherein there is a stream and a boy.

The boy looks at ‘him’. ‘He’ thinks that the boy has strange hair, cut straight through and a boyish smile that reminds ‘him’ of someone.

Ah, right, ‘Naruto.’

The boy’s clothing does not resemble ‘Naruto’, though. And the more ‘he’ looks, the more differences there are that appear. The boy’s hair is that of the color of wood and his skin tanned while his eyes are the dark sort of coal.

The memory stutters for a moment, wherein ‘he’ remembers another man. One with less strange hair and long, flowing one instead. One that subjugated ‘him.’

But then the world rights itself, and they were just two boys sitting around the stream once more. The gentle trickle of the water is nothing like the ‘wind chimes’ but it is also ‘peaceful.’

How strange, ‘he’ thinks to ‘himself.’ A brief pondering, for memories marches onwards- for time marches onwards- even if he wishes it naught as the boy tugs on ‘his’ hand, pulling ‘him’ away.

The boy mentions ‘stone skipping’, pointing excitedly at the stream. There is a part of ‘him’ that feels ‘fond’ of the boy, but ‘he’ masks it behind a scowl and a roll of the eyes for reasons unknown to ‘himself.’

‘He’ says:

“Shut up, Hashirama.”

Okkotsu Yuta returns to his home and it's a cold, terrible place. There is no one to greet him aside from the loud creak of the door as it's pushed open and a quiet home.

It's his existence, it is normal.

And yet-

There’s now an endless bitterness welling up inside him.

Because this wasn’t supposed to be normal.

His home was supposed to be more than this. Maybe a bigger home, but no less empty. Filled with people and noise and family and the thought makes him ache.

He’s close with his sister, of course. But a part of him, as terrible as it is, feels that it’s not enough now- now that he knows that he once had a whole clan. A whole clan, filled with people like him who could copy things and techniques and had coal black hair and a crest on their back that’s now been long forgotten. He’s not sure where this want comes from, but he wants all the same.

He wants relatives to talk to about the regular to irregular, he wants the true warmth of a home with not just his sister over the phone to keep him company- if she was even free enough to do so, he wants to be able to trade banter back and forth with his relatives who knows what it feels like to be able to copy others techniques and how odd it feels in comparison to everything else.

Yuta thought he felt fulfilled with gaining friends and people that cared about him just as he does about them. But it’s all wrong, now that he knows he could’ve had more- that he could’ve had a family but the world went and did something and now he’s left with a cold home and distant parents and a sister that can only be contacted through phone calls that doesn’t even know of the world that lurks beneath their regular one.

His mind keeps drifting back onto that curse with its red eyes and scarred face and a feeling of kinship between the two of them because they could both copy and they were family.

He then thinks of Rika. The curse born out of not just his own- but generations worth of grudges and hatred and it was just- gone- just like that.

He thinks of the past. Of their hatred, their spite, their grudge-

He then thinks of what once was- a clan filled with people- like Maki’s- or maybe not many- like Toge’s. But it’d be warm all the same because he can tell that his relatives were the sort that were kind to their own.

Uchiha Obito was proof of that, at least.

If he were unkind, something like the competitive Zen’in, there would’ve been more- Yuta doesn't know but- more disdain maybe? More distance?

But it was different with Uchiha Obito.

Rather than disdain it’s the sort of quiet regret that speaks to something once fond now departed.

Uchiha Obito, who may be his last link to a long lost clan.

Yuta had gnawed on his thoughts for hours, hours and then days at the dorm-

And now?

Now that he’s finally at home? With nothing but the maw of solitude awaiting him?

He thinks he’s made up his mind.

Gojo-sensei, I want to meet Uchiha Obito again.

Yuta sends the text, and hopes that their next meeting will be better than the first.

It is a world of flames, a world of fire. Of brimstone and heat. There are men and women by ‘his’ side, they speak words that he can understand and yet not. The heat prickles at his ‘skin’, it feels strange and right.

The fire roars, there is solid ground beneath his feet, the world is dyed in red and scarlet as the air feels… ‘heavy’ around him.

“Anija,” a voice says, quiet and sly. It is ‘familiar.’ And so, too, are the footsteps that approach him.

The man looks at him. Right by his side, as it should be.

That’s right.

This is his ‘brother’.

It feels different, somehow. This man stands out more than the rest of them all. Amidst the crowd of black and scarlet, he stands out the best of all. It’s unnatural, it shouldn’t be so, but it is.

So this is what a ‘brother’ is.

“Izuna,” Uchiha Madara acknowledges, the word feels… strange on his lips and yet it shouldn’t. No matter, this ‘familiarity’ will come with time.

He says nothing more, though he ‘wants’ to.

Uchiha Madara says nothing more in this memory.

Obito doesn’t know what it is, but after that day, the Juubi is eerily quiet. Its roars no longer haunt his mind but Obito is starting to go mad at the silence.

He thought there was nothing he’d hate more than the Juubi’s roar inside his mind, insistent and deafening. But he was wrong.

For the silence makes him tense, it makes him wary, it makes him feel like the damn thing is plotting something and there’s nothing he can do about it.

It's made worse by the visions he has. Of fire and flames and an unfamiliar woman who calls him her son and a man who looks eerily familiar to Sasuke call him brother.

Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees mirages and a hand that’s not his but is so achingly familiar it hurts.

Ever since that day he’s been on edge and he doesn’t know what to do because if there’s one thing he doesn’t want to do is confront the Juubi within its own domain. Sage knows if things go wrong and it breaks out somehow. Trapping him in and taking itself out.

He doesn’t know how Naruto deals with it- although he thinks that the Kyuubi was a far kinder beast.

The image sears itself into his mind, somehow. Of a fire and a man. Of a brother and a mother. Of a father that’s cruel and strict. Of brothers and sisters that come and go and leaves him to be all by himself.

Of a life that he never lived.

He thinks he’s going mad.

But that’s what Uchihas do, he realizes. Go mad and take the world down with them.

“You’re looking awfully stressed,” someone drawls.

Obito didn’t jolt, only tenses, for that is what a good shinobi does.

“And you’re still a stalker,” Obito muses, a hypocrite down to his bones, but he can’t deny that there’s a relief to be had at something to distract him and the ache that dwells up as he glances back and comes face to face with Kakashi.

Or, well, Kakashi’s look alike.

But sometimes-

(Sasuke’s descendant and now Kakashi’s- maybe, if only- perhaps-)

Sometimes, Obito wonders and he imagines.

The images don’t quite line up just right but they’re just close enough that it makes him wonder.

It makes him want to ask-

When did you go from Hatake to Gojo?

It’s a thought that’s like the mirage of a butterfly’s wings, there and then not, a passing thought, a passing wondering. They barely have anything in common. One has silver hair, the other has white. One had coal dark eyes, the other had the eyes of the sky.

And yet.

It nags at him.

It awakens, though it does not sleep in the first place. There are ashes on its ‘tongue’ and the sound of ruin and emptiness.

Ah, memories. How...

Delectable.

“Izu…” it says. “Izu…na.” Its form is a twisting, massless thing. Flickering of a nebulous universe shaping into something sharp. Wisps giving away into twisted ends and smoke giving away to an armored red.

And then it stops.

Ah, a ‘guest.’

Or something like it, it thinks. Peering out and out.

A clash of blue and red.

It curves its eye- eyes, red and right, into a crescent.

Right.

This is a ‘smile.’

Satoru stands in front of Uchiha Obito. In front of another run down building looking much worse for wear than any building ought to.

It should be overrun with curses.

But it’s not. Even before Satoru had taken foot here, the curses had long hid themselves away.

And it’s all because of Uchiha Obito.

Or, well, not Uchiha Obito. For Uchiha Obito is but a mere speck of dust, in their view. For it has no noticeable curse energy to speak of.

No, perhaps the real treat is lying beneath.

An ancient curse. Locked under chains and bindings.

“You’re looking awfully stressed,” he says. It’s a familiar casual tone of an old acquaintance and all the distance of it.

It’s a precursor, or something like that.

Whatever words that come next are stuck on Satoru’s tongue.

There is a clash of red and blue.

Between Uchiha Obito and Gojo Satoru there lies a monster.

It is a flickering image, a passing mirage, the transparency of an insect's wings. There one moment and gone the next.

And yet.

It's terribly strong, sickeningly so.

Something is afoot.

He realizes he has only wondered about Uchiha Obito and never about the thing that Uchiha Obito held.

What was the point? Satoru had thought. But now with Sukuna sniffing about- there's no doubt that both the vessel and curse were of some significance. And so-

He thinks of the name it's mentioned to him. The question it asked. He thinks and ponders- he thinks of the Kyuubi, perhaps, but that doesn't seem quite right- time rewinds, rewinds, rewinds- sounds echo in his ears, a remnant of the past. Images flicker in his mind, a vision of the past. Uchiha Obito's smile catches in his mind, a conversation once held and forgotten in the grand scheme of things. The one time it smiled, so tinged with relief it aches.

"The curse you held, it was... 'Juubi', wasn't it?"

Chapter Text

Names have power.

For sorcerers, names are a parent’s blessings unto their child. Whether it be the humble wishes of parents who only wanted their child to become a respectable person- Obito; or it be the caustic choice of a man who didn’t know how to care and was too late to learn and so he tossed a bland blessing- Megumi- to his child; or whether it is the plain ambition of a clan unto a child for that child to be all-knowing- Satoru.

It’s a blessing all the same. Names hold power and no one knows it more than sorcerers.

There’s a mysterious allure about it.

Amongst prestigious clans, it’s something that involves more planning. Each character- each stroke- is taken into account, almost obsessively. Avoid fours, avoid names that bring bad omens, avoid names that others have taken, avoid naming your child something too grand lest the heavens take envy, it’s an ongoing list and the job of clan members who decide the list of potential name for clan heirs is a tedious one that Satoru does not wish upon anyone.

You don’t name your child something casually. Not for the big three at least, and even for the minor clans, it’s a hard decision to conclude.

For curses, however?

Their name is the source of their power. It is the name spoken in fear, thought about in terror, and strikes about in nightmares. A curse’s name gives them life beyond the unlife, it turns them into an aimless monster into a special grade.

Names have power.

And the name Satoru has just uttered?

It feels taboo.

There are simply no other words to describe it.

It weighs down on his tongue like lead, it makes him feel like he’s just spat out something grimy and terrible and a thousand sutras can’t cleanse it out. It’s a name that makes him want to never speak it again, that feels fundamentally wrong- a taboo that has been locked away and sealed for a reason and that Satoru has dug up to the surface and it’s wrong, wrong, wrong.

It’s a name that when spoken, condenses the curse even further. The wispy trails of smoke becoming concrete for a moment, condenses into form before breaking apart into the transparent wings of an insect once more. Scattering about, shapeless and massless, but not quite gone.

Names have power, and for curses? It’s quite literal.

Uchiha Obito must’ve also felt it as the curse takes a step back, the blinks have long gone off kilter- its stance no longer a thing of polished steel. It expresses a forced neutrality, much, much more forced than anything Satoru had seen, having broken into one of something- before it flashes back into a placid surface. But it’s not quite right either, its brows are furrowed and there’s a glint in its eyes that wasn’t there before.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Satoru jokes, though it feels dry on his tongue. Like sand has been poured down his throat and he can’t quite cough out all the grains.

“You shouldn’t have,” Uchiha Obito replies, a severity to its voice that Satoru hasn’t heard before. Its stance is tense and ready to bolt at a moment’s trigger. Its gaze is somber and harsh- giving itself an authoritative look.

It fits, somehow, Satoru thinks. From its gravelly voice to harsh looks, authority matches it well and it makes no effort to hide how it was once someone of importance, someone that was used to being listened to and obeyed. There’s a dark look in its eyes, and its scars make itself known, highlighting the way it etches onto the curse’s face- a painful reminder of surviving and clawing your way back to life, its curse energy swirls and swirls, a quiet tsunami.

There’s a hint of cold apathy on its expression and its posture almost bored, if it wasn’t for the fact that Satoru can tell the slightest hint of tensed muscle beneath its loose clothing. A jaw clenched too tightly, a fist gripped together before letting go. But it’s well hidden beneath a different surface- a different expression. One that was less neutral and more so caustic and much colder than anything Satoru had seen previously.

It’s like peeling back layers, Satoru thinks. Cracking open the neutrality of a marbled slate and finding a cold, caustic thing lurking beneath that hides whatever emotions that it's feeling because the forced neutrality had long given way from whatever happened.

So now it hides its reaction to Satoru’s utterance of the name beneath a sarcastic, biting mask instead. One that was much harder to decipher from than the blank neutrality. It’s like spotting a stain from a blank canvas versus spotting a stain from a canvas that has been dipped in ink.

It reveals the man Uchiha Obito must’ve been- or a part of him- when he was alive. A man that was more temperamental than he’d like to show. Who was rather emotive in his expressions. With regular blinks and regular breathing and emotions that show on his face rather than what it is now.

Satoru can’t quite look away from it. A part of him wants to reach over and pry Uchiha Obito apart, layer by layer, piece by piece, until there’s no masks remaining and Satoru can talk with the real Uchiha Obito.

Whoever that may be. It’s the mere allure of it, the fact that no one now knows who the man truly was and Satoru’s whole existence is based on the fact that everything under the heavens has been pried open under his eyes.

(His name means ‘to understand.’

A child’s name is their parent’s blessings unto them.

And so, it is also their curse upon them.

It’s a self fulfilling prophecy. Like how Megumi’s always been a bit lucky, but a caveat is that he attracts curses like the world’s most delectable meal when he started to get older.

It’s a blessing that he’s lucky, but ‘blessing’ also means that he’s a bit better than normal people in subtle ways. And one of those ways is that he smells tastier to curses.

In the good and the bad, so are names given. The best they can do is to hope that the downsides won’t be too bad. And so, ‘Satoru’ was chosen. Ambitious enough, but one would suppose that it doesn’t leave much leeway to go wrong.

Satoru’s name means, ‘to know’, and he’s always been a bit curious.

The drawback is that perhaps Satoru is, to put it mildly, a bit too curious.

Whenever he comes across something he doesn’t quite know- something hidden beneath his eyes- something-

He wants to dig, he wants to claw at it, toss it about, shake it until everything falls out and pry it open until there’s nothing left about it that can be hidden from Satoru himself. He wants to slide the puzzle pieces into place and form a complete picture, anything else be damned. He wants to know what makes it tick and what makes it what it is. He wants to know.

And right now? Uchiha Obito is a puzzle worth cracking, usefulness for toppling the jujutsu world aside.)

The thought comes and goes, but Satoru still cannot look away. Can’t quite suppress that ravenous part of him that wants to pry apart Uchiha Obito’s mask until nothing remains between him and the curse, until there’s nothing left to know about Uchiha Obito, until his appetite for the truth has been fed.

“It’s a strong name,” Satoru says instead, being careful to avoid naming, well, names.

A hint of sardonic mirth crosses Uchiha Obito’s face. It’s human in the way that would make sorcerers have to look twice to confirm that Uchiha Obito is a curse. It’s an expression that doesn’t quite align with the sarcastic smile that Satoru has seen previously. Another side to Uchiha Obito that Satoru hasn’t seen before- that no one has seen before in this era, probably-

It’s like tossing a morsel to a hungry beast. Tasty, but not enough.

“You don’t even know what it means,” Uchiha Obito replies, a small curl to its lips. Although there is barely, if any, humor to be found in its eyes.

And that is true.

It’s a nonsensical name. It’s in the same vein as naming something the ‘Kyuubi.’ spawned from myths and legends of a tale of a fox growing stronger as it ages, as it gets to the mythical nine hundred it becomes a beast with nine tails to show for it.

The Juubi means ‘ten tails.’

There are no myths or legends about that.

Well, Satoru supposes he does know what it means, and he says as much.

Uchiha Obito snorts, it’s not a pretty sound. And Satoru has an inkling that it’s not meant to be, purposefully short and unpleasant to the ears.

“I don’t mean the name. I mean the-” Uchiha Obito’s blinks go off tilter- even now, it blinks were still in a pattern, even when it had discarded its mask of neutrality, its eyes narrow as though in thought- if only for a second- and then no more. “The curse.”

There’s a small pause in that sentence. Indecipherable if Satoru wasn’t Satoru. Small and quiet, almost covered up by Uchiha Obito and dismissed away if one wasn’t, well, Gojo Satoru.

But seeing as he is Gojo Satoru, he heard it all the same.

The quiet pause; the flicker of something in Uchiha Obito’s eyes, there one moment and gone the next; the spike of tension in the air; the blinks that have long gone off path; and the quiet, quiet coiling of the chains around the beast.

Uchiha Obito had wanted to say something different, Satoru concludes. Perhaps something even revealing. But instead, complying to Satoru’s expectations of it, had chosen to keep it hidden away, just as everything about it is. Careful to a fault about what it reveals and what it does not.

So now, the question is-

Does Satoru press or not?

Satoru sort of wants to laugh at himself because that’s never really a question when it comes to himself.

“Were you about to call it something else?” Satoru nudges, not subtle in the slightest. Still the same teasing drawl but they both know his tone is anything but.

If Uchiha Obito was surprised, it doesn’t show it.

But, ah, that is to say, not visibly. But there’s a small jolt of its cursed energy.

“Bingo?” Satoru jabs, only realizing a bit late that perhaps an age old curse wouldn’t understand what that means. “Hole in one?” Again, probably not a good metaphor for a curse older than his grandpa. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

That’s a lot blander than his usual words. But Satoru will have to compromise, he realizes, because if he uses his usual jabs and jokes then Uchiha Obito probably would not understand a single thing at all.

Satoru normally deals with elders that are older than his own grandparents on the regular, so generational gaps aren’t unusual for him to deal with. He’s also been derided on the regular, too, for intentionally saying words and concepts that go over the elder’s head.

Generational divides have never been so fun to exploit.

Uchiha Obito’s lips thin slightly, marginally. Discomfort in its stance. It seems to be searching its mind for an answer rapidly. Satoru can almost see the thoughts pinging about its mind, back and forth, back and forth. Satoru would like to know what those thoughts entailed.

But for now?

No dice.

“It is considered a curse,” Uchiha Obito says. Returning back to caustic and cold once more, the fraying edges of anxiety have been smoothed out. “You would consider it a curse.” A slight revision that Satoru doesn’t miss.

In fact, Uchiha Obito’s words are strange in the way they were stated.

It’s not quite a dispute of Satoru’s point, it’s not arguing against it.

It is the ‘truth’ in a way, and Satoru can see that its blinks are not off kilter, its energy a stagnant and stale thing.

It glances at Satoru’s expression, a motion that was none too subtle. Then, as though realizing that Satoru was staring back in turn, only raised its brow slightly.

It’s humorous in a strange way.

This stilted exchange, this passing of words, this back and forth.

They’re both trying to outplay the other, even if they didn’t intend on starting a game to begin with.

Perhaps it's in their nature.

But Satoru doesn’t miss the wording.

Right now, Uchiha Obito is trying to feel out Satoru. Trying to see if Satoru’s skill is to tell the truth from lies. Perhaps it has realized that Satoru is a bit too good at that and is trying to subvert him.

But in doing so, it led to this awkward wording. The placement of words within a seemingly innocuous sentence that threatens to rip Uchiha Obito’s farce apart.

“Do you not consider it a curse, then?” Satoru asks, there’s a smile on his lips, it's rather pretty, he thinks.

Uchiha Obito, as though knowing exactly that Satoru would ask that, only shrugs. It does nothing to hide the uneasiness that it’s no doubt feeling, however.

Now, there is a choice to be made here.

Uchiha Obito could just say ‘who knows’ and be done with this whole farce. But it’s sticking around and it’s no doubt for a reason.

Things like Uchiha Obito don’t dawdle around to be interrogated and when backed onto a losing foot, no doubt it would teleport away.

That is to say-

It wants something from him, too.

It’s a game they’re both playing. A treasure hunt with no maps and the only clue is within the other.

It’s a race against each other, to see who can get to the treasure first by giving out the least to your opponent.

They’re both veterans of this game. Uchiha Obito, as ancient as it may be, probably played political games and strung its opponents along while it was alive. There’s no doubt that if Satoru wasn’t Satoru, he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference at all. Growing frustrated at the lack of difference between Uchiha Obito’s truths and lies and whether Uchiha Obito even reacts.

And right now?

Uchiha Obito could just say ‘who knows’ and be done with it.

But it won’t.

It’s a treasure hunt.

And to string your opponents along, you must leave a trail.

After all, what fool would continue to run along with not even a hint of the treasure?

“I do,” Uchiha Obito says, though its tongue is slightly tied. As if holding something back. There’s a brief butterfly of a skip in its blink, a brief moment that Satoru catches and almost latches onto except Uchiha Obito glances at him, studying his expression before continuing, “It fits the standards of a curse.”

There it is again, that awkward wording. Uchiha Obito gives no fluctuations, nothing at all. Meaning that this is, unequivocally, ‘truth’.

Or a version of it.

But the wording. It strikes at something odd in Satoru that makes him want to dig even further. Disassemble this ‘truth’ to see the real thing hidden beneath. The real truth, hidden beneath halves.

It had figured it out, Satoru thinks.

It knows that Satoru knows the truth from lies. Perhaps his ancestor could not or it doesn’t know if Satoru even has the ability- but it knows, now, that Satoru can tell, so now it’s hunkering down even further and opting instead to say the truth, but in a way that doesn’t give away the thing that its desperately trying to hide.

It's a clever thing, Satoru thinks. Trying to imagine the man Uchiha Obito must’ve been when he was alive. A master, no doubt, of words and games. Of let’s play twenty questions, but at the end? You won’t have learned a thing about me at all but oh, I’ll know you inside out.

If this is a fraction of the man Uchiha Obito was when he was alive- if this was him having been under years of madness and afflicted by cursed energy, then-

Uchiha Obito at his prime must’ve been something.

Something inside Satoru trills at that. Eager to be set on an opponent that will give a challenge, that will take some time before giving it up. Before he’ll know all there is to know about them- before he’ll get his hand on the ‘treasure’ and leave them with nothing.

A challenge is always something for a god to relish, as it comes so rarely.

“Enough of that,” Uchiha Obito says, quick to change the topic. As though realizing that it has been on the defensive and not liking that one bit. “I think this entire exchange has been quite unequal, don’t you?”

It’s a pointed question, almost vengeful. There’s something like anger on the curse’s face, except it doesn’t feel as venomous. Instead, it just feels like another mask.

“Well, I’m quite selfish,” Satoru replies shamelessly.

“I can see that,” Uchiha Obito replies, snark, it seems, was its preferred tone. And if Satoru were to squint a little, perhaps this could even be considered banter. “Last time, you stated that you’ve never heard its name before. So why so curious now?”

It's asking for his intentions, though blunt as it is- Satoru knows that this is just the precursor. The appetizer to the main course.

This is not its real purpose, nor is this the real treasure that it's looking for. But this is its, so to say, ‘foot in the door.’

“Well, if I’m correct, it’s that thing that roared, right?” While Satoru could be ambiguous in his answer. He knows that the curse would repay in turn. And then they’d get nowhere. “Or perhaps I’m just really curious about you.”

It’s both true, technically.

The curse looks taken aback for a brief moment, something about Satoru’s answer surprised it.

So what was it?

It’s not the latter statement, that’s for sure. It already knows that Satoru is interested in it.

So the former?

Then what about the former would surprise it?

There is a moment, then two.

Perhaps, Satoru thinks. It didn't realize he heard it as well.

Now why would that be?

Would his terrible decision maker of an ancestor not have referenced it? All blessed Gojos would be able to hear that forsaken roar.

So either this curse did not roar during Uchiha Obito’s time as a host- something that could perhaps speak to the control Uchiha Obito had over it and now, the lack thereof. Or that the no good ancestor did not mention it at all, why? Satoru doesn’t know.

This is what Satoru means, when it feels like he’s gotten something more holes open up. More questions than answers- one step forward and two steps back.

“My turn,” Satoru says, before his thoughts could spiral even further. “What are the ‘standards of a curse?’”

Even though Uchiha Obito’s expression is back to being sarcastic, Satoru can tell it’s once again trying to think of an answer.

Which is strange, in its own way.

All sorcerers know what defines a curse. A being made up of humanity’s worst, a manifestation of all things they felt negatively about. Sure, they can say it in different terms and there are different types of curses; but none would take too long in answering because it’s what their entire careers are built on- or even their entire lives.

Uchiha Obito has been trained to be a sorcerer since birth, being heralded from a clan. An answer should be second nature, almost.

So why is it taking so long to answer?

As if realizing that it’s taking a moment too long, Uchiha Obito says, “Does it matter? Everyone knows what curses are.”

It's inconceivably strange.

Why now? Why answer vaguely now when it was perfectly fine with leaving some crumbs for Satoru earlier?

This basic question- this question that all clan children knows how to answer-

Why?

“I think it matters,” Satoru answers. “After all, you’re a curse, aren’t you?”

Uchiha Obito’s eyes flicker to meet his. There’s something in its expression.

“I define it how everyone defines it.”

“Great, then it won’t be too much trouble to define it, right?”

Damned sorcerers and their damned questions, Obito thinks.

Obito knows that he’s a curse by proxy of Itadori and Nanamin clumping him together with the monsters that he met on his hours here.

He knows, vaguely, that curses are monstrous and that he’s a curse.

It’s just a matter of feeling. Curses feel different from sorcerers.

But naturally, that is not how you ‘define’ a curse.

So how exactly are curses defined?

This should be common sense.

But Obito has everything but common sense.

There is a moment, then two. Tense despite the playful smile on Satoru’s lips and the gentle light of the setting sun bringing some warmth upon Satoru’s hands. There’s a part of Satoru that wonders if some curses burn under the sun. But another part just thinks that Uchiha Obito just looks so human, from the way the sunset hits against its chin and slopes against its cheeks. Making it feel alive.

It’s attention grabbing, in the classical sense. With sharp eyes and inked hair and, once, just as dark hair and strong features. The scars don't detract from it, instead making one feel almost compelled to trace over it with their eyes and makes Uchiha Obito feel real and human. Perhaps, in a way, the scars sharpens its features, strengthens it- because it has gone through the shredder but still survives, giving substance to a surface handsomeness. The sun almost seems to fit it in a weird way. Giving its cheeks a flush of life that wasn’t there before. Like bringing a puppet to life or making a statue warm. If Uchiha Obito from before was like a painting, then the sunset makes it step outside of the painting, becoming flesh and blood and real.

Uchiha Obito once existed under the sun. As another human, another sorcerer. It feels odd to think about now. It feels odd to think about how the sun must’ve once, just like this, fell atop Uchiha Obito just right.

He wonders, briefly, if it was Uchiha Obito’s appearance that his no good ancestor must’ve liked.

If it were so, Satoru would revise his ancestor to somewhat had taste, even if a bit vain in nature.

It puzzles Satoru’s senses, in a way. Like other humanoid curses do but more because if Satoru just looks at its cursed energy, he can almost pretend he’s talking to another human.

There’s no doubt, though, that if Satoru were to just reach over and place his hand over its chest, there’d just be silence. No beating heart to be heard, no warmth to be had. A reminder that, at the end of the day, a painting is a painting and a statue will remain just that-

A statue with no heart.

“Monsters,” Uchiha Obito says at last, like drawing blood from a stone. “They’re monsters.”

Truth.

That is an odd answer in and of itself. Satoru can’t deny that it’s right, but there’s something about it that’s also wrong at the same time.

That is not what is taught to clan children, now, he knows. But back then?

Perhaps.

It’s an overly simplistic view of things, almost childish. Like something you’d tell to a child because they couldn’t quite comprehend the extent of humanity’s malice.

Forging onwards, it glances back at him, not a hint of wrong in its expression.

“How would you define a curse?”

It's digging, too, Satoru realizes. It knows that there’s something awfully wrong about its answer, but because Satoru can’t dispute it- Uchiha Obito knows that it’s at least on the right track.

“Well, I think they’re monsters, too,” Satoru replies cheerfully.

Uchiha Obito’s face is unpleasant but not venomous. In a strange way it’s almost- fond? “That’s just like you, I suppose. A teacher and yet-” It cuts off its words at the last moment, as though realizing that it has misspoken.

Realizing that the person in front of it is not a familiar comrade but a stranger in their shoes.

“Well, get on with it, Gojo,” it says, for the first time referring to him by name, as though to separate between him and them. It infuriates a part of Satoru. He has been referred to as himself for the first time, been acknowledged by this curse and yet he doesn’t feel the slightest bit of victory. “Ask your question.”

“My, you know me? I’m flattered,” Satoru notes, though his voice holds the sweetness of the worst of toxins. “You seem awfully familiar with me, too.”

It’s a soft knife, Satoru knows. A dull one. Meant to unsettle.

And unsettle it does.

Something flashes through Uchiha Obito’s eyes.

The image of his ancestor overlapping over his own, no doubt. Satoru knows that this is his advantage, he knows that this is a boon. It gets Uchiha Obito to slip up around him, it gets the curse to say things that maybe, otherwise, it wouldn’t have. It gets Uchiha Obito to slip up- just like now- and reveal something about the person that once was.

And yet.

It bothers him.

He has been thinking of Uchiha Obito, almost constantly- for the jujutsu world- but still.

And here Uchiha Obito is, thinking only about his ancestor.

What was so good about them?

Nothing Satoru cannot measure up to, for sure.

Nothing that would make them overshadow Gojo Satoru.

It makes his blood boil, it makes him want to yank Uchiha Obito’s face over and remind Uchiha Obito who it’s speaking to, it makes him want to say that he’s the god amongst men- that he is the marvel of the jujutsu world.

He does nothing of the such, because it's irrational.

But what’s also irrational is Uchiha Obito seeing a shadow of a terrible, no-good, weak, unreasonable, dead ancestor rather than Satoru.

Can he, Gojo Satoru, not even measure against a dead person?

Infuriating, irrational, and tasteless are the labels he adds to Uchiha Obito.

“No,” Uchiha Obito denies. And it’s true.

He’s not familiar with Satoru but rather a shadow long dead.

Does Uchiha Obito even know Satoru’s first name?

He knows it’s probably wasteful to spend a question- a chance- like this, but-

“Do you even know my name?”

He can’t help but ask.

Uchiha Obito stares at him, as though Satoru were a particularly mulish sort of dog.

“Gojo.” Simple and neat.

No first name.

It adds fuel onto the fire, it makes him want to gnash his teeth together. But instead, he just smiles like he usually does, except it holds almost none of the childish playfulness, now. Instead it’s rather cold and caustic and he knows that he should fix it but he can’t.

“My whole name.”

Uchiha Obito looks, again, slightly bemused at the direction the conversation is going.

“I don’t think curses and sorcerers need to know each other’s first name,” Uchiha Obito replies, as though this were reasonable.

It’s not, it’s really not.

Gojo Satoru is the natural enemy of curses. He’s their worst fear, their executioner, their judgment from the heavens. They speak his name in hushed whispers or knows it deep within the dark recess of their very being.

And here he is. Speaking to an Infuriating, irrational, tasteless and ignorant curse.

“Gojo Satoru,” Satoru says, it’s almost a hiss but barely saved from it because Satoru has been trained to not show his ire and keep his calm.

Uchiha Obito raises a brow, acknowledging what Satoru said but also saying that it won’t do a thing to say him by his first name.

Instead, continuing to call him by his last name- Gojo- that will both divide him from his ancestor but also sort them into the same lot and that won’t do.

No doubt, Uchiha Obito must’ve been on a first name basis with this plain ancestor.

“You know what, Ushida,” Satoru utters the tacky nickname ‘cow’ or whatnot for the first time. “I’ll call you Obito from now on and you’ll call me Satoru. Isn’t that nice?”

Satoru can already see the answer from Uchiha Obito’s expression.

“I don’t understand the point,” Uchiha Obito replies sincerely. The most sincere it’s ever been.

That just infuriates Satoru more.

He only smiles, taunting and mocking, a curve of the lips that means nothing well at all.

Something flashes through Uchiha Obito’s eyes. A realization of something that’s slowly settling in.

“You are a sorcerer,” it continues, almost like bargaining. “I am a curse, there’s really no point.”

Again, Satoru says nothing, opting to check his nails instead.

Uchiha Obito stares at him in disbelief.

“Are you serious?” A crack in the mask, incredulity shining through.

Satoru hums a tacky tune.

Uchiha Obito realizes that, yes, Satoru is quite serious.

Satoru knows that Uchiha Obito wants something from him. Wants it badly to stick around for an interrogation that it’s been pushed onto its back foot from.

Does he feel bad for holding that desire hostage?

Not really.

There is a moment, then two.

The realization settles in fully for Uchiha Obito. Though it doesn’t settle in nicely.

Uchiha Obito stares at him. Something disbelieving in its eyes. Though, for the first time, it feels as though it's staring at Gojo Satoru and just Gojo Satoru and no one else overlapping with his figure.

It thrills Satoru, it makes him keenly aware of the way he’s been stared at. He stares back, just to be cheeky but it’s not like Uchiha Obito would know that. He stares back and there’s something like a childish triumph in his veins. Pumping through him entirely and making the sunset all the more pleasing to the eyes and along with it, Uchiha Obito, as the curse parts its lips, almost begrudgingly, and says:

“Fine, Satoru.” The words are drawn out slowly, spoken carefully in Uchiha Obito’s usual raspy cadence. Except it’s a bit strange, perhaps because Uchiha Obito hasn’t called anyone ‘Satoru’ before or whether its not used to saying other’s first names-

Either way, it makes the victory all the sweeter because that makes Satoru special. As it should be.

“I knew you’d see things my way, Obito.” Saying Uchiha Obito’s first name is probably unnecessary, but the mere idea that Satoru’s ancestor probably refers to Uchiha Obito as ‘Obito’ is enough to get Satoru to do the same.

He’s speaking like they’re friends but they’ll hardly be more than curse and sorcerer.

Uchiha Obito looks flummoxed. Sounding out the words in its ears and finding it strange. But there’s nothing to be done about it. They have a deal and it’s already been set.

“Now, where were we?” Satoru asks, faux innocence. They both know it's false but Uchiha Obito isn’t going to bother pointing it out. “Right, so monsters and curses.”

He smiles, it’s not nearly as cold anymore. Rather it’s the smug grin of a cat that got the canary.

Uchiha Obito doesn’t look very impressed, if at all.

“What is a monster, do you think?”

There’s more to this entire thing than meets the eye.

The term ‘monster’, it feels important somehow. Its vague but the way Uchiha Obito says it-

It’s almost as though it prefers to use monsters rather than curse.

Uchiha Obito’s lips curve into a wry smile.

“I don’t think you need that defined for you.” The sunset hits Uchiha Obito’s eyes as it glances at it, and then turns back to face Satoru. That, too, feels important. “But here? Not all curses are monsters, I suppose.”

It’s a short statement, but it's poignant. Wistful and almost melancholy.

There and here. Then and now. Past and present.

Something was different in the past. An era of something. An era wherein curses roamed and were heralded as monsters.

And now?

There’s only a few of these curses that can be counted as monsters.

And one of them is standing in front of him.

So what does that mean?

Does that mean that, back then, curses were all special grades or higher?

No, that sounds too-

Too mystical. There will always be greater curses and lesser curses. It’s just a matter of nature. There can never be all special grades or all grade fours.

So what does that mean?

If it isn’t the world that has changed, if the world remained the same, if the laws of nature are to be believed then it must be-

Uchiha Obito’s viewpoint itself.

A member of a clan, raised up upon its teachings.

Marked as a vessel, as a weapon.

But it’s never quite that simple, is it. A vessel has feelings and their own thoughts, a weapon does not. A vessel can make their own decisions and can decide whether or not to do things- a weapon cannot.

But vessels are always sorcerers, if Uchiha Obito being a sorcerer and knowing other vessels as weapon first and comrades second are to be believed, and exorcising curses usually aren’t a thing most clan children are averse to. It brings honor and fame to the clan, it is a lifestyle they were raised up on, it’s as natural as breathing.

So what is it?

What is Satoru missing?

There is a moment, then two.

“You think yourself a monster,” Satoru says, it is a fact. Uchiha Obito does not dispute it. “Were the other vessels monsters, too?”

Uchiha Obito blinks, its face warps in an abrupt motion- a mix of outrage and anger. “Of course not.”

Satoru thinks he has found himself a weak point. But now is not the time for that. Now he must confirm something.

“Then were you?”

This is not just him asking about before. Before Uchiha Obito became a curse. When the man was alive and when he could feel the warmth of the sun and when his heart still beats beneath his chest.

There is a moment, then two.

Uchiha Obito’s smile is telling enough.

Marked as a vessel, as a weapon. But considered different from the others, somehow. Marked as different. Having to face only ‘monsters’ for his entire sorcerer life.

Facing other monsters as a monster himself.

Uchiha Obito wasn’t a regular sorcerer, was he. Satoru thinks and asks as much.

Uchiha Obito does not answer, and perhaps that, in itself, is an answer.

Then what kind of sorcerer was Uchiha Obito?

He tries to think of it, placing pieces and jagged ends together.

Uchiha Obito knows ‘sealing’ but also ‘that’s not him’, a contradiction. Meaning that it, at least, knows the basics. But for what? Satoru doubts that’s the kind of knowledge the higher ups would give to a vessel- their weapon. So this means that Uchiha Obito was taught for a reason.

Then there’s also the fact that Uchiha Obito refers to itself- himself- as a monster. Something akin to a curse, but it’s not due to the fact that he was a vessel. On the contrary, he had obviously disliked referring to other vessels as monsters, so there must’ve been something special about him for him to be taught as such.

Then there’s also its obvious protectiveness over the other vessels, almost like guilt- which is fair enough if it got them killed, but this feels more personal than that, it feels like it was the one that drew the knife over their throats and-

Oh.

Satoru thinks back to his first theory, his first conjecture.

Wherein he said:

“Now, Uchiha Obito says that the curse reforms if you kill a Jinchuuriki. Which goes against the narrative that vessels had generations, since, again, if a curse reformed instead of being passed on, it would’ve been deemed too dangerous for there to be generations of them after one died.”

And had deemed that Uchiha Obito was lying.

But what if it were not?

Curses reform if the vessel passes. Reform as in to take over the vessel’s body, because curses don't need a breathing, living body to reside in- that much is clear when Sukuna dug out Yuuji's heart and still walked and talked.

But obviously, the curses also continue to be passed down upon generations, so how can that be? How can they trust- without security that-

Uchiha Obito is a special vessel.

They had security in place after all, Satoru realizes. And that security was Uchiha Obito himself.

If a vessel were to die and the curse takes over- if that were to happen-

There needs to be a monster to face down monsters. To take it back, to know ‘seals’, to obey orders.

Whether it was in the body of a friend, a comrade, another vessel-

Who better to face down those monsters than another- another which has an unimaginable monster of their own?

Uchiha Obito didn’t exorcise regular curses, Satoru realizes.

He had specialized in exorcising monsters.

Monsters that wore the bodies of friends.

Chapter Text

Satoru was born special, with the sky in his eyes and the boundless infinity in his veins. He was born and the world stopped, curses faltered, curse users halted, and sorcerers rejoiced.

His mother wept; his father laughed. Both out of joy.

He was born and all sorcerers were clambering for a chance to bless and be blessed by him, a babe that can barely open his eyes.

Even the other two major clans had to give some face, as bitter as they were about their marked decline in power from his birth.

For he was a blessed child, a child that shall know no pain nor struggles in his life. Blessed by the heavens with eyes that are the skies themselves. With boundless curse energy beneath his soft, infant skin. And strength that can one day rival myths and legends.

Satoru was raised accordingly. He was raised to be special for there is no doubt about that. He smashes each expectation, reaches each goal, and tears through each finish line with relish. He shines as the sole star of his generation. A bright, gaseous star that eclipses all others. He was always the center of the world. The one that everyone was beholden to. From young to old, even they have to give him some modicum of respect even if they wished to peel the skin off his bones.

Throughout heaven and earth, Gojo Satoru, alone, is the honored one.

The world is kind to Satoru. No strife, no conflict, nothing at all that could challenge a god.

(Not until Geto Suguru, at least.

But Satoru supposes it can only be blamed on himself. For being too soft, for being too human- for caring for another human that will just leave and die early just as they always do.

There is no strife, no conflict, no sadness to be had if he had steeled his heart and distanced his feelings like a god would.)

Uchiha Obito, too, is born special.

Though it is in the wrong way. If Satoru was born blessed by the heavens then Uchiha Obito could almost be said to be born scorned by the heavens.

Scorn is the only explanation for it.

Satoru was raised as special, heralded as the strongest, as a god above mortals. He was taught that anything he put his mind to, can be done. He was taught that there is no limit for a being like him. That there is truly nothing- nothing at all- that cannot be done if he truly wishes it so.

He was raised to be the strongest, to be the one that everyone looked to in their hour of need.

A benevolent god in mortal coil.

Uchiha Obito was also born special.

While Satoru cannot claim to know the inner workings of the hands that raised Uchiha Obito, he thinks he can tell that they were not kind.

What kindness is it to have it be so ingrained in a child that, even after centuries and centuries and centuries- even after growing to be an adult- that even then, whatever that child became, he still believed that he was more akin to a curse than man?

Perhaps they didn’t explicitly say that Uchiha Obito was a monster.

But obviously somewhere along the line Uchiha Obito’s perception of himself- the man he was when he was alive- had already shifted. Perhaps it was when he was young and trained to specialize in exorcising other vessels, or perhaps the realization had sunk in only after his hands were slick in the blood of his once ally.

Satoru remembers, once, wherein Uchiha Obito had asked lightly whether Satoru was here to kill it.

It’s odd wording. You don’t kill a curse, you exorcise it.

Uchiha Obito was taught to exorcise.

Uchiha Obito had considered it killing instead.

Considering such affairs as a regular exorcism is distancing oneself from it all. To bite the blade and know that what you are facing is no longer alive, is no longer your friend but a monster occupying their body, to know that you are doing this for the greater good.

To consider it an act of killing means that you still consider them alive.

Uchiha Obito was born special.

Is it fortune or woes?

Did his mother weep while his father laughed?

Did they do it out of joy or grief?

Satoru thinks he cannot fathom that moment. Holding your child in your arms and knowing that he is marked for greatness, but the terrible kind that will bring honor to your clan but bring only grief and strife to your child.

In the end, Satoru cannot imagine the thoughts of a long dead pair of parents as they gazed upon their crying child. Whether they laughed or cried. Whether they were joyful or mournful.

If he could choose, then he would wish them mournful. For at least then, it could be said that Uchiha Obito’s parents cared. That they loved the swaddled child in their arms more than they did their clan.

He’s not sure if he wants to ask. It feels wrong to do. To dig up memories of a pair of parents that loved or were apathetic.

But his eyes are searching and before long Uchiha Obito notices.

“What, more questions?” Uchiha Obito says dryly, although there is a gentle note to its voice as though it was still distracted by thoughts of people long dead and gone.

There are many. From vessels to curses to monsters. There are many but Satoru finds himself asking:

“Your parents-” Did they care? Were they kind? Did they try to at least shield you from the world? “They must’ve been powerful.”

It’s a distant sort of statement, almost nonsensical but Satoru realizes during it that the other options were too personal. Something traded between well acquainted comrades rather than a sorcerer and a curse.

Something flickers in Uchiha Obito’s gaze, as though shifting through memories and moments. Satoru almost thought, for a moment, that Uchiha Obito would not answer.

“They were average,” Uchiha Obito replies, as though on instinct. Then there is a moment, then two. “Or so I was told.”

There’s a thousand and one words inlaid there. Something like grief and lament and a thousand lives left unlead.

Uchiha Obito never knew its parents, even back when it was alive. Whether they died or had to give him up is a question that is left vague, perhaps on purpose. But the implication is there. The grief veiled thin and Uchiha Obito’s eyes are lost, perhaps images of a man and a woman lurks beneath those eyes.

Does Uchiha Obito even know whether his parents loved him or loved his clan?

Satoru wonders if the idea is something that Uchiha Obito had agonized over. Never knowing the answer and grieving not having the warmth of a parent’s love in his life or being glad that he didn’t have to deal with their apathy.

“They don’t matter, not anymore,” Uchiha Obito says lightly. Now not even a hint of grief on its face.

Maybe it was neither of the above, Satoru thinks.

He thinks that there’s a term for this.

Schrödinger.

Dead and alive.

Maybe it was like Schrödinger's cat for Uchiha Obito. Wherein they existed in two states at the same time and the orphan turned killer agonized over which he’d prefer. Maybe Uchiha Obito eventually thought that it was best that they were dead so he didn’t have to deal with the grief of a pair of parents that chose the clan over himself. Maybe he thought it was best that they were dead so he didn’t have to be confronted with their scorn when he became dyed in blood.

Perhaps he could’ve missed out on their love. But to Uchiha Obito who had lived without it for so long-

Perhaps rejection was the more potent poison.

“Enough about me,” Uchiha Obito says. A clear sign that it was over with this conversation. “You’re a teacher.”

The change in subject is abrupt, Satoru thinks. But then again, he was the one that jumped to Uchiha Obito’s parents.

“Your students- when-” There’s a brief pause to be had as though Uchiha Obito was dreading the answer but yearning for it at the same time. “When are they officially sorcerers?”

Technically, they’re sorcerers now, even if they are students. But Satoru doesn’t think it’s asking about that. It’s asking about when they are fully autonomous. When they are out of his wings and can fly on their own.

“When they graduate,” Satoru says. “Yuuji-kun? Around two more years.”

There’s something in its expression- a torrent of grief and yet joy that it can’t quite hide. A relief to the curve of its eyes and a slight curve of the lips. It’s a pale imitation of a smile. But nonetheless, it’s a semblance of a smile.

It makes Uchiha Obito look younger, and if Satoru squints his eyes, he can almost pretend that there’s a flush of life to be had on Uchiha Obito’s cheeks and not just the light from the sunset.

Why? Satoru wonders. Why for this question? For this pointless, simple question?

“I see,” Uchiha Obito says, like rainfall after a drought. A gentleness that Satoru can’t quite fathom.

Satoru doesn’t see at all.

He wants to- he wants to dig- he wants to know why. Why just this question was enough to evoke joy from the immovable Uchiha Obito.

“And for…” Uchiha Obito drawls off. “For that boy with the sword?” There’s a hint of something, a trailing note that indicates that Uchiha Obito had wanted to withdraw its words. But it has been said and done so it just sits there in stilted silence.

For someone that likes to pretend it has a heart as lofty as the clouds, Uchiha Obito’s heart is rather closer to the earth.

“Yuta-kun has begun some sorcerer work,” Satoru says. “Though he’s a special grade sorcerer so they’re all wanting a piece of him, but he’s still a student so the scope of jobs he can take is still limited.”

Not to mention Satoru had sent Yuta abroad before they could try to pull something and force the boy into a mission he might not be ready for.

Uchiha Obito’s expression has dimmed somewhat, but it still carries a trace of relief.

“He sounds talented,” Uchiha Obito notes. Sounding almost lost. “That’s…” There’s a brief pause as though Uchiha Obito couldn’t quite decide on what to say. “Good for him.”

It’s undeniably distant and restrained. Of a curse that thought it had no family left- that perhaps even played a hand in that- reaching for distance instead.

It’s a pattern, Satoru thinks.

Perhaps for Uchiha Obito, there would be no grief if it never got to know Yuta at all. Then, there would be no rejection and no scorn.

Even if Yuta had reached for it- what would Yuta think if he knows that it helped with ending the clan?

Perhaps, for Uchiha Obito, the lack of a relationship isn’t as poisonous as the rejection that comes from wanting.

For a curse that has only been like stone and marble until now. This is undeniably human and undeniably soft- almost weak in a way, cowardly.

Shrinking away from a connection that could be.

Schrödinger's cat, alive and dead at the same time. If you don’t open the box, you’ll never know if it’s dead- so perhaps it’s best to just leave it well enough alone.

But the thing about Schrödinger's cat is that it could very well be alive.

To leave the cat inside the box is to let it die.

Perhaps that was Uchiha Obito’s intention.

Let these chances for something die and wither away.

Satoru should be glad that a curse is not approaching one of his students under the face of family. Curses aren’t quite human, anyways and whatever that was human about them died the day they, too, died. Family is a concept that should be foreign to curses.

And yet it just irks him.

Satoru wonders if this was how Uchiha Obito led its life back when it was still alive. He can almost picture the man, taciturn and withdrawn. Alone In his uniqueness. An orphan that probably had, at one point, yearned for his parents. But as time went on, as vessels went and died and dyed Uchiha Obitio’s hands scarlet-

Leave the cat for dead, think it dead and it won’t harm you to discover its brutal end. Let your parents remain a bygone memory, buried away, and it won’t harm you to know that perhaps they could’ve scorned you.

Let this connection between you and your descendant be strangled in its crib so you won’t have to face the chance that he, too, will scorn you.

He wonders if this was how Uchiha Obito was taught or if this was something that he learned, all by his lonesome.

Which made it worse?

That this was in Uchiha Obito’s nurture or nature?

Which was worse?

“He’s very humble, too,” Satoru divulges. “And he’s a bit withdrawn as well, even though he really wants to make more friends.”

Uchiha Obito’s expression fluctuates slightly. Its form stiffen as though not sure what Satoru wants with the information or why it’s being told. But it’s not interrupting him yet and almost seems to listen attentively with the kind of quiet zeal that Satoru wishes half his students have for his lectures.

(This was probably how his own teacher felt.)

“He’s confident when he wants to be, though,” Satoru continues, almost cheerfully. Remembering the shadow of the boy back from before and the boy when he is now and he feels pride. Something like the pride of raising a prized pupil. Finding a diamond in the rough. “He’s learning that from his beloved teacher, of course. And he’s still a bit shaky sometimes in non stress situations. But, well, it’s good that he’s more confident in combat.”

Oh, Yuta can pretend that he’s wisened up and matured up in front of everyone else. But for most grown-ups they can see that he’s still floundering about outside of combat. A bit too hesitant at times, a bit too quiet at others. It’s fine and well enough, they aren’t asking for him to grow up, after all. Yuta, just like every other student, deserves to live out their youth without anyone interrupting it. School days, festivals, time spent with friends, time toiling over obnoxious homework, surprise spars-

All precious. All things that you look back on one day and Satoru hopes that they’ll look back with a fond smile rather than regrets.

Satoru thinks the jujutsu world has enough regrets.

“He likes to be seen as one of the grown-ups.” It’s endearing in a way to see that. It’s something that comes with being around that age of teenagehood. Between still being considered a child and on the verge of graduating from it. Satoru was once like that as well. It makes him see his own shadow in Yuta, if only somewhat, to see Yuta grow bolder and more confident. The boy’s spine forging itself into something tougher and harder.

Though, Satoru’s spine has always been made of steel and clouds.

And never quite as wanting to be an adult as he was more annoyed that his age held him back from being taken seriously by the higher ups.

“And if you treat him like one, it makes him super confident.” Whether it be job directives or just in regular speech, if you treat Yuta like he’s grown, he’s proud of that. Like it’s some kind of small victory amidst a thousand others. It builds his confidence, Satoru thinks. “Isn’t that cute?”

There is a moment, then two. One that stretches on for an uncomfortable second where Satoru feels that perhaps he’s overestimated Uchiha Obito’s sentimentality and underestimated its disinterestedness.

Then, Uchiha Obito nods. Stiffly, jerkily. But there can be no denying of Uchiha Obito’s subtle glances towards Satoru, as though asking for more. Like a man left starving and has now been given scraps. Uchiha Obito can’t quite hide the interest in its eyes nor the way it subtly seems to be noting down every last word.

Schrödinger's cat, Satoru thinks. Alive and dead.

Uchiha Obito might’ve thought it’d be fine thinking the cat dead.

But the wants of the heart are hardly easy to dismiss.

If Uchiha Obito was as detached as it liked to portray itself, then there’s no point for it to be listening so closely. It could’ve interrupted him at any moment if it felt that the conversation was pointless.

Maybe it has a thousand and one years to waste, Satoru supposes. But it doesn’t seem the type to just sit there and listen to meaningless drabbles on a boy it doesn’t care about.

“He gets along with almost everyone,” Satoru muses. “Well, almost everyone. But you win some and you lose some, right?” Satoru knows for certain that Maki’s sister is irked by Yuta just as she is irked by everyone that’s close to her sister. There’s a crater of issues between Maki and her twin and Satoru isn’t keen to poke his nose in it. “He’s a nice kid, though. The kind that’s hard to dislike.” And that’s true enough. Yuta, while quiet, has this earnestness to him. Something more akin to Yuuji than Megumi. A quiet kindness and wishing to help that many can see and feel just from contact with him.

He couldn’t be any more different from Uchiha Obito in that regard, Satoru thinks.

They’re both quiet. But whereas Yuta is the sort of quiet consideration of a boy who cares but doesn’t have many words to show it, Uchiha Obito is the sort of silence that’s cold and oppressive.

Though, the cold silence has long given way into something more melancholy as Uchiha Obito chewed through his words. It makes it resemble Yuta more, in that way. Even if they were like night and day. But Satoru thinks there’s a resemblance to be had there.

Satoru huffs out a laugh. Feeling like he’s in some kind of bizarre parent-teacher meeting.

“Good,” Uchiha Obito says. A thousand and one words left unsaid on its lips. Something wistful yet relieved, a boulder off its shoulder that Satoru hadn’t quite seen before. The sunset falls slightly and the world is slightly darker than before.

And yet.

Satoru thinks that Uchiha Obito’s eyes seem to almost shine, despite it still being that of ink rather than red.

“Ask your question,” Uchiha Obito says lightly. An act of generosity that doesn’t go unnoticed. There’s an almost casual lilt to its voice, almost beckoning. Almost as though it wants Satoru to ask.

It’s now looking at Satoru and it seems almost open, it seems like it’ll answer whatever he asks.

A favor for a favor. A tale for a tale. A gift for another.

It was pragmatic like that, Satoru notes. Certain and sure that Satoru wouldn’t have told it about Yuta unless it had something to offer up in turn.

Which was partly true, but also not.

Half of Satoru had wanted to tell the curse about Yuta just as an attempt to crack something open.

The other half?

He has no idea, really.

Satoru supposes he shouldn’t talk. Every single one of their conversations has been an exchange of information. Of trading hints and scraps and hoping that you win the bigger bargain.

Satoru knows he could ask about vessels, curses, anything and everything at all and Uchiha Obito would indulge him because it feels indebted.

Well, not everything, Satoru supposes. Uchiha Obito is feeling generous, but not as generous as to give more than what Satoru has given it.

It’s a shot in the dark, hoping to condense everything into a question. Light the arrow ablaze and let it trail across the night sky and illuminate the most it could. Right now, right here, when Uchiha Obito is the most vulnerable it’s ever been in front of him.

Peel back the layers- take off the mask-

Uchiha Obito is unfolding right in front of Satoru.

And he relishes in it.

He’s learning things about this curse that no one has any idea about. He’s learning about it in a way that no one has for centuries and centuries. And anyone else who can claim to have known is long buried under dirt and rubble, left forgotten amidst countless other graves.

Uchiha Obito averts its eyes from family. It hides away from things that can hurt it.

There’s something special about family, for Uchiha Obito. Something about blood and clan. Something that it cannot erase even if it pains it to think about them. Even if they’re long dead and gone it clings onto their symbol on its back, the uchiwa fan that seems to sway with the win with its movement. It clings to their name, never having abandoned it even if it would allow it to forget the pain of the past, the sins of the past.

It clings onto Okkotsu Yuta, a sorcerer- its natural enemy.

Even if it averts its eyes, even if it doesn’t want to face these things- family, clan, Okkotsu Yuta- it wants to.

There’s an aching humanity about that. Something almost cowardly about it. Something that’s terribly weak and terribly sympathetic. A sight you want to avert your eyes from but you can’t because it’s unfolding right in front of you.

It’s like hiding away from the sun as it scorches you, but wanting to burn all the same for just its warmth.

Satoru wonders if Uchiha Obito had ever been burnt.

He wonders if it was better for Uchiha Obito to have never known the hurt, and yet never known the warmth than it is for Uchiha Obito to know the warmth and to be scorched because of it.

He wonders which was better, if there is such a ‘better’ to be had.

Just like with its parents, just like with family-

Satoru wonders if it had ever had a choice that wasn’t between worse and worser.

Uchiha Obito’s fate is a special one.

But it is in all the wrong ways.

Satoru’s fate was also a special one.

He is blessed, Uchiha Obito was not.

He gazes at Uchiha Obito.

He thinks of another person in his place, also blessed.

He wonders if they’re thinking the same thing as him now. Standing in front of Uchiha Obito.

He can almost see a painting of the past. Uchiha Obito’s hair is dipped in ink and it was still a ‘he’. Another who bears the same last name stands in his place. Looking over to Uchiha Obito and thinking-

Perhaps our fates are the reverse of each other’s.

It’s a thought that burns.

“Were-” Satoru’s not sure why his lips have parted and his voice has begun, but all he knows is that he wants to know. “Were you like Yuta-kun?”

Did you go through the motions of teenagehood? Did you try to be more grown up then you were? Did the adults around you indulge you? Did you make friends and rivals? Did you-

Satoru locks eyes with the curse, and he thinks he knows the answer.

His name means, ‘to know.’

Did you manage to live up to your name?

There is a moment, then two.

Did you ever get to grow up at your own pace?

“No,” Uchiha Obito replies. Almost seemingly humored that Satoru would suggest the idea. “I was the opposite.”

And, needing no further for Satoru to ask questions, it continues.

“In just about everything.”

Satoru hums and haws, it feels like one of the many walls around Uchiha Obito has come crumbling down.

“And what is that that you’re not different in?”

Uchiha Obito raises a brow, as though Satoru were a particularly intrepid dog.

“Blood.” Uchiha Obito’s lips quirk up. Something like the dark kind of mirth.

Blood and clan. A family and an uchiwa.

“You acknowledge it?” Satoru is stalling out a bit, wanting to think about just what about that statement that irks him so much.

Uchiha Obito shrugs, a casual motion. “For now.”

That wasn’t a no, Satoru thinks.

He glances at Uchiha Obito. He thinks that there’s more to the curse that resembles Yuta. Like it’s appearance and eyes and-

“Is there nothing else that’s similar about you two?”

Uchiha Obito seems to search its mind for a moment before replying with a curt, “No.”

Satoru hums, playing with the ends of his hair for a moment before glancing back at Uchiha Obito.

“Well, aren’t you both strong?”

That is what irks Satoru. Beyond blood, there’s also talent. The power that Yuta will one day grow into and has already ingrained itself into Uchiha Obito’s body like a second skin. They’re both monsters in strength and talent.

To wield their technique, copy, they must be so.

For to truly be effective at copying, you must understand the mechanism beneath the technique.

Yuta could copy Toge’s technique by seeing the other boy in action once.

Uchiha Obito had copied the nature curse’s wood technique with a mere glance.
They’re both monsters in that regard.

Satoru had mentioned Yuta being talented before in this conversation, so Uchiha Obito must also know.

So why deny it? Is it playing at being humble or is it something else?

The beginnings of a laugh escape Uchiha Obito before being stifled.

A sardonic thing that hinges on ear grating. As though it was truly amused, the sick kind of amusement.

It was short, but it rings inside Satoru’s ears all the same.

“He’s talented,” Uchiha Obito says. “I was not.”

There’s something like the sound of shattering glass and a sandcastle swept away by the tidal waves of the ocean.

“Then how did you end up being-” Satoru can’t quite say the word, he thinks he’s stumbling over them a bit. “Being chosen.”

If you weren’t born special like me, then why-

Uchiha Obito stares at Satoru for a moment before saying:

“I wouldn’t have been his first choice.” There’s something bitter in Uchiha Obito’s expression. “It was the right place, right time for the both of us.”

Uchiha Obito looks away, the sardonic kind of humor still present in its expression.

“Can you believe it? I wasn’t even average.” A challenge, a dare.

There’s the sound of glass breaking in the distance, a sandcastle swept away by the ocean.

Satoru’s world readjusts itself, just as it always does. His mind runs and runs as he reprocesses the information. Repaints the image, dip it in a new ink and paint out a new life.

Uchiha Obito wasn’t born special.

He wasn’t even the first choice.

Born to average parents, was a child that was less than average.

Then came whatever it was.

Before Satoru stands a monster in power. One of a kind. A monster that myths and legends would remember for ages to come.

There once existed a child that was deemed less than average. Easily forgotten within the flux and flow of history.

So was it fortune or woes?

Was it worth it? To trade in your everything for strength?

A chance that comes once in a lifetime. Right place, right time. Take the chance and plunge into its depths and come out stronger than you ever have before. Become the one that they need to bow down to and-

“They don’t matter, not anymore.” Spoken lightly, casually. As though Uchiha Obito didn’t realize what it was saying. What it was revealing.

So they once mattered?

Make one’s parents proud.

Clan and blood. Uchiha and uchiwa. Power and prestige.

Satoru knows, intimately, the gap between the talented and the not. Especially in clans such as theirs. Well established ones. Even in minor ones.

To be talented was to be heralded. To lack talent was to be scorned.

A parentless child, with little talent. One can already imagine their treatment in the clan.

So was it a choice at all?

To that child- to the person that child grew up to be- whenever the ‘right time’ was-

To trade in your everything for a strength sounds a lot less unfair if you had nothing to begin with.

Clan and blood. Uchiha and uchiwa. Power and prestige.

Satoru’s hypothesis hasn’t changed much at all, he thinks. It has only grown worse.

Schrödinger's cat.

Dead and alive.

Would his parents love him as he was? Or would they love him after?

Which would hurt more? That they loved him for all he was and he could’ve lived a normal life away from the jujutsu world? Or that they’ll love him after only for this power that he traded his nothing for?

Whatever path Uchiha Obito embarked on. By the end of it-

It was better that his parents remained a bygone memory, was probably what he thought.

For then, only then, will it not hurt.

For only then, will he not regret that path that he’s on.

A path that left him alone, more than ever.

That shaped him into a special existence, only it’s the type of special that makes you wish you were normal.

Satoru can imagine it.

There’s nothing that hurts more than receiving your dream only to realize it’s a nightmare.

Like monkeys grabbing for the moon’s reflection in the waters, only to realize too late that they’ve drowned.

A chance that comes only once in a lifetime.

Right time, right place.

Or perhaps, it could be said that it was the wrong time, wrong place, wrong everything.

For the destination that awaited Uchiha Obito was nothing but wrong.

It’s almost cruel, Satoru thinks.

He can almost imagine Uchiha Obito feeling the new power- the new curse- within himself and feeling proud. Proud from no longer being the one that’s not talented enough.

Where is that happiness now?

It’s gone. Like the moon’s reflection in the waters- it’s only temporary. An illusory beauty. Once the sun rises-

You only burn.

“We don’t have anything in common besides blood,” Uchiha Obito says. “And it should stay that way.”

Satoru thinks now, that rather it being an act of shirking away from warmth- from its last family. It’s also an act of mercy from a man who thought he didn’t have any, not anymore.

Perhaps for Uchiha Obito, it was best that Okkotsu Yuta is distant from the Uchiha legacy, lest it drag him down with it.

It was perhaps best for Yuta to stay far, far away from Uchiha Obito. Lest they become the same.

Children are awfully impressionable, Satoru thinks.

And perhaps Uchiha Obito knew that best of all.

This, too, is not a statement.

Rather it’s a request.

From a man who thought himself above it all. From a man who didn’t know he still cared.

It’s Uchiha Obito looking at Satoru and saying, Keep that boy away from me, for both our sake.

“Go on, ask me more questions, I can see you want to,” Uchiha Obito beckons. Asking if it’s a deal Satoru will take.

Keep Yuta away, keep the boy protected, let Yuta enjoy the childhood that he has and just let him grow up the way it should be and Uchiha Obito will find some generosity in its heart to give up more information. Precious things that will make it lag further in this game of theirs.

It’s a good deal, all considered.

Satoru was planning on letting Yuta grow at his own pace, albeit wanting to push the boy sometimes to test his limits. So Uchiha Obito’s request is something that he’ll have already wanted to do. All of this for more information, information that he desperately wants.

For example- who is this ‘he’ that Uchiha Obito refers to? What exactly happened to shape a weak child into a monster? What happened with the vessels that Uchiha Obito exorcised?

Did Uchiha Obito manage to find some reprise by his ancestor’s side?

He wants to know, he wants to know, know, know.

But is it right?

Satoru wouldn’t say that he’s a moral or just person.

But this is not just about Yuta copying Uchiha Obito.

It’s about two people that wants for family and one is taciturn and withdrawn and the other is reaching for distance with every possible chance.

But Yuta did take the first step. Asking Satoru to meet Uchiha Obito again.

This is Uchiha Obito cutting open a chasm between them and asking Satoru to help.

So what will it be?

Satoru wants to sigh.

It was never a question at all, was it?

“Yuta-kun wants to meet you,” Satoru says casually. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here to chaperone.”

There is a moment, then two. Uchiha Obito looks taken aback. Its blinks have gone off kilter and its breathing has stopped before resuming.

Satoru would’ve been surprised at himself, too. If he were from before, before.

But he’s a teacher now.

And teachers let their students make their own decisions. Protect them if it goes wrong and cheer them on if it goes right. But Satoru doesn’t get the right to take the decision away from Yuta, even if it may end in tears.

Schrödinger's cat.

Dead and alive.

If Uchiha Obito chooses to think the cat dead; then Satoru will place his bets on the cat being alive.

Yuta owes him a lot of kikufuku for this, Satoru thinks wryly. The best kind.

Uchiha Obito reassesses Satoru. Looking at him anew and seemingly finding him infuriating but also-

There’s something to be said about it seemed almost warm. Warmer than the light of the setting sun, warmer than the gentlest of fires.

It’s clearly exasperated. And a bit annoyed that Satoru would reject its deal.

But rather than being unhappy, there’s something about Satoru’s actions that made it feel relieved instead.

Perhaps it’s Yuta, Satoru thinks. Perhaps it realizes that Satoru was a teacher first and foremost and there’s something about it that reassures it.

Really, Satoru thinks distantly. Not sure why he, too, feels exasperated in turn.

You already care about Yuta without even knowing him that much.

It’s a folly, no doubt. Some kind of weakness. But all the same, Satoru can’t find it in his heart to exploit it as harshly as he could’ve.

Perhaps it’s because it’s related to Yuta, perhaps it’s because Yuta wants to know it.

Or perhaps it’s because he can tell it cares about Yuta, even if it pretends it cannot care less.

“That is if you can find me,” Uchiha Obito challenges casually.

And Satoru has always risen to the challenge.

“Don’t worry, I can find you wherever, whenever.”

Uchiha Obito huffs out a laugh. A stringent thing that’s no less loud in the space between them.

“Stalker.”

Satoru balks in offense for a moment before realizing that this was, perhaps, light banter. That whatever they’re sharing under the sunset is no longer just a game of question here and answer there. No longer just a treasure hunt. No longer harshly traded words and wanting to dig at whatever that lies between them. The veil has fallen.

What lies beneath it is just Uchiha Obito, the man who once was, and Gojo Satoru, Yuta’s teacher.

If it could be described-

Maybe it’s like a parent-teacher conference, Satoru thinks. The weirdest that he’s had.

“Ask your question, Satoru,” it says, a soft timber. Satoru thinks no one has said his name like that before. The raspy kind of voice mixed with exasperation and an almost crooning edge that is more teasing now than threatening.

This, Satoru realizes, is showing its gratitude for Satoru’s care for Yuta. Granting a gift for Satoru being Yuta’s teacher. Giving Satoru what he wants anyway even if the deal is called off- or perhaps it’s because the deal was called off that it’s letting Satoru dig, now, more than ever.

Really, Satoru thinks, exasperated still. Do you even see yourself?

Caring about a boy it wishes wouldn’t end up like it.

Caring for a boy it only met once.

It’s certainly a weakness, a folly, a crack in the indomitable Uchiha Obito.

And yet.

Satoru can’t find it within himself to scorn it.

And so he asks:

“Who is ‘he’?” Satoru asks.

Uchiha Obito stills. Some of the warmth having been chilled away by the frost of winter, as though recalling something best left forgotten.

“Madara.” The answer is curt, cold, almost cutting with a pained edge to it. “Uchiha Madara.”

Clan and blood. Uchiha and uchiwa. Power and prestige.

A tale is unfolding in front of Satoru, but it feels all wrong.

“And when was the ‘right time, right place?’”

The world stills as the chains rattle and Uchiha Obito stops breathing, stops existing as human.

“I was the right age, and in the right circumstance,” Uchiha Obito says. “He didn’t have much of a choice.”

What was the right age and circumstance? Satoru thinks, his heart thundering in his ears.

Uchiha Obito fixes him with a wry smile, as though reading his thoughts.

“Young and dying.”

There is the sound of shattering glass and a sandcastle swept away by the ocean.

Chapter Text

He almost doesn’t want to fathom those words. The realization slides down his throat like coarse oil and it drips down his spine like the hottest of steel. It’s something unpleasant to hear, let alone try to wrap his mind around.

Young and dying.

That either means that Uchiha Obito was somehow riddled with sickness while young or that Uchiha Obito was somehow on the verge of death.

Either way, Uchiha Obito was meant to die young. One of the many that would be forgotten in history simply because they aren’t important enough. Maybe mentioned as a footnote in someone else’s story, or not even that.

Then came Uchiha Madara. A relative, though what kind is left unsaid. A relative with enough power to change Uchiha Obito’s life. To take Uchiha Obito back from the gates of hell and give him a chance to live.

It’s trading away death for life. Trading away your nothing for everything.

Who wouldn’t take such a chance?

Only a fool would dismiss it.

Satoru tries to imagine it.

Uchiha Obito, dying from a sickness in his young body. Uchiha Obito, dying from wounds and blood that shouldn’t belong on a hale body.

Uchiha Obito, young and dying.

Then Uchiha Madara comes and offers a chance to live.

Which was worse, Satoru thinks. Giving a sickened child a chance to live, a chance to run under the sun only for them to learn that every step tears against their feet and the sun burns. Or giving a wounded child a chance to live, a chance to heal and revive only for them to learn that perhaps it would’ve been better to die a human than live as a monster.

Which was worse?

Has Uchiha Obito ever been given a choice that wasn’t between worse and worser?

“How young?” Satoru asks. Almost hoping, futilely, that perhaps Uchiha Obito’s definition of ‘young’ means older than Yuta’s age, that perhaps Uchiha Obito got to live his youth before it all went wrong.

Though he knows, best of all, how youth is a currency in the jujutsu world and, if they have their way, every one of his students would be used up and discarded before they’re old enough to even have a chance to mature.

He can’t fathom ‘young’ back in the old jujutsu world. Where there were rarely as many scruples, less so morals when it comes to subjugating any and all curses that they could.

The Heian era of jujutsu was its golden age, and in that era, there came the prominence of young, talented sorcerers that never got to live to their prime. Their exploits are recorded, their victories are noted, their strength written down for generations to come.

They’re heralded for their talents, yet no one mourns for their youth.

For every victory, for every curse exorcised-

No one records their sorrows, their wounds, their grief.

If they died, they died well. They died a good death, they died noble and honored. They died for their comrades, they died for the jujutsu world, they died well.

The young died beautifully; the old died peacefully.

Or so it was said.

The truth is far harsher.

The young died hideously; the old died haunted.

Satoru has an inkling that perhaps Uchiha Obito wasn’t wracked by sickness. Rather than dying in the soft warmth of his home, Uchiha Obito was dying out in the harsh world.

Dying an ugly death, a terrible death. Where some bookkeeper would note him down as dying ‘honorably’, if they even care to remember. Uchiha Obito was parentless and untalented, after all.

“Maybe around thirteen,” Uchiha Obito says, a bit quiet as though it can’t remember quite right.

Satoru wouldn’t blame it. Despite its looks, ‘thirteen’ was centuries and centuries ago. Not like Satoru, wherein ‘thirteen’ was mere decades from now. Really, it was a wonder Uchiha Obito manages to remember as much as it does.

Satoru supposes some things cannot be forgotten. Some things are just etched into your marrows and ingrained into your spine. Things like your first love and first kill and the day wherein you traded in your nothing for everything.

Satoru tries to imagine Uchiha Obito, thirteen. Superseding an image of a young Yuta over the curse and he can’t quite imagine that, either.

The curse in front of him has long been shaped by combat. Whatever remains of its younger years has been chipped and chiseled away by age and grief.

“Sickness?” Satoru hedges carefully. Hoping that, between the two poisons, Uchiha Obito at least had the kinder one. Dying with one’s blankets and home around oneself sounds like a much kinder death.

It’s not a ‘kind death’, there’s no such thing as a ‘kind’ death when it comes to a child at thirteen who should be brimming with life and running about instead of grasping for straws and coming up short.

It’s only kinder in comparison to dying out in the wild. With dust on your tongue and soil beneath your head. The sky above you. The world stretches far and wide, teeming with life and you are going to die and the world will move on and you’re only thirteen but you’re going to die and the world is going to move on.

“A boulder,” Uchiha Obito corrects lightly. “The tides were turning, desperation was high.” Uchiha Obito’s eyes are slightly unfocused, as though recalling an event of a lifetime long past. Or something it long fought to forget. “As a last resort, he made the cave collapse.”

Uchiha Obito then scoffs lightly, moving slightly as though to shake off the remnant of rubble and dust from its body.

“Don’t fight in caves if you can help it,” Uchiha Obito advises, almost lightly. Something like quiet teasing in its severe voice.

It’s macarabe, it’s the sort of callous casualness that means that whatever horrors Uchiha Obito, thirteen, faced on that day as the walls gave in and the rocks fell-

It probably didn’t even make the top ten for Uchiha Obito as he got older.

Uchiha Obito does not elaborate on the events that transpired to get it where it did. Perhaps it thought it best forgotten. Or perhaps it’s one of those things that Satoru will have to push and Uchiha Obito will mull over and decide whether it feels generous enough to divulge.

But does it matter how Uchiha Obito ended up there?

At the end of the day. A battle was fought. Then the rocks fell.

And then Uchiha Obito is remade.

Does Satoru really need to know the whole sordid story? Does he need to know about a thirteen year old boy that didn’t amount to much and would’ve been forgotten in history? Does he need to know about an orphan with nothing to his name other than the crest on his back?

Satoru has a feeling that Uchiha Obito, thirteen, died the day the rocks fell and who came out of it was an entirely new person.

So does he really need to push this? Does he really need to dig? Is it worth it at all? To risk drawing Uchiha Obito’s ire for a boy that didn’t amount to much?

Satoru doesn’t think he can even reconcile the image now.

The Uchiha Obito in front of him is poised and ready. A sharpened knife in the dark ready to be unsheathed at a moment’s notice. Its power is clear for Satoru to see. Coiling and writhing and begging to be unleashed. Ready to swallow the world whole if given the chance. Its eyes are a scrutinizing thing, threatening to bleed red at the quietest of whispers. To consume one’s technique and remade it anew under its hands.

Its body is of a well seasoned fighter, riddled with scars and made all the more pyrrhic for it. The scars etched itself well onto its skin. Telling stories of battles fought and battles that it survived.

Uchiha Obito appears as though weakness isn’t something it had ever known.

And then there is Uchiha Obito, thirteen- who knows only weakness.

Perhaps that day, that boy really had died.

Died and made way for someone new- something new.

Something that would never be weak again.

Satoru’s eyes catch on the scars that marr have of Uchiha Obito’s body. It was an odd scarring that Satoru hadn’t quite managed to categorize. He had hypothesized that perhaps it was from some technique or so that tore up half of Uchiha Obito’s body when it was alive and it never did quite heal right.

He has finally gotten his answer, now. And it’s nothing but unpleasant.

Uchiha Obito presumably was dying. Not dead.
Half of his young body crushed beneath a boulder.

Satoru wonders what his last moments were like. What the thoughts of an insignificant boy was like as he laid dying beneath rocks and boulders. Whether he could think at all through the pain- because what an agonizing pain it must’ve been.

He wonders if Uchiha Obito had managed to die a quick death beneath the boulders, waking up to only be born anew.

Or perhaps the boy had clung to life instead. Each breath an agony, each moment awake being hell.

There is no doubt that Uchiha Obito had died that day. Or at least, a part of him did.

Satoru wonders if Uchiha Obito had even mourned for his own death before moving on.

Did anyone mourn for Uchiha Obito, the boy?

Did anyone even care?

There is a moment, then two, wherein there’s a weight on his chest and something like a faint sorrow for Uchiha Obito. It’s a stark feeling of bitterness of an unfair world and a dead boy and a lamentable curse that shouldn’t have been born.

Uchiha Obito’s life is unfolding in front of Satoru.

It’s a patchwork of mistakes and regrets. It’s distinctly marked by the jujutsu world. Inked by it, even. For this is a tragedy created by their world, and it is perhaps a curse created from just as much the jujutsu world as it was Satoru’s terrible, no-good ancestor.

There’s enough regrets in the jujutsu world already, Satoru thinks. Enough unmarked graves. Enough sorcerers that die and die forgotten.

The jujutsu world only takes and takes.

It creates curses just as much as it exorcises them.

Do you even remember your death day? Satoru thinks, wryly. Glancing at Uchiha Obito.

He could probably ask that. Maybe. Maybe he could and Uchiha Obito would answer and then-

And then what?

Hold a funeral for a boy that never died? For a boy that managed to grow up all wrong? Would Uchiha Obito even care? Would it even mourn?

Satoru doubts it. It doesn’t seem to care about its own undeath. Let alone remember the day it died. Nor would it care for funerals and paper money burnt as an offering.

“What day were you born?” Satoru asks.

To the boy who died. To the person that stands in that boy’s place today.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes widened slightly.

There’s a thing about shock that makes its expression less severe. Less mature. Something almost lively about it.

It takes a long, long while for Uchiha Obito to even process the question. Let alone answer it.

“February,” Uchiha Obito says. Slowly. “February.” Again. Repeating it firmer this time as though it needed its own reassurance. There’s something pathetic about that. “Tenth.” Again, said slowly. As though Uchiha Obito hadn’t thought about it for a long, long time.

There’s something terrible about that.

A sorcerer’s birth date is one for celebration. Even back then, it’s a day of fortune and blessings. It’s the day you were born. Unforgettably and unmistakably yours. It’s just a part of your identity as your name was. Something that you’re not meant to forget. Even more important than first loves and first kills and first death.

Or, maybe-

“When did the caves collapse, then?” Satoru asks instead. Finding that Uchiha Obito is still pondering the exact date and despite finding a concrete answer, it stands, flummoxed.

“July,” Uchiha Obito replies. Faster than before. Almost as though it’s been written into its body. An ingrained instinct. Still slurred by the passage of time but definitely faster and clearer.

There’s something even more wretched about that.

“The day before the last of July,” Uchiha Obito recites, quiet and sure. As though it had done so thousands of times before.

Perhaps for something like Uchiha Obito- for someone like Uchiha Obito, the man it once was-

His death was more important than his birth.

Here Satoru is. Having the first hints of what is possibly a timeline.

But he feels anything but happy.

He wonders why he cares in the first place. Of a boy who died and everyone forgot about in the place of the man that the boy became. A weak boy that knew not of strength. A weak boy that died and left in his place something infinitely stronger and more special.

Perhaps it was.

But just as much as he was special, just as much as he became strong-

There’s regrets in equal measures.

It makes Uchiha Obito. The curse that Uchiha Obito is, it’s made up of regrets. There’s anger at the world there, sure. But more potently, still, there lies regret and grief that can fill the entire ocean and then some.

It’s the kind of misery that threatens to drown you whole if you feel a bit of it. The kind of regret that lines Uchiha Obito’s figure and forms its spine. It’s the kind of regret that goes down into your marrow and never leaves.

There’s an irony about this, Satoru thinks. For all that the jujutsu world touts itself as protecting the world, for all that the Gojo clan prides itself on being the very best at it-

Here Uchiha Obito stands, an apex curse, created from their hands.

Uchiha Obito is the mistake created from human folly and human arrogance. Of old men sending the young to die.

It’s a story that Satoru had wanted. A ‘gotcha’ to throw back in the face of the elders. A terrible, awful example for them all to witness and just see.

An example to prevent his students from being.

It’s an awful story to hear, though. Like nails on a chalkboard and grease on your back.

The jujutsu world has enough regrets, Satoru thinks.

There’s a silence between them. The kind that stretches on for an infinity.

Satoru parts his lips and he says:

“It’s August.” The heat is searing and the weather is tepid. It’s the kind of thing that embodies summer and makes his students whine about having to spar outside when sparring inside is the same deal but with shade and cool. It’s the kind of summer where school students are out and about and out living their youth to the fullest.

Most importantly-

July has ended.

Perhaps to the world, it being August means nothing. Another month. Another summer. Another season to endure the heat and laugh about it as the heat gives way to the chill of fall and the cold of winter and it cycles back again.

But to Uchiha Obito-

To the boy and man that has lived and died on the same day for thousands of times in his mind to where he remembers it more than his own birth date-

The day before the last of July.

Perhaps to Uchiha Obito, that would mean something.

The world has moved on, the banquet has ended, the people have parted.

Sometimes, that’s not a bad thing.

A wispy breath is drawn. There is an infinity between him and Uchiha Obito.

An insurmountable distance, an uncrossable barrier.

Uchiha Obito gives him a long, hard look. Trying to decipher him for all he’s worth and take him apart with its eyes. It’s a scrutinizing thing that burns with its intensity and makes Satoru wonder if Uchiha Obito even knows just the potency of its own stare.

Perhaps it’s meant to unnerve.

Instead, Satoru thinks it’s more that Uchiha Obito is flummoxed. Taken off by a step and now the subtlety has fallen down by the wayside and what remains is the man Uchiha Obito once was- a step closer to who the man must’ve been. Staring at Satoru, searching him for all he’s worth as though it’s trying to find something.

A lesser man would’ve drawn back at the attention, but Satoru just laughs and says, “My eyes are up here.”

“I know,” Uchiha Obito replies, blunt and quick. Its eyes never strayed from Satoru’s face at all.

The veil has fallen, the sun is setting. There is the afterglow of a pinkish hue on Uchiha Obito’s face. It’s the nice sort of pink- the kind that reminds you of cotton candy and cherry blossoms and things like that. The kind of pink that’s part soothing, but also part orange due to the hue of the sun.

There’s an infinity between them.

An insurmountable distance, an uncrossable barrier.

“Well, I just thought that-”

Uchiha Obito takes a step forward. Satoru’s words trail off, caught in his own throat.

There’s an infinity, sans one step, in between them.

Uchiha Obito takes another step forward.

There’s an infinity, sans two steps, in between them.

Uchiha Obito lifts its hands-

Satoru lets it happen.

And Uchiha Obito uncovers his eyes.

There’s a moment and then a thousand moments.

There’s an infinity, sans Uchiha Obito’s hand on his blindfold, between them.

The sun is setting and there’s a roguish pink on Uchiha Obito’s face. Dyeing it in the colors of the sun and warmth.

Satoru is looking at it, with no fabric in between them.

It isn’t the first time.

But it feels like more.

It’s looking at him and it’s looking at him.

It feels final, this time. No longer an afterthought and he wonders why- he wonders if it was his whole face that looks different or maybe it’s the way his hair looks when it’s down that’s different or maybe-

“Nice eyes,” Uchiha Obito says. It’s somewhat mocking, like an insult- but also it’s- “It’s like the sky.”

Not a night owl, after all, Satoru thinks, distantly.

“I get that often,” Satoru replies, hedging his bets. Trying to think of the game they were having and how it devolved into this.

Whatever this is.

“I thought it was like the ocean at first, or a maelstrom,” Uchiha Obito continues. Its lips quirking up at ‘maelstrom’ as though laughing at an inside joke. “But it’s not.”

“I’ll assume that’s a good thing.”

Uchiha Obito barks out a laugh.

The blindfold is set down, casually, flippantly.

“It’s good enough to win you a question,” Uchiha Obito says, a light joke. “Is that good enough for you, sorcerer?”

There’s an infinity, sans two steps- though, that’s not quite right, is it?

Satoru laughs, taking a step forward.

There’s an infinity, sans three steps, in between them.

“Plenty.”

The sun is setting. The world moves. There’s an infinity between them.

It’s August.

And that feels important, somehow.

Gojo Satoru is lying on Kento’s couch. Draped out like a model readying himself for a photoshoot, decorated with a plate- again, an ornate plate that is meant for only the rarest of occasions- of kikukufu to the side and one tastefully held in Gojo Satoru’s hand like some decadent snack.

Kento has no doubt that some hapless- probably also naive and terribly daft- soul would want to have this sight in their own home.

But luckily, Kento is rather a realist and terribly not daft so he recognizes the sight for what it is.

And what it is, is precisely every sorcerer’s worst nightmare to deal with.

It is indeed, the time for Gojo Satoru to blabber on about traitorous and treasonous theories while you can do nothing but pray to the gods for mercy only to realize that the gods favor Gojo Satoru, therefore, you must suffer if Gojo Satoru wishes it upon you.

“Nanamin,” Gojo drawls teasingly. “You’re late.”

It is at the point in their relationship where Kento does not question the means to which Gojo Satoru breaks into his homey apartment. He thinks he prefers not knowing. It’s the lesser of the two evils, no doubt. Having to either come face to face with the knowledge that either Gojo Satoru can pick locks or that he’s just let in through the fact that Kento’s neighbors consider them close friends or even- god forbid- lovers is something that Kento’s sanity cannot take if he finds out.

So Kento just lets the mystery of how Gojo Satoru breaks in remain a mystery even if his neighbor, an old, homely woman, keeps making jabs at when Kento is going to give his other half his key already.

Kento would rather fight a special grade than give Gojo Satoru his keys.

“I had a mission,” Kento replies. Wanting nothing more than to get Gojo Satoru off of his perfectly clean couch.

“Well, I told you I was going to be here,” Gojo Satoru says obstinately, wagging his finger as though Kento were a particularly disobedient dog. “How mean of you.”

“You told me a quarter of an hour ago,” Kento replies. Which, to Gojo’s credit, is usually a lot more time than he usually gives.

Is that even credit when Gojo Satoru is surpassing his usual terrible self by performing something that’s slightly better?

“Just say fifthteen minutes,” Gojo says dismissively. “Where did you pick up that vocabulary? Don’t tell me- you’ve been spending too much time around those stuffy elders, haven’t you.”

Gojo sounds miffed, but that is usually the case when it comes to Gojo and the elders. They have a particular tension between them that no one can miss even if they were daft.

Gojo certainly doesn’t make any effort to hide his obvious disdains over the elders to their visible sternation. But it’s not like they can do anything about it other than give Gojo a few pointed words that slides off him like water to a duck.

“It’s because of your curse,” Kento says pointedly. “The elders have been fussing about it.”

They’re usually always fussy. But this bout is worse than most.

“Ah, I see,” Gojo says. Obviously pleased that the elders aren’t pleased. “The replication thing still rubs them the wrong way, then.”

Replication would unnerve most, Kento would say. Techniques are a sorcerer’s backbone. It is the thing that makes them, well, them. In the jujutsu world, your technique is you. It represents you, it makes you either gold or trash.

Kento would say that Gojo Satoru knows this, best of all.

Gojo’s technique has made him a god. Untouchable and unattainable.

Though, contrary to expectation, Gojo does not seem to give a damn that the curse can replicate his technique. The annoyance that first appeared when Gojo had said such had stemmed from the fact that it was his ancestor that taught the curse-

From the fact that Gojo Satoru didn’t get there first.

It’s just the sort of childish pettiness that you can expect from Gojo Satoru. The kind that makes you wonder, sometimes, how this man is upholding the entirety of the jujutsu world.

It’s not easy to forget, though. The casual power in Gojo’s every move. The way reality ripples around him and the world twisting itself to his whims.

It’s an awful lot of power for one man.

But Gojo Satoru is no mere man. For all his pomp and attitude, Kento can at least say that Gojo Satoru is fit for his power.

It becomes him, in a way. The unnaturalness is Gojo Satoru, it makes the man otherworldly, untouchable.

There’s an infinity between Gojo Satoru and the world itself. It is a fact that Gojo revels on the regular. He’s long gotten used to it and has long shaped his view of the world and the people within it based on it.

“Nevermind,” Gojo dismisses easily, there’s a light grin on his lips. “So, long story short-” And here they go again. “Uchiha Obito wasn’t really that talented.”

Kento quirks a brow. Hanging up his jacket and making his way to sit down on a chair or so.

“Strange, right?” Kento is inclined to agree. “I mean, from its current strength, I’d assume it was at least talented when it was human. Or, well, it wasn’t naturally talented.”

There’s a way about Gojo’s worlds. From the way he drawls each syllable out lightly and the way it rolls off his tongue and casual waves. It’s meant to disarm you, the kind of casual closeness that’s artificial at best.

“Imagine this, an orphan. Parents died while young, no talents to speak of.” Gojo is weaving a story here. The crumbs on his fingers vanishing in the infinity between him and the world. Kento doubts that the crumbs even touched his fingers in the first place. “Then you’re sent out at thirteen on a mission.”

Gojo’s words have grown sharper at the last statement, and Kento knows precisely why.

Gojo has certain values, values that he’ll upkeep stubbornly- with his whole heart.

One of those values includes not sending out children to exorcise curses. Sending out the students at jujutsu tech is a necessary experience type of deal, something that Gojo endorses so long as it’s not too dangerous with a wave and a laugh that they’re ‘out living their youth.’ But Gojo would be hard pressed to approve any age younger than that.

Perhaps it comes with him being a teacher, or perhaps just a decent person. But either way, it’s one of the few things Kento finds himself respecting Gojo with.

Thirteen, Kento thinks. It’s an awful age. Kento can hardly hold his own weapon at thirteen now with any proficiency, let alone know too much about matters of exorcising curses.

He was a civilian born, though. But he still reckons that thirteen year olds from clans aren’t supposed to go out and brave the wild all by themselves, either.

At the end of the day, clan or not, they’re all still brats. Young and naive and weak and should be nowhere near the vicinity of a curse, let alone sent to exorcise it.

But Kento supposes that’s how the olden times go. He had read up on a decent chunk of jujutsu history. And there is no disputing that the greats were mostly young and rarely living past their prime.

“Then, while fighting inside a cavern or something like that, the cave collapsed in,” Gojo Satoru says slowly. “And it crushed half of you.”

Ah, Kento thinks. Half of the curse’s body. Half of its face.

It’s hard not to feel the slightest tinge of sympathy. Especially when considering that it was a child who shouldn’t be going through such agony in the first place.

“But it’s not dead,” Kento points out.

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it,” Gojo says, the teasing edge to his voice is sharp and pointed. “You don’t survive that as a thirteen year old. Let alone-”

“Let alone being able to restart your career as a sorcerer,” Kento finishes.

There is a moment, then two.

“In comes Uchiha Madara,” Gojo introduces, his voice light but his smile is anything but. “Our mystery man who brought Uchiha Obito back from the dead.”

“A relative,” Kento points out. Though it most likely had not escaped Gojo’s attention as well.

“By some means,” Satoru says vaguely. “But Uchiha Madara did something. Brought a dead boy back to life.”

Here, Gojo Satoru pauses. As though waiting for Kento to say something.

As usual, Kento obliges.

“How?”

Gojo Satoru hums thoughtfully.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Gojo says, his voice light and distant. “I mean how would someone live after having a boulder fall on them? Well, they probably can. Sorcerers had shrugged off worse. But generally, untalented, thirteen year old sorcerers don’t just get healed from that kind of damage.”

That is true enough. Kento has seen many sorcerers die from less, and many walk off from worse.

But either way, it’s a career ending event. Not something that you can ever recover from.

“Children can heal quickly, but even now, I doubt Shoko can heal something like that,” Gojo argues. “She’s a great healer, you know, and with the added benefit of time- I don’t see how a mysterious Uchiha Madara could beat her- his name isn’t recorded anywhere and I even asked Ieiri about it and she just said- ‘Satoru, are you making up random figures in history just to trick me? If so, you should’ve thought of better names.’”

Kento can almost hear Shoko’s bored cadence over the phone. Made raspy by smoke and long buried grief.

“Case in point, Uchiha Madara isn’t any figure of renown, and even if the records were erased, I asked Ieiri about it and she said that there’s no such miracle healers, even back then.”

Kento supposes Shoko is a good source on that sort of knowledge. She was a studious girl, back in the day, even with her penchant for mischief alongside her classmates.

She was mischievous and sarcastic and even more laid back than her two classmates, but she was someone that could out study them both when it comes to her field. A true up and coming talent. Just like the other two in her class.

They would’ve been the next pillars of the jujutsu world. The three of them.

Keeping each other in check, keeping each other supported, through thick and thin.

But one left and one is killing off her lungs slowly and the other is Gojo Satoru.

“So how?” Satoru ponders, almost to himself rather than anyone else in the room. “How is it that Uchiha Obito is even healed? And why?”

Gojo’s words are fast, but clear to the ears.

“Why waste such miraculous resources on a child that doesn’t even have talent?” Gojo asks cruelly, if pragmatically.

They both know the currency of the jujutsu world lies in talent and youth.

Uchiha Obito was talentless and dying.

“And even if they were, miraculously, healed, they wouldn’t go on to become someone fit to stand next to a Gojo. Nor would a dying and weak child be anyone’s first choice for a vessel. The risk of the curse taking over would be too great and-”

Here, Gojo suddenly drawls off.

Kento can see the gears in his head turning.

“The risk of the curse taking over would be too great,” Gojo repeats.

Turning and turning. The gears in a cog of a well oiled machine.

“The risk of the curse taking over would be too great,” Gojo says again, a revelation.

And Kento is right here with him.

There is a moment, then two. The realization dawning on them both like a blight.

Curses can regenerate faster than any human can.

With a mere blink, Ryomen Sukuna had regenerated Yuuji’s arm according to Yuuji’s account of the events. Finding his body hale and whole even after distinctively remembering his arm and fingers being gone before.

It’s the type of monstrous regeneration that humans cannot bear to match. Bringing back limbs and even hearts if the curse so wishes.

It’s precisely the thing needed to rebuild a dying boy beneath the boulders.

It’s almost insane.

The thought process there- the mere risk of it all.

It’s almost unfathomable.

I wasn’t his first choice.

Spoken coldly, but with the casualness that indicates that it felt that this wasn’t important. That this was just something to be heard and you’d reply with- ah, right. And not-

It was the right time, right place.

Someone needed there to be a vessel.

Uchiha Obito wasn’t their first choice.

He was just another one that was about to be tossed into the fire. Where he’ll either be burnt or come out of it a charred thing. Where he’ll either die or live on chains.

He wasn’t the first choice.

But he was the choice that worked.

The boy that came back from the dead.

Though Satoru knows, best of all. Curses do not bring dead boys back to life. Not unless there’s something that it wants.

Who was it?

Who made the deal?

Was it Uchiha Madara?

Or perhaps-

Was it Uchiha Obito himself?

What was traded in? What was given so that they could have everything? What was given so that Uchiha Obito could live?

What was the price for Uchiha Obito’s life?

One step forward, a thousand steps back.

With one question answered, there seems to be infinitely more that came knocking.

Uchiha Obito is a riddle, a puzzle. Something that’s to be cracked and solved.

And yet.

Satoru has never quite faced one like this before. Where each step feels like a defeat and each answer feels like a question.

“They wanted the curse to take over,” Gojo says, a breathless finality in his voice.

There is a moment, then two. The crooning edges of the underbelly of the jujutsu world wrapping around them both.

“But why Uchiha Obito?” Kento couldn’t help but ask.

For now, he knows that Uchiha Obito isn’t the heir of anything. Isn’t the talented child of anyone that mattered.

So why?

Why was it Uchiha Obito that worked?

Why did he live when the others failed?

And why did this story sound-

“The question should be why he was there in the first place,” Gojo says instead.

“It was a miss-”

“Uchiha Madara,” Gojo interrupts quickly. “Isn’t the timing too coincidental? Uchiha Obito dying and Uchiha Madara just happened to pass by, and with a curse on hand to make Uchiha Obito a vessel?”

Gojo coughs out a laugh, as though disbelieving of his own words.

“It’s almost like it was planned,” Gojo says, lightly- sharply. “Funny, isn’t it.”

It’s almost unfathomable. This whole plan. This whole plot.

Sending out a child on a suicide mission they were never supposed to survive on. Having one of your clan members on hand to make that child into a curse-

“You give that boy another chance at life,” Gojo drawls lightly. “You give him life, you give him power, you give him the ‘family’ he never had.” Gojo’s lips curl, it’s not pleasant. “It’s a script, maybe you don’t give him ‘family’, maybe not even ‘talent’- if the child you picked had that, but you gave the boy his life back and an immeasurable power, didn’t you?”

Like pieces atop a board.

It topples.

“Young and dying,” Gojo says, almost like reciting something. “That’s the requirement.”

There’s an abyss beneath their feet, threatening to swallow them whole.

“Uchiha Obito wasn’t the first choice,” Gojo continues. “But it worked out so well, didn’t it. A new life, power he never could’ve reached. And-” Again, Gojo’s lips curl, a mockery of a smile. “Family.”

Uchiha Madara, family.

The person who brought Uchiha Obito from the dead. And for what?

It certainly wasn’t any kind intentions.

Clan and blood.

“But why?” Gojo ponders. “Why was it that Uchiha Obito lived, while the others didn’t?”

And that was the question of the hour, wasn’t it.

“And it just… told you all of this?” Kento couldn’t help but question. It seems awfully… generous.

“At a price,” Gojo points out unhelpfully.

Kento’s blood almost curls if he doesn’t remind himself that, as lackadaisical as Gojo Satoru portrays himself, the man is much more cunning than expected.

“And this price being?” Kento prompts.

At this, Gojo’s lips twist into a wry smile. It’s a thing of bitterness, Kento thinks. That, and something else that he cannot quite decipher.

“It told me to tell Yuta-kun something,” Gojo answers lightly. “It’s quite funny.”

Gojo’s sense of humor runs quite low, Kento knows. So it is no surprise what Gojo Satoru says next.

“It says to tell Yuta-kun that-”

There’s a wry smile on Gojo’s lips. It’s not pretty.

“- if someone precious to you dies in front of you, close your eyes.”

The silence swallows Kento’s apartment whole.

“And when I told it that Yuta-kun had already seen Rika die, you know what it did?”

Gojo needs no further prompting.

“It asked-”

Clan and blood, Kento thinks. Woven into their blood.

“And what price did he pay to try to get her back?”

There’s something about the Uchiha clan.

Chapter Text

“He turned her into a curse,” Uchiha Obito repeats, slowly and quietly. Chewing through the words with much consideration before barking out a laugh. Harsh and grating to Satoru’s ears. “I assume that’s generally taboo.”

It then looks at Satoru as though daring him to challenge its claim. Standing in front of him as a curse manifested by another’s will. Shackled down to this realm by wants not of its own but rather of a sorcerer long dead.

“So he managed to bring her back to life,” Uchiha Obito muses, cruel and cutting. “Good for him.”

There’s an infinity in between them. Filled with words unsaid and memories well lived. Uchiha Obito doesn’t say anything. But Satoru doesn’t need Uchiha Obito to say a damn thing to know that the silence is heavy not because of the mere tabooness of the act but the fact that it’s something that Uchiha Obito knows well.

Perhaps it’s due to its own circumstances as a ‘Rika.’

But in this instance?

Satoru has a feeling Uchiha Obito is not placing itself in Rika’s shoes but instead standing in Yuta’s.

In the jujutsu world there are only two types of sorcerers.

There are those that curse and there are those that are cursed.

Those that curse are destined to live with the weight of the world bearing down on them.

Those that are cursed are forever damned.

“Not many would say that,” Satoru tests. Lightly and gently. Pushing them both towards the precipice.

Uchiha Obito glances at him, a dashing light through the mirage.

“He could’ve done worse,” Uchiha Obito says, a dare- a challenge. The quiet rumbling of thunder and lightning belaying his words. Flames atop his tongue. Challenging Satoru to question him and be burnt.

Satoru has always been partial to fire.

“How so?”

“It wasn’t surprised,” Gojo notes, almost distantly. “When it heard that Yuta-kun turned Rika into a curse.”

That is decidedly unnerving, Kento determines. Very much so.

A child turning another into a special grade curse is, to put it bluntly, a marvel. Something extraordinary and a once in a generation action.

“It seemed almost-” A breath drawn here, memories pulling back at the seams. “- almost like it anticipated that.”

“Curious, are you?” Uchiha Obito questions. Light and almost teasing. There’s a dark edge to it now. Light in tone but harsh in the way that it threatens to drown Satoru whole. Burn him alive and leave his ashes in the wind.

“Who wouldn’t be?” Satoru says evasively. A wry edge to his smile that rises to the occasion.

Uchiha Obito studies Satoru, again. Its expression like the shattering of stardust rearranging itself whole.

Then, once more, it says:

“Family defines us.” A wry note. A tinge of something, washed away by the fire and the sunset, hitting its eyes and blinding them both. “Some more than others.”

Satoru knows, more than anyone, of that.

“You think you know. You think you understand,” Uchiha Obito notes, having caught his thoughts. “Is it due to your eyes?”

A challenge, a dare.

The bonfire has been lit, Uchiha Obito’s eyes clash against his own. A myriad of blood against the sky.

Layers and layers, Satoru thinks.

Slowly but surely-

He’s making his way to the real Uchiha Obito.

Whoever he may be, beneath it all. Beneath the blood red eyes and sardonic smiles and sardonic drawls.

Which is real?

Is it the man who lifted up his blindfold with an almost gentle touch?

Or is it the man standing in front of him now with blood red eyes and a smile that can cut through the sun?

Satoru wants to know.

“It’s the Uchiha clan,” Satoru says to Nanami, the color of scarlet behind his eyes. Spinning and spinning, a fascinating pattern. Spinning and spinning, for an eternity and then some. A blooming flower amidst the blood. One that promises death and decay.

Spinning and spinning. Like a pinwheel in mid flight. A sight meant to mesmerize and disarm. Distract you until you’re lost in them and lose yourself entirely to red, red, red eyes.

Red eyes, spinning away.

Until they take your everything. Until they take your technique and swallow you whole. Leaving nothing behind except the red of your blood atop the earth and the blue skies above, untainted.

Red like blood.

Blue like the sky.

Satoru knows that his ancestor couldn’t resist the draw of it. The red of fire and blood. The draw of death and razor sharp smiles that promise more beneath. The red that threatens to pull infinity in and take it whole, take it for themselves. Claim it and let the sky fall into their hands.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes are red, red, red.

A warning, a threat-

A siren’s call.

Those of the Six Eyes are born knowing everything. They are born gods and die as gods. They are born to be above it all, the earth, the world-

But if there’s someone out there that can match them. That can take their being whole and leave nothing behind other than a splotch of blood-

Satoru wants to know.

“It’s in the eyes,” Satoru says, an echo of Uchiha Obito.

“It’s in our eyes,” Uchiha Obito says, quiet and crooning. Ink dipped on a canvas and dyed it in red.

As red as Uchiha Obito’s eyes.

But Satoru doesn’t think any ink can do that shade of red justice. Blooming bright and true under the light of the setting sun. almost seeming to shine, like the fresh gleam of blood dropped atop a battlefield. Seen only for a moment before it dulls.

Treacherous eyes, they are. They’re eyes that are meant to inspire fear. With a pattern that’s unlike any other. Spinning and spinning, for an eternity.

“To be an Uchiha, you must have these eyes,” Uchiha Obito says, as though reciting from someone. It’s voice gone obliqued and becoming almost lost within the wind. “But not all Uchiha get the honor.”

Here, its lips twist into a wry smile. Something bitter, poison atop the snow.

Satoru thinks he, too, understands that, best of all.

Uchiha Obito snorts out a laugh at his expression, it’s almost a mockery.

“You think you understand this, too, don’t you, Satoru.” His name is spoken casually now, almost naturally. Like Uchiha Obito has always known it. For all of its life. “How did you gain your eyes?”

Satoru mere smiles, it’s a fawning thing with little weight.

There’s no such thing as ‘gain’ with the Six Eyes.

You’re either born a god or you’re born as nothing at all.

You either win the favor of the gods or you’ll be nothing at all.

“I thought you knew,” Satoru says casually, lightly. Evasively.

Uchiha Obito snorts, an unbecoming sound. It sounds slightly different compared to the previous. Less reserved. Less polite. Sharper, harsher, closer.

“You, too, already know, then,” Uchiha Obito says. “Of the honor that all Uchihas yearn for.”

Satoru quirks a brow. Confusion overtaking his body for a brief moment before he shoots back an easy smile.

“Do I?”

Red against blue. The color of first blood stretching against the sky. Dyeing the world in scarlet.

“You do,” Uchiha Obito says, sure and confident. “It’s the day where it all began for ‘Yuta.’”

A story is unfolding. Ink staining the blank canvas and rewriting the world whole.

Dyeing it all in red, red, red.

“It said honor,” Gojo muses, quietly. “To gain those eyes.”

Kento thinks he has an inkling of which eyes Gojo is talking about.

The ones of red. A red that can haunt you for the rest of your life. Reminiscent of blood and stains just as well as it.

“It has a twisted definition of the word,” Gojo says, sardonic and bitter.

“We are not born with these eyes.” A tale is unfolding in front of Satoru, dyed murky with the blood of children forced to grow too soon and the elders that pushed them there. “To gain them, you must be strong.”

Uchiha Obito pauses, for a moment, as though considering its own words.

“Or so it is said,” Uchiha Obito corrects, quietly. “It’s quite the opposite.”

Memories are behind Uchiha Obito’s eyes. Satoru is sure none of them are pleasant.

“The true way to gain these eyes is to be weak.” A tale is woven, dyed in blood. “Be weak. Weak and desperate and on death’s door and you’ll do just about anything for power. Power to protect.” Red ink atop a blank canvas. “Let your fear overwhelm you and let your determination overwhelm that and then you will be blessed.”

Uchiha Obito turns to him and it says:

“Yuta was weak, wasn’t he? I imagine a child of his age wouldn’t be strong.” Uchiha Obito then quirks its lips, as though an inside joke. “Or perhaps not, perhaps he was talented. Too talented for his own good.”

A moment, then two.

“But in the end, talent doesn’t mean a damn if you don’t have these eyes.”

It’s a horrific thing.

The way to gain those eyes. Those eyes dyed in scarlet.

Those eyes like blood, like the blood that is shed on the day they’re gained.

To be pushed to the precipice. To be pushed to the very edge-

To either fight or die. To realize that you either gain those eyes or you’ll die.

The Uchiha clan is entrenched in the quagmire.

Satoru can’t quite find words to say.

What honor lies in that?

To push children- thirteen year olds at the least- to the battlefield and they either die or become ‘honored’-

What honor lies in that? What honor can possibly lie in the blood of children?

He doesn’t know. But the Uchiha clan must’ve.

He wonders when Uchiha Obito gained those eyes. Was it before the rocks fell? Or was it after? Was it worse for Uchiha Obito to gain a second chance at life through the miraculous activation of those eyes only to be tossed to a predetermined ‘death’? Or was it worse for the boy to be tossed into the rocks and judged whether he lives or dies based on whether his eyes bloomed or not- because surely they wouldn’t give a curse to a child who wasn’t ‘honored.’

Worse and worser.

Has Uchiha Obito’s life ever not been about picking the lesser poisons out of two?

You, too, know then. Of the honor that all Uchihas yearn for.

Satoru finds himself looking at Uchiha Obito. Impassive and almost amused by its own wretched tale.

He couldn’t help but wonder about the boy that once was. The boy that once existed. The boy that was weak and dying beneath those boulders.

Did you once yearn for this honor?

And more importantly-

Was it everything you wished for?

Satoru imagines not.

From the moment Uchiha Obito, the boy, was on death’s door. From the moment his eyes sparked scarlet.

His fate was sealed, the canvas was drawn.

The blank slate now dyed in the colors of blood.

From the moment he was ‘honored’, so, too, was he chosen.

Satoru is the Honored One. Chosen from birth.

Uchiha Obito was honored. Chosen from death.

Honor, Satoru thinks. Is a funny word.

For Satoru, honor is divinity and infinity.

For Uchiha Obito, honor is death and blood.

For both of them-

Honor lies in their family. Their blood. Their lineage.

The blessings in their eyes.

The Gojo lineage is untouchable, aloof atop the clouds.

The Uchiha clan is long gone, buried away and meant to be forgotten. Ended on one bloody night, dyed just as red as their eyes.

He looks at Uchiha Obito, an infinity, sans three steps, away.

He couldn’t help but think of another person, standing in his place. Another person with the Six Eyes looking out to Uchiha Obito.

Blue against red. The untouchable sky and the stained blood atop one’s clothing.

Surely they, too, must’ve thought:

Our fates must be in reverse.

“The Uchiha clan aren’t born with their eyes,” Gojo reveals. There’s something about his voice that has gone off kilter. “Apparently they have to gain the honor.”

The word honor is a mockery of itself. Gojo’s smile is a thin thing that veers on the edge of being caustic.

“It’s through their emotions,” Gojo continues. Caustic and cold and wrong and Kento wonders what has drawn his ire this time. “The trigger is in their emotions. Their cursed energy.”

Gojo moves his hands about, and Kento readies himself for an explanation. An unwilling participant.

“Imagine this,” Gojo begins. “You’re facing a deadly curse and you’re going to die.” It’s incredibly to the point, more than usual, Kento thinks. “You don’t want to die because you’re a child and you’re young and you know there’s only one way to survive this.” A vague gesture, Gojo’s nails scratching against the table’s surface. “Your clan’s technique.”

Kento doesn’t like where this is going in the slightest.

“At that point, your curse energy is at its zenith,” Gojo explains. “Your desperation, fear, whatever negative emotions there are- fuels it enough to get through the threshold to gain these eyes.”

To burn through that much curse energy is almost-

“That’s right,” Gojo says, a wry smile on his lips. “It’s a level of curse energy that isn’t normal, that you’re not supposed to reach.” Gojo’s fingers tap against the table, Kento worries for its fate. “You pushed through your limits, sure.” Tap, tap, tap, goes Gojo’s fraying temper. “But the cost?”

Kento knows enough to know that it’s not pleasant in the slightest, especially for children whose bodies are fragile and cursed energy is still stabilizing itself.

Kento’s table fractures, dents. Gojo’s cursed energy is potent in the air.

“If you imbue too much cursed energy into, say, this table, it breaks,” Gojo says, blaise. “If you imbue too much cursed energy into a child, they also break.”

It’s a terrible technique, Kento thinks. To be pushed to your limit, to either die or live all based on whether your cursed energy can reach that threshold.

They break in every sense of the word. Their body isn’t meant to cross that threshold, their mind isn’t meant to bear the weight.

It is often forgotten that cursed energy is the condensation of negative emotions made into power. It’s usually controllable, if a bit uncomfortable for most sorcerers.

But for those that crossed that threshold, for those that burnt out their body just for a pair of eyes-

For children that are on death’s door and felt so strongly that they achieve those eyes-

The effects on their mind is unimaginable.

Most children sorcerers at least had their clan’s technique when falling into battle, small as that mercy may be.

The Uchiha clan had none. They were either pushed to their limits and are honored or die weak.

It’s a shitty technique. One that pushes children to their limits. According to Uchiha Obito’s sordid tale.

A thought catches in Kento’s mind.

He wonders if Uchiha Obito had gained those eyes before its first ‘death.’

The boy was weak and was facing a near death scenario. Presumably not for the first time. And Kento can hardly imagine them wanting to stuff a curse inside a child that wasn’t ‘honored.’

It’s terrible to think about and even worse to fathom.

Is it better for them to choose to ‘kill’ a child that was barely given the chance for life? Or is it worse for them to pick a ‘weak’ child, not yet bloomed and judge whether he lives or dies based on his eyes?

No doubt, Gojo had already thought of the same thing.

“But Okkotsu has not,” Kento points out. Okkotsu, as far as they all can tell. Is stable and as right as can be.

“Yuta-kun doesn’t have those eyes,” Gojo says, his voice is light but terribly dreadful. “All of his cursed energy in that single moment went to anchoring Rika.”

Gojo’s grip relaxes on Kento’s poor table.

“Instead of his cursed energy reaching beyond its limits in his own body, it went to Rika instead,” Gojo explains. “It created Rika, the curse. While giving him part of his lineage’s ocular abilities.”

A moment, then two.

“But just creating Rika would be too lucky, wouldn’t it.”

They both share a glance.

Luck is something never truly in excess when it comes to the jujutsu world.

“Yuta created a curse,” Uchiha Obito muses. “I’m sure you’re wondering how that could be, when our eyes grant only replication.”

Satoru’s world flips and warps. He thinks he’s gotten an answer but at the same time the void is beckoning to him.

Satoru wants to know.

“I’m not telling this to you for free.” Spoken decisively, harshly. In a voice that seemingly only knew how to bark orders and trade barbed words. The sunset has fallen further, dipping the world in a slight haze and making everything almost red.

“I know,” he replies, light and teasing. Voice mellowed and smoothened out by honey, meant to disarm and entrap.

Eyes dipped in ink look up at his own.

Uchiha Obito smiles, a star collapsing upon itself. The softness and pink had long fallen away, its face now highlighted by an orange- almost red- hue that makes it look cruel, vicious.

“You’re prepared to pay?”

“If it’s within my power,” he replies, honeyed words and a coiling snake.

Uchiha Obito barks out a laugh. The soft laughter had long withdrawn to the yesteryears.

“For a man like you?” A slight pause, as though to emphasize its next words. “I doubt anything has ever been out of your power.”

Uchiha Obito smiles, a blackhole in bloom.

Its eyes gaze into Satoru’s.

He thinks this is what it feels like, to have an unstoppable, gaping abyss try to swallow infinity whole and leave not a scrap behind.

“That’s quite an estimation of me,” Satoru drawls back.

“I know men like you,” Uchiha Obito replies. Sure and certain. “And you don’t ever think anything is out of reach. You have one big mistake, one big failure that’ll haunt you for the rest of your life, but you still believe yourself infallible because that one big failure is the only one you’ll have for the rest of your life.”

All this time, Satoru has been observing Uchiha Obito. Noting its ticks and habits.

But he supposes he should’ve known, you gaze into the abyss and it stares back and whatnot.

Uchiha Obito is no fool. It has played this game for a long time when it was alive. Probably longer than he has. A game of ‘you read me and I’ll read you and by the end of it I’ll have created a novel off your life while you’re still searching for even a hint of mine.’ It plays the game well. It knows that it’s a puzzle to be cracked and it's waging on the fact that it’ll crack you first before you’ll be able to complete it.

Satoru had taken one step closer.

Uchiha Obito had taken the other ninety-nine.

From Yuta to Yuuji to Sukuna-

What steps had Uchiha Obito not taken? What crumbs did it not leave?

A trail of breadcrumbs and tangled webs.

Whether it leads to a witch’s house or the Bull of Minos is anyone’s guess.

It’s been weaving a trail, whether it wanted to or not. But it has realized that there’s something about it that captivates Satoru, that leaves Satoru wanting to complete the puzzle and make it whole.

It had taken ninety-nine steps. From its answers to its posture, from its questions to its gaze.

And now it’s asking Satoru to take the final step. To cement in this game of theirs. To realize what’s at stake.

The second veil has fallen. The mask of anger and spite is gone.

Now he’s onto the third. Something cruel and vicious and almost playful.

He wonders just how many layers can he peel back before he’ll see the true Uchiha Obito.

How many layers he’ll have to dig until there’s nothing left but the soft meat of the man that Uchiha Obito was a mere moment ago before being shuttled away because Uchiha Obito realized it had gotten too soft.

The second veil has fallen, the distance between them is an infinity, sans three steps and two veils.

The blindfold is only the prelude.

He thinks that he’s fallen into a quagmire. He’s entrenched up to his neck and there’s nothing to do about it but to delve in deeper and find the crumbs and pieces of string lurking below.

It’s no longer a game, is what Uchiha Obito is saying.

It’s seen him, it knows that he wants to be seen, so it’ll see him for all he’s worth. It’ll take apart the blindfold, it’ll take apart his smile next, it’ll break him down to his core and see him. It’s saying that it’ll give Satoru a taste if Satoru dives in as well and gives it what it wants. That it’ll see Satoru and make him regret ever wanting its attention.

It’ll take one step, and Satoru will have to take the other.

This’ll be a dance, it’s saying. Between the two of them.

Uchiha Obito smiles, a cataclysm of human errors and human mistakes collapsed into one thing.

Its eyes are searching.

Its eyes sear through infinity, almost.

“And what about men like you?” Satoru asks.

A quirked brow, an ever present smile that’s not pleasant in the slightest. But it’s less so than before, it’s less artificial and more just the way Uchiha Obito is. Wrong and unnatural but irresistibly out of reach. Making you want to reach over and grab and slide the pieces into place of an indiscernible and enigmatic Uchiha Obito.

The second veil has fallen, Uchiha Obito seems more honest than ever.

And yet, Uchiha Obito has never been more indiscernible.

Satoru wants to see.

He wants to see the gingerbread house at the end of the road, the deadly bull at the end of the thread.

He wants to see that man again.

Uchiha Obito, the man. Uchiha Obito, the man that smiled and said-

“Nice eyes.”

“Will you use your question on that?”

“Those eyes are based on emotions,” Gojo says, voice light and tense all in one. “”They’re fueled by negative emotions.”

It’s a terrible power, worse, still, when given to a child.

“So-”

“What do you think would happen if a child sees someone precious to them die right in front of them?” Uchiha Obito questions crassly.

It will be a feast, Satoru thinks. For those eyes that feed off of pain and regret and desperation and don’t die.

“It’s not quite the same as before, it’s much more potent,” Uchiha Obito says, amused. “What happens next is a clan secret.”

Uchiha Obito glances at him, then. Judging him for all he’s worth and challenging, daring-

Will you be worthy of it?

“The first time is desperation,” Uchiha Obito recites. “The second time is grief.”

A moment, then two.

“The third time is a taboo.”

“Those eyes,” Gojo says, drawing out his words. “They have multiple phases.”

Akin to a flower, a deadly, treacherous one, at that.

“The first time is desperation for your life,” Gojo says, as though reciting someone- or something. “The second time is immense grief for the loss of someone important.”

It’s a bloody tale.

“The third time is something taboo.” Gojo pauses, if only for a moment. “It didn’t specify which kind.”

Clan and blood.

The Uchiha clan.

Their blood red eyes- the method of activation for each phase-

It’s bloody. It’s brutal. It’s trading away one thing for another. It’s tossing away pieces of yourself, scraps and pieces and each bloody chunk just for power. Just for another chance, another fertilizer for your eyes to feast on and grow.

As if reading Kento’s expression, Gojo’s lips quirk up into a facsimile of a smile.

“Your Yuta must’ve crossed both bridges at the same time,” Uchiha Obito concludes. “You’re lucky the only thing he did was create a curse.”

Spoken simply, casually. As though a boy’s taboo actions can be waved away so easily. As though creating a curse wasn't one of the worst things you can do as a sorcerer.

“You don’t believe me,” Uchiha Obito states, simple and neat. As though observing Satoru’s expression was just something it does on the regular. “No, you believe me but you can’t fathom what could be worse than a boy creating a curse to accompany him.”

A sardonic smile, red eyes that sears through infinity itself.

“Go on, then, ask.” Uchiha Obito beckons, a deadly flower blooms and its scent is tantalizing. “Go on, Satoru.”

And so Satoru does.

The question is asked.

The scroll unfurls.

It is stained in scarlet.

“The Uchiha clan,” Gojo says, light and casual. “Must’ve been quite powerful.”

What that strength is built on, the two of them do not say. Some things are better left unspoken, and this one is better left buried. On the tip of your tongue but never quite spoken aloud because it’s like a ghost haunting your skin and to speak it aloud would feel like breaking some kind of taboo or seal upon a century old curse.

The jujutsu world has never been in need of cruelty and taboos.

It’s been built upon it.

And for such a clan. For one Uchiha clan-

Their power was in themselves.

Their own desperation, grief, anger, madness-

It fueled them. Fueled their eyes. Fueled them unlike any other.

Each clan has their own source of power. Something to fuel their techniques.

The Ze’nin have their contracts. The Kamo have their blood.

The Gojo have their Infinity.

The Uchiha, once, have their own emotions.

They must’ve been powerful, Kento can at least acknowledge that. It’s in the simple rules.

Trade in something for another of the same value.

And for the Uchiha clan. Who traded in, first, their death, then their most precious someone, and then their own morals-

For the Uchiha clan, who traded in everything-

It must’ve been quite a boon.

But in the same vein-

It must’ve been quite a curse.

For the Uchiha clan, their greatest enemy was not a deadly curse nor a wicked sorcerer, but rather-

It was themselves.

It was not a question of ‘if’ but simply ‘when.’

When they'll be burnt and whatever idealism they once held become shattered into fine, sand pieces. When they’ll be taken by a curse before it sinks its claws into them whole or they irrevocably cross a line and can never turn back again and blazes until the world burns with them.

It’s just a question of ‘who’.

Who will pick up the pieces and who will burn the corpse.

A conclusion is dawning on them both, it seems.

“Do you know?” Uchiha Obito asks. “What happens when an Uchiha tries to revive someone?”

Satoru can only listen.

“We try, and we fail, and we realize that there’s no bringing the dead back to life.” There are memories behind Uchiha Obito’s eyes. None of it is pleasant. “And so, some of us cope. And eventually fail. Some deny it. They fail at that, too. Some ignore it. And it comes back to haunt them. In the end, we all have to face reality. And then-”

A moment, then two. A quiet, raspy whisper breaks through them both.

“Do you know?” Uchiha Obito looks at Satoru. A challenge and a dare. A fire to a moth. “Madness can be written in blood.”

“For all those that manage to get to the second phase,” Gojo muses. “They eventually all go mad.”

It’s a tale with no happy ending. A clan with power but with joy that has been sapped to give power to their eyes. A clan with members trapped in their own regrets and ghosts that haunt them.

Members destined to go mad and become sorcerers who used their power for treacherous deeds.

Driven mad by their own technique.

Someone had to take care of the mad clansmen. The ones that go rogue after crossing that ever-so-thin line.

Family and blood.

Usually, for clans, it’s the clan members themselves who take care of the blight. It’s them erasing the stain and making it right. It’s them regaining their honor and face.

Kento can’t imagine that it would be any different back then.

In birth and in death, you belong to your clan. You live for your clan, you fight for them, you die for them.

And for the Uchiha clan, you will also commit the taboo for them.

Kento thinks that he can take a wager at what this ‘third phase’ entails.

The taboo of killing one’s own blood.

All for honor, for face, for dignity.

In regular clans, it’s a rarity for someone to go rogue. People like Kamo Noritoshi are the exception, not the rule. So it’s not common for clansmen to have to kill one of their own. Let alone even fathom the idea on a regular basis.

For the Uchiha clan, it must’ve been a matter of ‘when’ and not ‘if.’

“The third phase undoubtedly needs to cross another threshold,” Gojo hypothesizes. “No doubt it grants more power, but the cost is also equally heavy.”

The weight of power, Kento realizes. Must be quite heavy indeed, for the Uchiha clan.

“Killing your clansmen,” Gojo muses in the silence. “That’s sure to do it, though.”

Kento can imagine.

The mere idea of it-

Killing your clansmen. Being killed by your clansmen.

The amount of curse energy that must’ve generated-

First, you give up your first ‘death’, then you give up someone precious, then, finally, you give up your own blood.

All as fertilizer for your eyes to grow, grow, and grow.

They are powerful eyes. Replication.

And undoubtedly, there’s more about those eyes as well, beyond that. Kento doesn’t doubt in the least that there’s more to the pattern in Uchiha Obito’s eyes than just mere cosmetics.

They are powerful eyes.

But is it worth it?

To trade in everything for more power?

Perhaps to the Uchiha clan, it must’ve been.

Perhaps it was a true honor for them.

But all it leaves Kento with is the feeling of bile rising up his throat. Imagining children around Itadori’s age giving it all up.

Imagining another child standing in his place in the morgue, seeing their teammate’s cooling corpse on that table and having someone tell them that they’ve been honored to proceed forward.

Kento wouldn’t trade in Haibara for any amount of power.

But Kento didn’t have a choice.

Kento doubts the Uchiha had any either.

People die, and there’s nothing you can do about it. They die and they’re gone for good and they can no longer smile at you with that stupidly enthusiastic grin of theirs and they’re gone and what hurts more is knowing that maybe- just maybe you could’ve done better or maybe there’s something that could’ve saved them.

Worst yet, there’s the knowing that maybe you couldn’t have done a damn thing at all.

Maybe for the Uchiha clan, to gain power from grief is something that makes the death feel more bearable, somehow. Perhaps it makes them think that their precious someone’s death was for a purpose and therefore it is right.

But that doesn’t mean it comforted them.

To know that the only way you proceed forward is to have your heart ripped from you, what a burden that must’ve been. To sleep and wake and live and know, with a weight on your shoulder, that to proceed-

Someone close to you must die.

And to proceed even further-

You must stain yourself with the blood of your kin.

The mere knowledge must’ve hung over them like a blade, threatening to fall with each day they face.

The jujutsu world has never been lacking in tragedies and regrets.

And it feels like, the further Gojo continues on, the further the Uchiha clan embodies the worst of it.

“But they must also know that Uchiha Obito could go mad at any time,” Gojo continues. Not quite done with this treacherous tale. “With the curse inside him and the way his technique spurs it on, there’s no doubt that one day he’ll go mad as well.”

Kento can already imagine the risk of it. A vessel going mad-

It’s a terribly risky business. One that was more likely to happen than not. A security risk right at their doorstep. So there must’ve been something to secure it- something as a failstop- something like-

“That’s right.” Gojo practically cackles. “Introducing my terrible, no-good, super boring ancestor.”

Something like that.

But the Six Eyes and Infinity do not come every generation.

It’s all based on the roll of a dice from a capricious god. Testing fate everytime a Gojo child is born. To see whether they’ll become honored or mundane.

“But that would mean that the Uchiha clan wouldn’t get to have one of their own as a vessel unless there’s a corresponding Gojo to match,” Gojo says. “And that just wouldn’t do.”

Of course. It all circles back to that.

Power.

Not just that of the physical.

But also power between clans.

Having a vessel in their arsenal grants the Uchiha clan more power than most, Kento imagines. And having to endure not having that chip in their hand or having to hand it over is almost tantamount to weakness.

Power and politics.

Honor and clan.

In the face of losing power-

Madness is only an obstacle.

A question.

A single question.

That is all Satoru will get. That is all Uchiha Obito feels like divulging any further on.

A single question.

There are almost an infinite amount of things Satoru could ask about. Most of them would be meaningless and trite.

But Satoru wants to know, all the same.

He wants to know Uchiha Obito’s birth hour. Whether it was with the rise of dawn or perhaps the falling of the sun to foretell a terrible future. He wants to know about Uchiha Obito’s childhood, beyond the vague allusions. He wants to know what makes Uchiha Obito into Uchiha Obito.

He wants to know where Uchiha Obito, the boy, ended and where Uchiha Obito, the man, began.

He wants to know.

He wants to know whether Uchiha Obito likes the color red.

Or whether he hates it with all his heart because it’s the color of his eyes. The same eyes that take, take, take until there’s nothing left but power and madness. The same color as the blood that once ran through his veins and made him an Uchiha.

The same red of the uchiwa on his back.

He wants to know.

But he knows, more than ever, that he ought to not ask.

Focus, Satoru reminds himself. Against the light of the sun that has dipped far below the horizon. Leaving nothing but the cold and the last vestige of summer.

For Yuta and for Yuuji.

He needs to ask the right question.

To do right by both of them.

Satoru is a teacher now. And for better or for worse-

He’s Gojo-sensei before he’s Satoru.

And so he buries the meaningless questions beneath his tongue. Leave them to die a swift death before asking:

“What was the failsafe?”

Uchiha Obito pauses for a moment, as though not expecting Satoru’s question. It’s not a long pause, but it feels poignant all the same.

It all comes down to that.

The failsafe. The stopper. The security in place between a curse and the madness in one’s veins.

Either way the dice falls, it would be important to Yuta or Yuuji.

The curse or the madness. At least one must be satisfied for anyone to even consider the idea of setting loose an Uchiha vessel. Let alone the Uchiha clan itself, who knows, vein deep, how easily the madness takes.

“I believe I told you,” Uchiha Obito says. Leaning closer, ever closer between the infinity that separates them. Veering closer to the edge.

Satoru feels like he’s a brush shy of the sun. Scorching and hot. Like a moth to a flame.

Red, red, red.

Those eyes sear through him. Sear through infinity and touch upon his skin. Like fire and blood.

It stains.

“Seals, Satoru,” Uchiha Obito continues. Simple as day.

Seals.

Again, with the seals. That Uchiha Obito claims to not be in its area but now is so intertwined with.

Seals for the curse?

But then-

Uchiha Obito reaches over and there’s a ghost of a touch upon his chest. Or at least, that was the goal.

“To contain, to control,” Uchiha Obito says. “Written on paper.” A slight push against infinity. Reaching, burning, searing. “On one’s skin.”

An amused smile, a flower in bloom, the ink has been tipped over.

It dyes the world in red.

“The heart can be inked, sorcerer,” Uchiha Obito says, almost like an echo. “Just like any other scrap of paper.”

“There was a seal on Uchiha Obito’s heart,” Gojo says, almost distracted, digging through memories and moments. “It wasn’t to control the madness or the curse, not only that, at least.”

The more they delve, the further it goes.

What lies beneath is a bottomless abyss.

It’s the location of the seal. The kill switch over Uchiha Obito’s heart. Set to detonate at a random beat.

“Over the heart,” Gojo muses. Wry with dark humor. “It’s a good location to exorcise something from within.”

But something went wrong.

“Indeed,” Gojo says, as though reading Kento’s mind. “The seal never got the chance to go off.”

If it did, Uchiha Obito wouldn’t be standing in front of them now.

Hale and whole. Sound as can be.

A curse.

“How does taking out someone’s heart sound,” Gojo says, teasingly. “As an execution method.”

Gojo couldn’t possibly be-

“It would take out the seal, wouldn’t it,” Gojo continues, just to spite Kento, probably. “And it would be a pretty set fate for Uchiha Obito. At least, for those that aren’t in the know.” A pause, as though to emphasize. “On paper, that is.”

A moment, then two.

“And who would know?” Gojo asks, to no one. “Who would think that taking out the heart is the plan to save Uchiha Obito’s life? The seal wouldn’t be on anyone’s mind at that point, I imagine. And the person had to act quickly, before someone could remember to use that seal. Whatever the switch to activate it was, that terribly boring person had to get there faster. Maybe pull their rank, maybe say that they’re the only one who can do it, maybe say that this is the only way to be sure.”

It’s a plan that involves two.

No-

Only one needs to act upon it.

“On paper it would be executing Uchiha Obito. In practice, it would be saving him from certain death,” Gojo concludes. “To get the chance to turn him into a curse.”

The curtain is falling.

There lurks more questions beneath the fold.

The doomed Uchiha clan, what happened there?

Why the seal, what was its purpose beyond acting as a kill switch?

What about the other vessels? What went wrong there?

And most confusing of all-

Why would a Gojo with the world at their fingertips toss it all away, just for Uchiha Obito?

The further they go, the more questions they have.

Kento feels like he’s been swept up in Gojo’s terrible world.

And there’s not a thing he can do about it.

There’s a man standing in front of Yuta. Ominous outfit and all with a severe expression.

“I told your teacher to deliver some news,” Uchiha Obito says, voice raspy and deep. “But I thought that some things are better said personally.”

Uchiha Obito stands there, on Yuta’s doorstep.

“Family matters.”

A quirk of the lips.

There’s a clash of red and black.

There’s a curse at the window.

Its form is familiar.

It stretches its legs and almost seems to relish in dropping into the brat’s room.

There’s the quirk of the lips.

“You’re not the vessel,” Sukuna says.

Something smiles back.

A curse without a name.

“I’m his clone. Sent to check on… Itadori,” the curse says, its voice a cacophony. Almost like each word was grabbed from a different sentence. Each syllable of the brat’s name drawn out carefully as though it hadn’t quite figured out how to speak. “Or I was supposed to be.”

Something stares down at Sukuna.

It smiles.

The pattern upon its eyes is wholly unique.

“Obito has always been a bit careless,” A quiet drawl. The voice is that of the vessel and yet not. And yet it sounds more like the vessel it's supposed to be, it's voice changing, twisting, evolving. With each passing letter, each passing word. “Even as a child.”

Chapter Text

Uchiha Obito is standing in Yuta’s living room.

A special grade curse is standing in Yuta’s living room.

A special grade curse who just so happens to be his ancestor is standing in Yuta’s living room.

Uchiha Obito is out of time and place. Its robes are a fine purple, durable but fine all the same. The fabric falls smoothly on Uchiha Obito’s frame, dyed in a dark noble purple.

It’s just another color, now, in Yuta’s time.

But back then?

It must’ve been worth a fortune. Worn only by those with status and wealth to spare. Of noble blood or above.

Uchiha Obito stands there, with robes that probably cost more than all the things in Yuta’s living room combined. It’s hand tailored, too. Or at least crafted personally for Uchiha Obito.

The uchiwa stitched cleanly on its back is clear of that.

And the way that the fabric falls atop Uchiha Obito’s form, not a distance too long nor too short. Not a seam out of place, not a stitch made wrongly. Tailored for Uchiha Obito. Made for the man to wear.

To battle.

Let the fabric rip and tear.

It’s a sign of confidence. Of wealth. Of either being confident enough in knowing that your fine clothing will not even be touched by battle or that you have enough spare clothing that you do not care whether this one gets a tear or two.

Uchiha Obito stands in Yuta’s room.

Looking out of time and place.

It does not belong here at all, Yuta thinks. It belongs to better. To homes with finely crafted furniture and history woven into the straw tatami mats upon the floor. To homes with a weight of history upon it and all the riches there is, tastefully decorating the background.

His clan was once of status and wealth, Yuta realizes.

And now they’re nothing but ashes in the wind and the name ‘Uchiha’ carries no more weight to it than does ‘Okkotsu.’

It feels unfair. It feels like ashes on his tongue and bile on the back of his throat.

They could’ve had more, Yuta thinks. They could’ve been more. They should’ve continued to be like the other major clans. Noble and prestigious, even till the modern day. With an ever growing clan compound and ever growing family.

It shouldn’t be this way.

But it is.

It’s now just Uchiha Obito, out of time and place and everything.

And Yuta.

Just Yuta.

It’s not supposed to be like this, Yuta thinks.

But time does not flow backwards.

So here they both stand, two that aren’t supposed to exist.

The Uchiha clan is supposed to be dead, and with it, their technique, their legacy.

Uchiha Obito looks at Yuta.

“Your teacher has probably told you about it,” Uchiha Obito says, its voice a soft rasp. “Judging from your expression.”

The phone in Yuta’s pocket burns. With the heat and intensity of clan secrets long buried and the legacy that haunts even till this day.

“Some secrets are better left buried,” Uchiha Obito muses. Almost as though to itself. But it’s looking straight at Yuta, piercing through him with eyes the color of blood.

They’re spinning. The pattern of the eyes. Warping and twisting and spinning, making you want to continue to look at it for an eternity and a half.

“You could live fine without knowing about these eyes,” Uchiha Obito continues, as though thinking to itself. But Yuta knows that this is anything but. If Uchiha Obito wanted to think this through, it would’ve. In some secrete corner of its brain while it stares at Yuta with unnerving eyes and an expression that shows naught of what it’s truly thinking or observing. It’s a taciturn thing, more likely to swallow words and choke on them than spit them out.

So this?

This is just Uchiha Obito testing the waters. Gaging Yuta’s reaction with minute precision and a mere flicker of its eyes.

Yuta thinks that the only reason why he noticed Uchiha Obito observing him in the first place is because Uchiha Obito let him.

Its gaze lingering on his face and expressions for a second too long, a moment too lingering before it switches back to observing the walls behind Yuta’s head instead.

Its eyes, Yuta are noticing, never quite stay in one place for too long. Always lingering about, surveying the area. Its eyes never resting, absentmindedly focused in a way that was almost unnerving. As though this was something that Uchiha Obito has done for too long for it to even be something to spare a lick of its attention to.

Yuta doesn’t think that that’s normal sorcerer training. He knows that his teacher likes to tell them to ‘pay attention’ to their surroundings but he doesn’t think Gojo-sensei quite meant it like this. This almost obsessive categorization of every movement- the way Uchiha Obito eyes snap, unnaturally, towards the slight creaking of wood or the sound of voices from outside or any other noises that Yuta can’t quite perceive but Uchiha Obito must’ve all the same- it’s subtle, but it’s less so now with Uchiha Obito’s less than subtle eyes.

The minute snapping of Uchiha Obito’s eyes towards the source of sound or a miniscule change is hard not to notice when its eyes are like this. Red and spinning- until the moment its eyes spin, ever faster still, at a perceived disturbance.

It becomes less like pinwheels that fly alongside the winds, then. And more like the razor sharp blades of a weapon, flying through the air and ready to tear.

Red clashes against black. For a moment, the world stills. Uchiha Obito looks at Yuta’s eyes, dull and plain.

Nothing changes. There’s no blooming of a late flower. There’s no blood red stain upon once black ink.

Yuta’s eyes do not change.

It hadn’t changed. And from Gojo-sensei’s explanation, it never will either.

All of his curse energy went into creating Rika.

There was no energy left to spare to make his eyes bleed red, nor will there be such circumstances happening again. Yuta would know, he has been in plenty of near death situations, but it’s never quite the same as his first.

There’s a thing about firsts, Yuta thinks.

First death, first loss, first murder of kin.

There’s a thing about firsts.

And it’s true for everyone of his kin.

Up until him.

His eyes do not bleed red. They’re plain and they’ll remain plain. He wonders if this fact disappoints Uchiha Obito. He wonders if he’s letting another part of their legacy die with him. He wonders if he’s failed them, somehow.

He’s not sure, but it feels like he did, all the same.

“Or maybe not,” Uchiha Obito says under his breath. “You want family. You think I can give it to you.”

There’s something wry about Uchiha Obito’s smile. Something veering on caustic and an edge too bitter. A bit too personal. Uchiha Obito finds this funny, somehow. Terribly, tragically funny. But it does not say why.

Instead, all it does is exhale out a laugh- rough and caustic.

“Why not,” Uchiha Obito says, at last. “This is something you’ll need to hear, regardless.”

Yuta wonders what Uchiha Obito sees, that makes him smile like so.

“You want family.”

An echo, a repeat, almost as though Uchiha Obito is mocking him somehow but also it’s not quite that.

It’s a perplexing statement. And even more confusing, still, is Uchiha Obito’s apparent amusement in it.

“Well, any relatives with spare eyes?”

Uchiha Obito looks at him. There’s almost something cruel about its smile, as though it’s saying-

You want family.

A harsh glint in its eyes.

I‘ll grant it, your wish.

It smiles down at Sukuna. Thinly veiled amusement on the tip of its curved lips. It smiles and smiles and it does not show a single sign of stopping.

It's springy atop its foot, almost twitchy in a way. It swivels its head in every which way. Uncaring of the way its head tilts unnaturally at junctions or the way its eyes fixate too much on one particular thing, all the while the smile stays on. Unchanging, the exact curvature, the exact indentation.

It’s a smile that doesn’t fit right on the face that it’s been slapped onto. A tad too unnatural, seeming more like it should belong to someone else, instead. But somehow having been stolen to be used instead.

Its eyes are ever changing, ever shifting. Switching between blood red and dark ink to pale purple as though it couldn’t quite decide on a color. Ever changing, ever turbulent, but there’s a barely hidden glee to be had within those unfathomable eyes.

Its hair is also changing, Sukuna notes. Shifting color like the slow dyeing of a canvas.

Even its clothes are barely tethering on. Its colors warping and changing and the folds of it falling down further or being shortened in mere spans of moments. One moment it's wearing a traditional garment, the next, there’s red clouds adorning it, and the next, still, there’s the soft clink of armor against cloth.

Finally, its body seems to be shifting, limbs stretching or folding based on a nigh imperceptible change. Its face growing boyish or returning back to form within a mere flickering of the light, a mere blink of the eyes.

It smiles and smiles. Like it can’t quite get enough.

It smiles and it looks at Sukuna, its head tilting unnaturally. In a motion that it had no doubt imitated from someone but has no idea how to emulate properly. Instead, leaving it looking as though it has dislocated its neck instead.

It snickers, perhaps laughing at its own folly, a boyish sound that Sukuna wouldn’t expect. But that, too, is wrong. It’s wrong in the way that statues are, when they suddenly move. Or the way ghosts are, when suddenly gaining color.

It’s a sound that belongs to a boy, and yet the vessel in front of Sukuna now is anything but.

Perhaps a boy, it once was.

But now?

Both of its hands go to either side of its head, as though measuring something before it lifts its head back to tilt in a less unnatural angle. Something more human, than dead. It adjusts for several moments, its eyes flickering shades of seasons before it finally ends as it settles its gaze back to Sukuna.

Its form, an ever shifting thing, still. Never settling still into one form. Constantly shifting with the flickering of light and the passing of a moment.

“This body is sent here for Itadori,” it clarifies at last. “Itadori.” It stretches out the name, tasting it upon its tongue and there’s something about the name that delights it. For it continues to smile. Never a distance wider, nor thinner.

Just that one, eerily constant smile.

“Yuuji-kun,” it then says. Its smile twisting into something else. Something almost boyish as it looks down at Sukuna’s vessel.

Its voice is different from the last. A touch too high, too crooning, too familiar to-

“Yuuji-kun,” it repeats.

Gojo Satoru, that’s who it was familiar to. For just a second.

Its voice is shifting now, changing. Growing closer to the vessel it inhabits.

But there’s still the undeniable tonation of Gojo Satoru that it still cannot quite shake off.

It’s imitating him, Sukuna notes. As though it doesn’t have its own voice.

“How is Yuuji-kun doing?” it then asks, nonchalantly. Voice growing raspier, deeper. Hair growing darker, eyes bleeding red and scars falling back into place. Its eyes flicker to Sukuna.

In it, lay pinwheels.

“Alive,” Sukuna answers, even though he needs not. They both could see it with their own two eyes.

“The mission is complete,” it says with amusement. “This body should dispel itself when that happens.”

It smiles and smiles, though this time, there’s a touch of anticipation to be had there.

There’s a moment, and two.

It brings a hand to its body. Ever shifting, ever growing and shrinking and warping.

Nothing happens other than the quiet whisper of the passing wind.

In its eyes is an indescribable joy.

“See? Careless,” it says, cheerfully.

Warping and twisting and changing.

In front of Sukuna stands a monster.

“Even as a child,” Sukuna repeats. “You knew your vessel.”

A tilt of the head, less unnatural than last time. Moreso the careless movement of someone truly bemused rather than something copying off the motions off a script.

“In this world,” it says, amusement thick in its voice. “No one knows him better than I.”

Its words are slow, intentful. Each word grabbed from a seemingly different sentence with a different tonation in each and the result is something like a patchwork of noises. But in the end, the thing just smiles, the same smile that it has.

“And who are you?” Sukuna asks, just as intentful.

It smiles, withering flowers and rising suns.

“We met not long ago,” it says, cheerfully. Clashing harshly against its countenance. “Did you forget?” Its words are lackadaisical, almost friendly.

It’s the empty sort of friendliness. The sort that’s like an all consuming void that wishes to smother you whole.

The sort of smile that has no real substance behind it, the sort of tone that’s only speaking things that it heard before and never from its own lips.

It’s the surface of a mirror, seemingly infinite in depth but once you reach your hands out you find that it’s only a flat surface.

“And who are you now?” Sukuna asks, there’s no need to beat around the issue.

The sentiment isn’t shared by the thing in front of Sukuna, though.

It stares at Sukuna, almost amused. It offers no concrete answer, at least not yet, as it only smiles and smiles. As though the answer itself is in its appearance.

An ever shifting mass, an ever changing torrent of human appendages and limbs torn asunder and stitched together and torn apart again with each passing moment.

The eyes remain the only stagnant shape within the chaotic torrent, though it, too, is not immune to the changes.

If anything, it is perhaps the most eye-catching of all of them.

The shifting of colors, the dyeing of scarlet, the withering of violet wisteria, the drop of black ink. They blend together, bleed together, twisting, shifting, changing.

“Who do you want to see?” it asks back, amusement thick in its voice.

The passing of glances, a shared exchange between two.

The knowledge that there’s more than one identity that this thing could take.

“Does it matter?”

It smiles.

An acquiescence.

Sukuna’s heart thrums, it thinks that this is anticipation. The thrill of a hunt. Subdued, not quite what it once was.

But it’ll have to do for now.

The thing smiles. The clashing of colors, the blooming of flowers, the torrent of human limbs.

It eventually settles.

Red eyes stare down at Sukuna.

A man looks at Sukuna.

Sukuna does not recognize the man.

But the resemblance is there.

From the sharpness of the man’s eyes, to the red of a blooming peony. To the choppy, messy scrawl of hair that falls down the man’s back. To the man’s features, one of nobility and status.

It eventually winds down to the man’s expression.

Mocking and terrible.

But there’s the same smile on the man’s lips. A soft movement- red armor clinking gently against cloth as the man’s hair sways with the movement of it as the man sits upon the wall.

There’s no doubt that the man is related to Uchiha Obito.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” the man says, its voice having long shifted into something darker, smoother. “Your words don’t hold any weight with me, really.”

The smile shifts into something more of a smirk.

“Please do forgive the discourtesy, King of Curses.”

Now, Sukuna thinks. Now this is more like it.

“You don’t quite care for kings.”

“I knew one,” the man says, a sneer replacing his smile. “He was weak for a king, an oathbreaker for a husband, and a coward for a lover.”

A scoff, a mocking laugh.

There’s something terribly entertaining lurking beneath.

“I found that a king’s expression was most seemly when in an eternal slumber,” the man repeats, a sneer lining his words. “Perhaps that’ll be the same for you.”

Another scoff and upturned, mocking lips.

“Do forgive the discourtesy.”

There’s a thing about firsts.

First deaths, first loss, first kin slaying.

The first ‘smile.’

For a human, perhaps the first ‘death’ is quite novel.

But for a monster?

There is no such thing as death, loss, sadness from taking apart your kin.

For a human, perhaps a first ‘smile’ is something they may not even remember.

But for a monster?

It is a thing that it cannot forget.

There’s a thing about firsts.

And perhaps, that is the point where monsters and men intersect.

“It’s not often mentioned,” Uchiha Obito says, conversationally if only its voice wasn’t so harsh. “Not many get to the second part, if at all.”

Yuta can imagine it.

The requirement for it- the sheer anguish that must be felt and the curse energy required to break through that line- is ludicrous.

Yuta doesn’t imagine that it’s the quiet kind of death that can fit the requirement, either. The kind of sickness, or of a quiet passing due to age.

Sadness is evoked there, sure. But Yuta doesn’t imagine much else can be drawn from it.

At least, not enough to reach the barrier and break through.

It’s the witnessing of a violent death of a person you hold in your heart. Violent and terrible and enough blood and tragedies to go around to cause a second spike in your curse energy.

Yuta can picture Rika’s cooling body upon the concrete. He can remember it clear as day. The way her blood splattered, the way her limbs fell, the way she would never open her eyes again.

He remembers the way his own body revolting against itself. The way he had wanted to hunch over and just grab at her hand and open her eyes with the zeal and naivety of a child, the way his heart ran and ran and ran and hers has laid so still, the way something had broken and now he knows it wasn’t his heart.

It must’ve been an awakening, Yuta realizes, now.

He doesn’t know whether it’s luck or not.

Probably not, Yuta thinks. Gaining a link to a ubiquitous ‘family’ at the cost of Rika’s life doesn't seem quite worth it.

But then again, gaining ‘power’ at the cost of someone close to your heart isn’t quite fair either.

Yuta wonders who died in front of Uchiha Obito’s eyes. Whether they were like Rika, gentle and full of life with soft hair and softer smiles. Or perhaps they were akin to a mentor, like Gojo-sensei or not. Or perhaps they were a parental figure to Uchiha Obito- but perhaps not, from what Gojo-sensei said, Uchiha Obito wasn’t favored enough for that.

He wonders what kind of death it was. Whether it was limbs being torn asunder by a curse or a tragedy striking at the wrong time. Whether it was by fire or frost. Whether it was bloody and cruel, leaving nothing behind but viscera and gore or whether it at least left an intact corpse for the family to mourn.

In the end, all he knows is that Uchiha Obito must’ve loved.

In the end, all he knows is that Uchiha Obito loved and lost and several years earlier, they were on the same path.

Uchiha Obito lost and gained a pair of bloody eyes while whoever that he cared for stayed dead, gone, cold.

Yuta lost and gained Rika. His eyes are plain, the murky darkness of ink. Never to spark with the colors of scarlet.

But he thinks he’s the one that won, out of the two of them.

Though, is there such a thing as ‘winning’ when it comes to this?

“When you gain the Mangekyo,” Uchiha Obito suddenly says. “You gain a new power, all relating to your eyes.”

The pinwheels spin.

“Whatever it is, I was told that it is the power you wished you had in that moment,” Uchiha Obito continues, its voice echoing in Yuta’s quiet home. “For some, it is the power to cast an unbreakable illusion to keep a peace that was never there, for others it’s the power to trap others, repeating the same day three times over, and then for some-” A quirk of the lips, quiet and resounding. “- it’s the power to create a fire that’ll never burn out, to deliver an undue justice.”

Uchiha Obito stands in front of Yuta.

The weight of history is pulling Yuta down.

He thinks he has wanted this.

Family.

“And for you? It must’ve been the power to bring the dead back to life.” The sound of a crash. A little girl’s body against the concrete, her blood red and the world even murkier. The pitter patter of his own heart, the roaring of sirens.

There’s the sound of Rika’s laughter in the back of his mind.

His last image of her clinging to his eyes.

He wonders if this runs in the blood.

What is the worth of a human life?

Undoubtedly, for his clan, the worth of a life must be equal to the power it grants.

The power that seems like a compensation for whatever loss you suffered-

In the end, it’s nothing but a mockery of it. From illusions to repeats to fire.

None of them are worth the price.

It’s the power that you wanted most at that moment. It’s the power you wished you had before they died and their blood stains the ground. The power that could’ve kept them alive, if only you could just-

But you could not. For they are dead and the proof is in your eyes. You’ve benefited from their death and there’s no escaping that you’ve failed.

Out of any power, there’s none that can bring back the dead. Not truly, not ever.

Perhaps this is why his clansmen went mad, Yuta thinks. For every time they use their power, surely, they must be reminded of their failure.

Yuta thinks that this is irony.

“And for you?” His voice sounds calmer than he expected, distant to his own ears.

A quiet hum. Uchiha Obito stares at Yuta. Its eyes are still scarlet but it's less sharp now, more considering.

His veins thrum with heat.

Family.

Once, it must’ve been Uchiha Obito standing in his place, Yuta realized.

Yuta runs Uchiha Obito’s words over in his mind again. Quiet and raspy.

It’s not often mentioned. A wry note, almost dry.

And then another-

... I was told. Stated offhandedly, a small footnote almost lost in the deluge of information.

Once, Yuta realizes, Uchiha Obito must’ve been standing here as well. With the blood of the person he cared for deep behind his eyes and their last moment etched into his mind.

He wonders if this is just another rite of passage for them.

He wonders what questions Uchiha Obito had asked.

A passing moment, a quiet glance.

“I couldn’t accept reality,” Uchiha Obito says. “So I created another.”

There’s a story there, Sukuna thinks. One that offers it much entertainment indeed.

There’s usually no intersection between the jujutsu world and the mundane. At least, not in the present.

But in the past?

It was not so.

In the past, the jujutsu world blended in with the mundane. That was how men like Kamo Noritoshi hook their claws into their prey and how clans like the Gojo clan build their prestige.

Now, the Gojo clan is looked back at as a clan of old nobles, who served in so-and-so’s court back in the day.

Nobles they were, perhaps. But they were not without titles. They were not noble in the regular sense.

They were noble for their technique. For their heralded strength. For their ability to serve and to exorcise. Chasing away evil and cleansing the spirits. Or something of the such.

Though, the number of sorcerers that can approach monarchs, even back then, can be counted on one of Sukuna’s hands.

And the Uchiha clan certainly did not exist.

There’s a story here, Sukuna thinks.

One that unfolded in between the time wherein Sukuna laid dormant.

The curse is more aggressive now, Sukuna notes. Unlike the newborn it was before. Its words are sharper, now. More articulate. Something verging closer to the ideal of ‘human’. It listens and it can understand, it speaks and there are now double meanings behind its words.

It’s learning, Sukuna realizes. And it’s learning fast.

At an exponential pace.

Sukuna remembers, not long ago, telling a newborn not to roar more than once and the childish creaking of its neck.

Now, Sukuna looks at the man in front of it.

It’s not a perfect guise, though, Sukuna thinks. Not just yet.

It’s learning, at a rapid pace.

But whatever it’s emulating, it’s still an emulation. An illusion that’ll break if you offer it something that it hadn’t seen before. Its form is flickering, the warping of reality’s fabric before being stitched together hastily.

Sukuna still remembers its appearance from before. The playful childishness of a child.

Sukuna looks at the man in front of it now.

Wholly mature and caustic to the touch.

It is putting on a guise.

Though of who, remains to be said.

“This king might find some generosity left to forgive you,” Sukuna drawls lightly. “If you’d offer your name.”

The man quirks a brow, as though realizing that he hadn’t quite offered his name. Or perhaps bemused at the fact that Sukuna does not know. Face switching to a look of bemusement for a split moment before the man smiles back sharply.

“Uchiha Madara,” the man says, the curse says, putting on another’s skin- taking another’s name as easily as it exists.

Uchiha, the same last name.

Sukuna can already determine that from their looks alone. But it is still pleasant to be proven correct.

If Uchiha Madara is who the curse feels like emulating for the day, then Sukuna will indulge it.

There’s a mystery to solve, after all. And Sukuna was nothing but generous when it came to entertainment.

Uchiha Madara, Sukuna runs over the name in its mind.

Names have meaning. This is a truth that all sorcerers and all curses, if sentient enough, knows.

And for curses, names have power.

And this one seems nonsensical from the start.

It’s just a mere descriptor. A simple ‘dot’ or something akin to that.

But would you really name a child destined to die? Let the boy have a name to haunt you by?

Sukuna doesn’t think so.

Names aren’t given so freely, especially to children that are destined to die young to be the fertilizer to their sibling’s power.

But then again, this name was nothing but nonsensical, a mere descriptor, as though someone couldn’t care enough and gave their child that name just for pretense sake.

And yet.

Someone cared enough to give a child destined to die a name.

So which was it?

Why give a dying boy a name?

Why give a boy destined to be a curse a name?

And if you cared enough to give a name in the first place- why give such a perfunctory name?

It only begets more questions.

“That’s an uncommon name,” is all Sukuna says. “Compared to Uchiha Obito.”

Uchiha Madara scoffs out a laugh, as though amused.

“I suppose so.” Uchiha Madara mirrors Sukuna, placing a hand beneath its head. Resting against it as its other hand rests on its knee.

A moment, then two.

Sukuna takes a wager.

“It doesn’t sound related to royalty in the slightest.”

Uchiha Madara laughs, it is a grating sound upon Sukuna’s ears.

“He can only wish I would call him father,” Uchiha Madara says, the man’s features twisting into something sharp and horrible. “Perhaps then, I’d allow him to rule next to mother.”

A tale is unraveling.

The jujutsu world and that of the mundane.

It has intersected, Sukuna thinks.

“But fortunately, I am mother’s child, and hers alone.”

The existence of a pair of twins.

A woman, scorned.

Two children born out of a woman’s misery.

Though the jujutsu world intersected little with the mundane and sorcerers intersected even less with monarchs, it cannot be said that sorcerers are not tempted for the power to sway the court.

It usually failed, though noble they may be. Monarchs generally fancy themselves above needing to keep a wife from one of the honored jujutsu families by their side. Not when they can simply hire one to take care of whatever curses may ail their palaces.

The jujutsu clans are honored for their techniques. In the same vein, they’re also lesser because of it. Not quite the same status as the rest.

But ah, if a monarch were to fall for a woman of a noble jujutsu clan. Promising her the world.

Well, that’d be a different story.

The conspiracy of the court is deep and the waters are murky. And kings are fickle, still, this Sukuna knows best of all. Women bloom and fade, feelings come and go.

Perhaps the king could not withstand the fact that the woman who laid next to him could kill him in her sleep. Perhaps he feared her power, as all kings eventually do. Perhaps he feared her and perhaps he disdained her.

Or perhaps, she was unfaithful and so he scorned her.

The court is deep and its waters are murky.

But at the end there is a victor.

Sukuna thinks it can see it.

A woman’s face lies hiding behind a screen.

If the king is in an eternal slumber.

He can sleep forever.

Let it be her, then, that will rule.

For she is the one with a monster in her palm.

Everyone experiences grief differently.

For some, they must’ve wanted to burn it all away, some must’ve wanted to repeat everything over and over and over again, some perhaps just want to create a new illusion over the wound and hope that it heals.

For Yuta, he went against the taboo.

And for Uchiha Obito-

He created a new reality- whatever that entails.

“It’s powerful, the second level,” Uchiha Obito comments idly. “But our eyes are not meant to handle the strain.”

Uchiha Obito’s expression is wry, nigh on amused in a terrible way.

You want family.

“Well, all that is to ask-” Uchiha Obito smiles, terrible and cold. “Any signs of blindness?’

I’ll grant it, your wish.

Family.

A funny word.

To the Uchiha clan, family is everything.

To the monster, its mother, too, is everything.

Perhaps this, too, is the point where monster and men intersect.

Chapter Text

Yuta knows that his clan isn’t the warm thing that he initially thought of it.

It isn’t the soft comfort of a home like Toge’s, or the gentle normalcy of a family like the one he envisioned as a child. With warmth and parents that would be there and a sister that could give him comfort outside of a telephone call.

From the day that he chained Rika to his side, there was no such thing as normalcy any further. The ideal of family he envisioned died a swift death that day.

For while they were of the same blood, him and his family could never live in the same world.

The jujutsu world and that of the normal do not mix.

His parents and sister do not understand his aptitude with a sword, and he does not understand the everything about the lives they’re leading.

Try as he might. There’s simply nothing to talk about, between the four of them.

His parents cannot talk about their work in front of him, his sister cannot talk about her university with him, and he cannot talk about exorcising curses to them.

There’s a line that cannot be crossed. A barrier between the jujutsu world and that of the normal.

Not even family can cross that line.

Uchiha Obito offered a chance at that. A chance for Yuta to imagine the what-ifs and perhaps. A chance for Yuta to just dream about a warm clan compound and people that have hair just as dark as his and eyes even darker. A clan with people that smile or not but they can share a world together, with the same blood running in their veins.

Family.

A family that lives in the world that he does.

A family that does not question why he carries around his sword or why he has nightmares sometimes or why he does not consider his life beyond high school.

A family that might give him a jab or two about his skills and help him along, anyways. A family that can share a conversation over dinner- a warm and homemade meal- about their day and curses and whatever going ons that Yuta can understand and reply to.

A family.

Dreams are not bound to last, especially in the jujutsu world.

And so it shatters. Like fine sands-

Slipping through his fingers, scattered mirages of a what-if and could’ve-been that got tarnished by the wayside.

Yuta yearns for normalcy.

For a family that lives in the same world that he did.

For warmth and companionship.

What he gets is this.

A clan that thrives on guilt and desperation and everything there is to drive one to madness.

What he gets is this.

The Uchiha clan.

Noble and prestigious, but lurking beneath the gold and parlor is an unfathomable abyss.

He yearned for a family that is warm.

What he gets is fire and brimstone and heat that can burn you whole.

He yearned for a family that is close.

What he gets is a family that holds each other at arm’s length- each wondering-

He yearned for a family that cares.

What he gets is-

Each clansmen must’ve surely thought- when looking at each other-

Will it be me that goes mad? Or will it be you?

And then-

Will it be me that gets the final honor? Or will it be you?

What he gets is a family mired in bloodshed.

The Uchiha clan.

Blood upon gold.

Uchiha Obito looks upon him. Perhaps it is with pity, or perhaps it is with glee. But there’s something that Uchiha Obito finds amusing about this whole thing.

Whether that be the wretched kind of amusement that only brings with it sorrow beneath the veneer of hysteria, or the kind that makes you want to laugh until you burst stemming from some kind of humor that only brings madness- is up to anybody’s guess.

Uchiha Obito does not laugh- Uchiha Obito does not need to laugh to convey its emotions- Uchiha Obito does not do anything but simply quirk its lips upwards. Terrible and wretched. A thousand and one memories lay in those eyes, Yuta cannot decipher a single one except-

Once, perhaps, Uchiha Obito must be standing here, too.

Standing in Yuta’s place.

An orphan, perhaps yearning for family. Perhaps thinking that once he’s honored, he’ll be family.

His dreams, too, must’ve fallen through his hands like the finest of sands.

Once, it was Uchiha Obito’s dreams that were broken.

And now, it is Uchiha Obito’s turn to break Yuta’s dream.

A rite of passage, a circle that begins and ends only in tragedy.

Once, Uchiha Obito must be standing here, too.

Right after someone close to his heart went and died and his eyes bloomed into the color of blood and flowers.

Once, Uchiha Obito must be standing here, too.

Yuta wonders if Uchiha Obito had gotten half the time Yuta did to grieve.

“What happens if I am?” Yuta asks, theoretically. His voice is not that of his own. He thinks his expression is a mix between resignation and wanting to clasp his own hands over his ears to cover them or to lean closer out of morbid curiosity that’ll surely break him.

Something flickers in Uchiha Obito’s eyes. Blooming blood and roses.

A brief hint of hesitation. Something that lurks on the tip of Uchiha Obito’s tongue. Uchiha Obito does not speak.

Silence falls over them, oppressive and breathtaking.

Uchiha Obito looks at him. It’s on the cusp of saying something. Those words are on the tip of its tongue. Unpleasant and vile, Yuta knows, with a confidence that runs deep into his marrow, that whatever Uchiha Obito says it’ll change his life irrevocably, that it’ll bring him closer to a precipice of some kind.

Uchiha Obito does not speak. The silence enveloping them both in an uncomfortable heat. Like a blanket left wrapped around you on a day that errs towards too hot, leaving you feeling suffocated and breathless.

There are cruel words atop Uchiha Obito’s tongue. Sharp words that can cut, rough words that’ll bruise, terrible words that’ll ruin.

Uchiha Obito does not say it. A moment of hesitation turned into string along moments of pause.

“You are not going blind,” Uchiha Obito notes, its voice utterly neutral. Whatever words it once held have either been discarded or held off, for now.

But whatever it’s saying, it’s not a question but rather a statement.

“No,” Yuta admits easily. Feeling distinctly like, when beneath those eyes, there’s truly nothing that can be hidden.

It’s sort of like being around Gojo-sensei in a way. Wherein you feel like you’re an ant beneath a microscope, ready to be taken apart with a steady, calculating gaze that doesn't quite show on Gojo-sensei’s expression. Wherein you can lie and Gojo-sensei will rarely call you out on it but you know that the man knows. Whether it’s in the lilt of his lips or the way he would raise a brow in humor, as though finding some kind of amusement in the fact that you thought to lie in front of him, of all people.

Uchiha Obito feels like it’ll let you get away with your lie only to let you believe that you can do so and let the lie come back to bite you when you least expect it.

While Gojo-sensei lets lies pass by in the fact that he simply does not question your purposes, for he is above it all- petty lies and everything like so- Uchiha Obito lets lies pass by in the fact that it knows that it can exploit such lies later, ruthlessly.

Between the two of them, lying is much more trouble than it’s worth, Yuta thinks.

Consideration flickers through Uchiha Obito’s expression. Quiet and subtle- if you blink, you’ll miss it.

Yuta’s eyes catch the motion, a minute flicker of the expression. Just a small crease of the brows. Missable, he thinks, if his eyes didn’t catch it.

He’s nowhere near as observant as Gojo-sensei or Uchiha Obito, but he thinks he’s better than average.

It’s his technique. It’s in their eyes.

It’s been in his blood, apparently.

The look of consideration grows and then withers, all in an intake of a single breath. Small and concise. A practiced motion, Yuta thinks. Sort of like how you’re supposed to gather your breath when facing a curse and ready yourself for a fight that’ll stretch on for hours, except this feels much weightier.

He wonders if he can be on the same level as Uchiha Obito, one day, being able to tell lies from truth with just a mere glance, or whether that chance came and went when his eyes stayed ink instead of bleeding scarlet.

“If you were,” Uchiha Obito decides at last. “Then it’s my duty to tell you the final step.” Its voice is a drawling, sinister thing that’s veering on the edges of malicious glee but not quite.

What duty? is Yuta’s third thought.

The taboo, is Yuta’s second thought.

And Yuta’s first thought is-

Uchiha Obito’s expression does not match its voice.

It remembers her, the woman. The woman who towered above them all, with hair and eyes the color of the wane moon and a temperament to match.

It remembers being a part of her.

Feeling her joys, her sorrows.

Feeling her smiles wrap around it and feeling the steady tap, tap, tap of her tears within her soul. Though it knew not, then, of such things as rain from misery and a woman scorned.

It was simply a monster without a name, born when a woman took a bite out of something she shouldn’t have.

It remembers meeting her eyes, the color of a falling moon, for the first time and thinking nothing at all. For it was a beast with no thought other than what she desires.

Her desires, then, were for retribution. Peace built from an eternal dream.

And it bowed down to her will.

It remembers her gazing at the man she once loved. It remembers her carding through the man’s hair, gentle. It remembers the hot pang inside her soul. The dust upon her clothes, and the silence enveloping her world.

The rain that fell from her eyes.

Tears, it knows, now.

Tears. Hot and wet and human.

That woman, a goddess, she above them all, had cried.

For the last time.

For she never did cry again.

Her children were then born. They grew, lurking in that man’s shadow. For they have not her hair nor her eyes, that of the moon, and rather something more earthly.

And just like their father, they, too, betrayed her.

She did not shed tears, then, for perhaps she knew that this day would come.

Instead, all there was to feel was the quiet lull of nothingness.

A quiet, dull-

I see. Is all that is given, is all that was given.

Back then it knew not of what she meant, nor did it care.

Now, it thinks it can guess.

She shed no tears, she stood in front of them alongside it. Ten limbs to the sky and ready to tear the world asunder. It waited, waiting for her call for it to rip and tear and destroy.

Nothing awaited it other than the calm lull of silence. A quiet exhale and a quieter, still, I see.

In front of those two men who bore half of her and half of that man- she had not lowered her head, nor bowed down her back. Instead she had merely paused- for half a second- for half a moment-

And that was all they needed.

She gave no orders, she said not a word, she did not do a thing.

She merely looked on.

No orders were given, and so it, too, looked on.

And so it was.

They became sealed upon her child, her son.

Then they were ripped into nine pieces.

And so it was.

In the end-

It still cannot understand her, nor her actions.

It cannot understand-

I see. A single exhale, a single sigh- a passing whisper in the wind, a stagnant pause for just a moment, though she, too, must know of the battle it’ll cost.

All it understands is her rage, her sorrows, her anger, her spite.

The woman is long gone.

The man is longer gone, still.

Tenji. A quiet exhale, a quiet query. Between the world and I, you’ve chosen the world.

And yet-

May you live in that world forevermore, then, in your dreams.

And yet-

As for Hagoromo and Hamura. A small pause, quiet and serene. I suppose I cannot think of any better names for them.

It did not know of such things as ‘hate’ then, nor could it feel it.

But it knows now, it has been entrenched in it. Ever since Uchiha Madara and the taste of death on its tongue and a dead brother’s blood on its hands.

It thinks it hates that man, though it knows not, why.

The taboo, Yuta remembers, whatever it entails is left up to Gojo-sensei’s guess. But from what they both know, it’s surely nothing good.

Yuta can wager that it’s not murder, at least not the regular kind. For surely, what else can stimulate you more than the death of someone precious?

It must be something even more heinous, something much more vile, something that’ll make you rue the day you ever wished for such power.

It’s certainly powerful, whatever the third phase is- surely it’s more powerful than what Yuta has got right now and he doesn’t even know what it entails but he can feel the yearning for a tantalizing power lurking in the back of his mind like some terrible leech he can’t quite shake off.

“The Mangekyo is too powerful for one person to bear,” Uchiha Obito begins, its voice gleeful, almost taunting. But its expression flickers with something more. “It gives power beyond what you should be capable of.”

And this, too, must come at a price.

It’s almost cruel, Yuta thinks. To gain power from the death of someone you cherish only for the world to blind your eyes, slowly but surely because it’s a power that’s too strong for you to handle.

It’s cruel, it’s terrible and it-

Once, it was Uchiha Obito standing here.

And once, too, it was Uchiha Obito being told of his impending blindness.

But he had not half of the fortune Yuta did. For while Yuta may never be as strong as his clansmen, his eyes do not bloom scarlet and therefore it seems that he is not going blind.

He tries to imagine it, being told that you’re going to go blind and that there’s not a single thing you can do about it unless you commit a taboo, unless you-

“You go blind,” Uchiha Obito continues, dauntless, as though it wasn’t once standing in Yuta’s shoes, having its vision blotted and having to fight against its own eyes for the right to see. “Your eyes degrade. It cannot be healed, the damage is irreversible.”

Yuta thinks distantly that someone must’ve tried and failed- for how else would they know?

“This knowledge isn’t privy to most clansmen,” Uchiha Obito admits, its eyes drifting over as though lost in thought. Yuta can imagine why. The panic it would cause, the anxiety it would create-

For a clan that prides themselves on their eyes- on their technique-

How would you even deal with the fact that one day your cherished technique will fade out? That you’ll lose your vision forever because of your eyes? That the world will go dark and you can no longer see the hues of the sky or the kaleidoscope of the world?

Losing your technique is already bad enough- but your sight, too?

The technique that’s gained through the loss of your precious person? The technique that’s perhaps your only link to them? The technique that’s built on their blood and death?

To lose it all because of the same technique taking too much out of you- as if it hadn’t taken the person you cared for already?

Yuta can’t fathom it.

“It seems inevitable.” A quirk of the lips, pinwheels in midflight. “But there’s one way to reverse it all.”

The taboo. Yuta can feel the words weighing on his mind. How far would you go to keep your sight- your technique- your everything?

He doesn’t think he wants the answer.

But he thinks he’s going to get one, anyways.

Yuta thinks he wanted this.

Family.

Whatever it entails.

He thinks he has only thought about the joys of family-

Instead, all he’s getting is sorrow and madness.

A legacy dyed in scarlet and the last clansmen seemingly intent on ruining Yuta’s perception of family itself.

“Take the eyes of your brother,” Uchiha Obito recites, almost quietly, its voice malicious but its expression is- “In doing so, you’ve proven yourself.”

Yuta thinks he wanted this.

Family.

In joy and in sorrow.

Family.

It runs in the blood.

Family is an odd concept for curses to fathom.

But it is not so for Sukuna. For it, too, was once human. Bearing blood and viscera just as any human does.

But those days have long gone and went. Long gone and died with whatever remains of the human Sukuna once was, erased in the passage of time. Left to rot and die with the legacy that only survived on due to him becoming an ‘it.’

But from what Sukuna knows of family. There are many different types. From happy to terrible to everything in between.

But the murkiest of them all is no doubt that of the royal family.

The higher they are, the farther they fall. The brighter the gold, the more sickly the hands that handle them. The grander the buildings, the more disgusting are the intent of those residing within.

The courts are treacherous and murky. Its affairs are convoluted and tangled.

Sukuna does not know the true depths of the childhood of royal heirs, for it tangled not with the affairs of the mundane as a king, and it did not have the status as a human. But it can be imagined that they are not the lackadaisical childhood that storybooks would offer.

This is most certainly the case for Uchiha Madara and Uchiha Obito, at the very least.

There’s something that went awry there. Something involving curses and a woman and her two children.

Something that begins and ends with love and a lover scorned.

Emperors are fickle, and their favor even moreso.

Women did not get the luxury of being such, and court women, even moreso.

“Your mother,” Sukuna says, pondering. “You were hers alone.”

It is an odd statement. Perhaps Uchiha Madara had simply renounced its blood ties with its father.

But this feels more than that.

It feels like something beyond the mundane. Something about a woman scorned and the curses that she could wrought.

“Fortunately,” Uchiha Madara says, something like malicious glee belaying its words. A curve of the lips, wholly spiteful. Its cadence is an odd thing, still borrowing words from different sentences to stitch together, but it’s more seemly, now, less apparent. “I was born from her actions alone.”

What actions, Sukuna isn’t privy to. But it thinks that it isn’t quite as simple as an affair with a random man.

So Sukuna simply asks-

“What actions?”

Could Sukuna go about it in a more roundabout way? Perhaps. But why waste such energy when the thing in front of him is so easily ready to give up answers on its own terms?

It’s out of juvenile emotions, and definitely ill advised.

But there’s something deeper there, a level of resentment that doesn’t belong to a newborn in the slightest. Something that runs deep, almost searing into its marrow and never quite managing to be cleansed.

Even when taking on another identity, it seems that the curse in front of Sukuna cannot let go of its resentment for a dead man.

The affairs of the courts are murky and terrible. And tragedies are simply one a dozen.

Uchiha Madara was one of them, perhaps. In an age long past.

“She went against her family,” Uchiha Madara notes, almost softly, gently. Like touching upon the surface of something fragile and wishing to not break it. It’s a degree of gentleness that Sukuna hadn’t quite expected of the curse, who was more akin to a rampaging beast who knew not of its own strength.

But there’s a thing about family, Sukuna supposes. Mothers and children.

“And created me,” Uchiha Madara says, something like nostalgia in its voice- imitating that of someone else- someone who once existed, softening the harshness of its cadence.

‘Created’, Sukuna notes, not ‘birthed’.

There’s a distinction between the two. Something that lies in the realm of either unnatural or artificial.

Twins, Sukuna thinks.

A pair of twins. Created from a woman’s action. Actions that her family did not approve of.

Clan politics, Sukuna thinks distantly.

And then-

Sukuna thinks it has heard of a case like this before. Quite recently, in fact.

Something that begins and ends with Kamo Noritoshi.

Kamo Noritoshi who had created those cursed wombs, a union between a woman and a curse.

Creation.

A pair of twins. One with heaven defying cursed energy, the other with a body that can bear it as a vessel.

Before, Sukuna thought it was a coincidence. For there was nothing else pointing it contrary.

But Sukuna knows, best of all, that coincidences do not truly exist, not in the jujutsu world.

Coincidences are merely stated as such to cover up something far, far more sinister.

And those twins-

Perhaps they, too, were created.

Wrought from a scorned woman’s hand.

Once, it must've been Uchiha Obito standing here. In Yuta’s place. With eyes that will go blind and a piece of his heart having been ripped out to gain a power to reject reality that he cannot quite handle with his human body.

Yuta cannot imagine it-

He cannot fathom-

The eyes of your brother. The eyes of your kin- the eyes-

What will you do for power? For sight? Just to see?

As it turns out, it's the killing of one’s kin.

As it turns out, it’s the killing of one’s kin and taking their eyes as your own in some sort of demented ritual.

Yuta cannot imagine it. He cannot imagine having to face his sister, somewhere along the lines and realizing that he’ll have to kill her and take her eyes to supplement his own. He cannot imagine that in order to keep his sight, his technique, his status as a sorcerer, he’ll have to stain his own hands with her blood and take her eyes as his own.

Those scarlet eyes, Yuta finds himself enraptured in them. Those eyes like a flower in bloom. Red and true.

Those eyes that take and take and take and grow upon blood and corpses and grief.

He cannot imagine looking at his sister and thinking-

Will it be me, or will it be you?

Thinking-

Who will get to live and take the other’s eyes?

Yuta can’t fathom it. It makes him sick to his stomach and wants to crumble something between his hands just to ground himself.

First, your life.

Then, a piece of your heart.

And then finally-

Your kin.

What will those eyes not take?

The power must be immense, Yuta thinks. The power from that- from that whole-

It must be immense, intense, everything that you could wish for.

Yuta thinks he wanted this.

Family.

It turns out he only wanted the warmth and could never even fathom the depths.

“Of course, a sibling is the ideal,” Uchiha Obito says, as though talking about the weather and not- “Close relatives will do just as well, though it’ll never be quite as powerful as your sibling.” Its voice is harsh amusement, thick with maliciousness.

But its expression is-

“Such is our curse.”

Once, it must’ve been Uchiha Obito standing here.

Having the blade be put into his hands and being told to either kill or go blind.

It must be like a rite of passage for them, Yuta thinks distantly.

Uchiha Obito gazes back at Yuta, its expression is caustic, but there’s an edge of melancholy there. Wistfulness beneath the veneer of jagged edges. Something that edges it closer to human and makes it look its age rather than an ancient being.

It looks at Yuta and its voice does not match its eyes.

Its eyes are almost gentle, spinning slowly as though in flux.

Its voice is harsh, and its words are harsher still.

But its eyes can’t quite match its words, even if its expression can morph every which way.

In the end-

Yuta thinks he wanted this.

Family.

Uchiha Obito is breaking that dream in the cruelest way possible.

But perhaps it’s also-

“But the Uchiha clan has long died,” Uchiha Obito says at last. “Your eyes cannot grow any further.”

Uchiha Obito looks at him, and Yuta thinks that this is the first time they’ve truly met.

Uchiha Obito and him.

“What’s dead is dead,” Uchiha Obito concludes. “You’re not an Uchiha.”

There’s a thin line between them.

Uchiha Obito cuts the thread, clean and concise.

And with that-

The Uchiha legacy- dyed in scarlet and blood- is buried.

Once, Uchiha Obito must be standing here in his place.

But Uchiha Obito did not get half of his fortune.

For the cycle had repeated. The rite of passage continued.

But now-

Standing here, in Uchiha Obito’s place, a century or more ago-

Uchiha Obito looks at Yuta and divides them, cleanly in half.

For Uchiha Obito is of the Uchiha clan.

And Okkotsu Yuta belongs to none at all.

Yuta thinks he can place Uchiha Obito’s expression now, the flicker in its eyes.

It’s-

Yuta thinks he had wanted this.

Family.

He looks at Uchiha Obito, whose eyes do not match its words, whose eyes belay the truth and who is-

Yuta thinks he had wanted this.

Family.

He thinks he still wants it.

In joys and sorrows.

The highs and the lows.

Their clan legacy is dyed in blood, written in scarlet.

His clansmen must’ve been paranoid, perhaps malicious- just like the way Uchiha Obito was talking earlier.

But perhaps-

Beneath the blood, beneath the scarlet, beneath the paranoia, the madness-

They must’ve been a close family.

For even now, after centuries of being a curse, after centuries of madness-

From telling Yuta the truth to give him closure, to telling him it in the harshest way possible to distance them both- to keep the terrible legacy to himself and to let Yuta go free of it all- let Yuta go on knowing that he’d be better off without such a family-

Even now, after centuries-

Uchiha Obito is still trying to protect Yuta.

A quiet exhale, then two.

“What is our curse?” Yuta asks.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes widens, flummoxed.

And for the first time that night-

Uchiha Obito’s reaction is genuine.

And with that-

He ties them back together.

Our curse.

In fortunes and misfortunes. In the highs and the lows. In the joys and the sorrows.

Family.

The Uchiha clan legacy is bloody and terrible.

But Yuta thinks that the people, his family-

They shouldn’t be forgotten.

Chapter Text

Family is a wretched word for the Uchiha.

It is a hopeful word when you’re young and a curse when you finally realize what it means.

It is in the way they love.

For Uchihas does not love in the conventional sense.

They do not love like others do. They do not love in the normal sense of the word. The kind that’s caring, gentle, or beautiful. The kind that’s written in the tales of old. The kind that’s gentle and soft, like a delicate overflow of flowers and petals that’ll last for decades. The mundane, lovely kind that civilians would experience, or the wary, protective love of a shinobi.

An Uchiha’s love is scorching and ugly. Beginning passionately, and ending terribly. A love that’s bound to end in fire or blood. A love that takes everything gentle and kind and desecrates it utterly. A love that burns and scars for life. A love that’s maddeningly ugly but terribly lasting. An overflow of heat and madness abound, a love that reaches beyond the boundary of life and death.

It’s the wrong type of love.

This, too, extends to family.

Perhaps rather than love, they are cursed.

Cursed to love and to lose. Cursed to hate and destroy or be destroyed. Cursed to feel and hate feeling.

It is the curse of hatred. Etched within one’s marrow. Swimming within one’s blood, ready to act at the given trigger

Once the curse is in motion, it is done.

It is no longer a matter of ‘if’, but ‘when’.

No Uchiha can escape its grasp.

Not even Uchiha Madara.

And certainly not Uchiha Obito.

There is a moment, then two. Wherein no one speaks. Wherein no sound is made. The passing wind is a hurricane and fleeting footsteps become pounding echoes.

In the eye of the storm stands the two of them.

Uchiha Obito is finally at a loss for words, or so it seems, at least. For it says nothing more. Its gaze is hard to pin down, but it’s definitely in the realm of questioning.

Perhaps it’s not at a loss for words, but rather that Yuta had said something that Uchiha Obito truly did not expect.

Uchiha Obito seems like that type of person, Yuta thinks. The type that seems to be able to read your mind. Knowing precisely what words you’ll say and leaving you feeling terribly exposed and akin to a puppet dancing in someone else’s palm.

It’s somewhat like Gojo-sensei’s. Except whereas Gojo-sensei is the casual divinity of foreknowledge, Uchiha Obito is the careful accumulation of human experience.

There is nothing casual about Uchiha Obito. Nothing divine. Uchiha Obito’s white hair isn’t the beacon of heaven that Gojo-sensei’s is. Its eyes aren't blessed by the gods, and its name is almost a mockery of what it became. Instead, it is almost the opposite. There’s something almost sacrilegious about comparing the two, but Yuta can’t quite help himself.

They’re both similar, like that. Like two sides of the same coin. Never meant to exist together.

But someone has flipped a coin, it seems, and it has landed on its side and now nothing’s quite the same.

Yuta wonders what kind of environment shaped Uchiha Obito into the man that he once was. A man that was several steps ahead of others, almost reaching into the realm of uncannily divine.

They did not have the same start.

But somehow, someway, Uchiha Obito has clawed his way up to match with a heralded Gojo.

Yuta wonders if it was by choice at all.

It is a strenuous thing, Yuta thinks. To have to be aware all the time. To listen to the old creaking of the wood floor and hear the steady tapping of incoming footsteps from beyond the door, to be aware of what the person in front of you is saying- their body, their words, their voice, whether they’re lying or telling the truth, whether you’re playing a game of words or exchanging information. What to say next, predicting their words, being an infinity and one steps beyond them, anticipating their next words and preparing your own-

It just seems overwhelming.

It’s why Gojo-sensei is Gojo-sensei.

From what Yuta understands of Gojo-sensei and his uncanny awareness, it’s moreso an innate thing, rather than forced. Something that’s like an annoying buzz by your ear. Something that could be overwhelming, but not, because Gojo-sensei has the Six Eyes to temper his Limitless.

Uchiha Obito does not.

Uchiha Obito just has red eyes that came upon a dead love’s corpse and a dead kin’s blood.

What kind of training leaves one standing equal with a god amongst mortals?

The kind that leaves you less than human, after.

The kind that turns you from Uchiha Obito, the boy, into Uchiha Obito, the sorcerer.

“Our curse,” Uchiha Obito repeats, breaking out of its reverie.

Even now, even when it's been tossed off kilter, Yuta does not miss the minute way it tenses at the sound of laughter from beyond the door. Coming from some hapless civilian going about their night.

The trained awareness of a Gojo, but the body of a normal sorcerer.

“Our curse,” Yuta says, answering the unspoken question between the two of them.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes flicker to meet his own, making Yuta realize that Uchiha Obito’s eyes weren’t quite there before.

It’s remarkably red.

Terribly so.

Red like blood, Yuta thinks.

The color of flowers and madness.

Uchiha Obito is asking him if he’s sure. Whether he’s ready to be dragged down into the quagmire of the Uchiha clan, be pulled down into the mud and be smeared with their clan’s ill history.

This, too, Yuta thinks, is similar to Gojo-sensei.

It’s almost indescribable.

But this brand of kindness, the kind that’s left unspoken in between the lines. The kind that’s communicated through the minute changes in one’s face and the soft underlying tone of, Are you sure?

It’s a unique brand of kindness, of care. The kind that’s looking at you and knowing that whatever’s to come will be terrible and harsh, that it’ll be the most challenging thing of your life. It’s like when Gojo-sensei had touched upon Yuta’s shoulder one day and asked about Rika, or the way Gojo-sensei always manhandles Yuta into a day-off on his birthdays and the date of Rika’s departure.

It’s not quite stifling, it’s not quite sweet, either. It’s the sort of protectiveness of knowing that even when there are difficult times ahead, to whatever may come, they will not stop you.

But that doesn’t mean they won’t be by your side, either.

From Gojo-sensei to Yuta, it’s a care from a teacher that can be described as callous by most. Of a teacher laughing as he pushes you off a tree and you’ll either fly or he’ll catch you but tease you for it for the rest of your life.

From Uchiha Obito to Yuta, it’s a care between family. If that’s even the world for it. An incredibly estranged family. But it must’ve been one that cared for each other, whether they showed it or not.

Between the both of them, it’s a chip in their armor. A glimpse of humanity in Gojo-sensei’s divinity; a fracture of softness in Uchiha Obito’s cruel existence.

This, too, is similar.

But Yuta does not say such. He merely nods.

“It’s our curse,” Yuta says, as though it explains everything. And perhaps it does. “I want to know.”

Uchiha Obito says nothing, its expression a thing of marble.

This lasts for a moment, then two.

Then Uchiha Obito finally says:

“Many would say the Uchiha clan is harsh.” And so the tale unravels. And so it begins. “Many would say Uchihas do not feel.”

It is dyed in blood.

The Uchiha clan, to most, is austere. Unfeeling. Harsh.

They do not show emotions and their expression ranges from severe to emotionless.

They’re the perfect kind of shinobi. The kind that shows nothing and feels even less. The kind that’s deadly on the battlefield and a different kind of poison when infiltrating and seducing targets. They’re noble and great.

And then there’s Obito.

“You’re nothing like your clan,” Kakashi would remark, harsh and biting- meant to hurt. Obito’s not sure what they were arguing about, but he remembers that it’s another humiliating day, another day of bickering of two boys pushing each other because they have no other outlet for their anger and emotions.

Anger flashes hot inside Obito’s gut, quickly alternating to shame as he realizes that this is exactly what Kakashi was talking about. Uchihas aren’t quick to anger like this, and are even less likely to show their ire on their face.

And you’re everything like them, Obito had thought.

There is the Uchiha clan.

And then there is Obito.

(He should’ve been glad, then, perhaps, for he was not like them. For maybe he could’ve escaped the curse, for maybe-

But that’s not quite right.

For Obito has always felt a bit too much.)

“They’re not quite wrong.” A flicker of something in those fathomless eyes. “Uchihas do not feel freely. Nor do they love freely.”

A moment, then two. Something nostalgic in Uchiha Obito’s eyes.

“Even between family.”

Obito knows his position quite well. He knows his lot in life, contrary to expectation.

He’s an estranged Uchiha. Untalented, loud, clumsy, rowdy. Everything an Uchiha should not be.

There’s no warm words exchanged between Uchiha clansmen.

But for Obito, there are no words given at all.

“You just need to find your own place in life, is all,” his grandmother says, one day. In between smoothing out the slight wrinkle in Obito’s clothes from another scuffle he had when an argument between him and Cousin Jiro had spiraled out of control. Her expression is focused, but gentle.

Obito knows his position quite well. He can read a situation fine enough, especially when it comes to his own family.

He’s clever when it comes to this. Reading the mood, reading between words. Sure, maybe he’s not quite as clever as his cousins or distant clansmen, but he knows well enough that what his grandmother is saying is-

Your place is not here.

Her words are soft, her tone gentle.

But it cuts more than steel.

For it reminds him that no matter how kind his grandmother is, the clan ranks above him.

The Uchiha clan. All for the clan, all for its honor.

She bears no faults for following the clan’s teachings.

It is Obito’s fault for not failing the Uchiha clan.

“Yeah,” Obito says, eventually. “Maybe once I become genin.”

This, too, Obito would fail.

It seems that all Uchihas do is fail.

It is, perhaps, their curse.

“Family is a nice sentiment,” Uchiha Obito says, reminiscing. “It is good when a clan is united.”

A slight sigh, as though something long lost to time.

“But it falls apart when it comes to the Uchiha.”

Obito knows that something happens when an Uchiha gains their Sharingan. Something about them just shifts. Making them feel taller, greater, better.

It’s a childish notion, but something about their temperament just changes. Something about the person they are just shifts for a bit. Making them better, making them more of an Uchiha than ever before.

It is the gift granted to you by the Uchiha clan. The blood in your veins, the Sharingan in your eyes.

He had wanted it. Desperately. He had prayed to Amaterasu with all the belief he could muster, begged her, practically. To be granted a Sharingan, to have one in his eyes. Spinning and spinning for an eternity so that he can finally become an Uchiha- so that finally, he can bear their name without shame.

She did not grant his wish. For she had spurned him, just like she had spurned everything else about him.

Perhaps he was not talented enough, perhaps he was not Uchiha enough, perhaps he was not good enough-

Perhaps he was born wrong.

And so it was.

Later, Obito knew better.

Between family and clan, he could’ve only chosen one.

It is the fate of an Uchiha.

And now, Obito knows the truth.

Between family and clan, an Uchiha can choose neither.

For it is their curse.

“These eyes are birthed from emotion,” Uchiha Obito says. Quite and sure, someone’s blood is staining its eyes and smearing its memories. “So how could it be that the Uchiha clan do not feel?”

It is a theoretical question, to be sure.

“However, it’s only born from extreme emotions.” Uchiha Obito looks at Yuta, they are probably both thinking the same thing.

Yuta can hear the sirens in the background, the steady clicking of the traffic light, signaling for pedestrians to walk, the steady tap, tap, tap of the rain. He can feel the wetness of rain mixed with blood in his palms and the chill of fear from Rika’s curse reaching up his legs. The horrifying visage of her last moments, forever smeared onto the concrete.

For Uchiha Obito, it must’ve been the same.

“Our emotions are what give power to these eyes,” Uchiha Obito elaborates. “It comes at a cost.”

Madness and blindness, Yuta recalls. Neither are pleasant. Both ending in either death or-

Or the killing of one’s kin.

Uchiha Obito’s lips curve into a smile, terrible and ironic.

“That’s right,” Uchiha Obito says. “You’re getting it.”

The Uchihas are harsh and cold.

Not allowed to love freely.

For a reason.

Yuta can see where this tale is heading.

The Sharingan is born from extreme emotions. Made stronger for it.

By that logic, those who feel more than most, should theoretically be stronger than most.

And so it was.

But what to make of Uchiha Obito?

A weak, untalented boy. He feels passionately, that much is clear. But it gives him no power, it gives him no boon. Instead, it merely marks him as irrelevant in the grand schemes of the clan. Dying in a war to save his comrades, admirable, yes, but nothing noteworthy enough.

But that is not where the story ends.

What type of love was it that twisted Uchiha Obito into Uchiha Madara?

The answer begins on a rainy day in Kiri and never quite has an ending.

“To surpass the second step, you must care,” Uchiha Obito says. “Love.”

“And then you must lose,” Yuta finishes. It is not the first time he had heard this, but it still strikes him as cruel and terrible and everything in between.

“Uchihas do not love lightly,” Uchiha Obito continues, something brewing behind its eyes. “That is the root of our curse.”

Curse.

It’s a word with meaning. Especially in the jujutsu world.

Curses are born plentiful, of course. But rarely are curses attached to families, let alone jujutsu clans.

Curses are usually tampered on an ‘idea’, built from resentment and hatred and everything in between. Ranging in power from how much the ‘intent’ was behind creating them.

To have a curse haunt a family is rare, especially since curses usually do not have the concept of haunting the same family for generations. Perhaps their housing or clan compound, but never quite the whole family line itself unless it was sicked upon the family by some third party.

Though, Yuta can tell that this is not that.

For if it were, the Uchiha clan would’ve long taken care of it. They were powerful, at the very least. To produce a sorcerer like Uchiha Obito.

No, this curse was self perpetuating.

It was born from the clan itself.

A curse that lingers in the family. Fueled by the family.

Hanging over them, a misfortune they cannot rinse away.

Curses are built upon resentment, hatred, anger, grief, anything and everything tragic combined.

Curses are not so easily rid by sorcerers, especially if they’re the ones giving it fuel to be born in the first place.

“We love desperately, terribly,” Uchiha Obito says lightly, a forced nonchalance, Yuta thinks. “And when we face loss- we hate, just as much. Perhaps, even more.”

Did Obito love Rin?

Of course. He loved her, he loved her with all the passion and zeal that a teenager could offer.

She was kind, when many were not. Her hands were gentle when they healed him, despite them being a shinobi's hands. Her smile was kind, genuine. Her hair was a soft auburn that reminded him of autumn and the falling leaves and the comfort of being in between the scorching heat of summer and the freezing weather of winter. She was that kind of love. The normal, wonderful kind that burrows deep into the heart of a starved boy.

He loved her, he loved Rin. for her and for everything she stands for. He loved her, desperately, terribly, in the shallow, crude way of an immature boy to his puppy crush. It wasn’t yet the warped, twisted love that drives Uchiha mad. Nor was it the ugly kind of love that is inked into his blood.

And on that day-

On that one, rainy day in Kiri-

Hatake Kakashi had ended her life.

And on that day, Obito knew what love felt like for an Uchiha.

For he loved Rin after her death more than he ever did when she was alive. For then, what he loved was not her. But what she represented.

An ideal world, an idea girl, an ideal reality.

And he had loved, passionately, terribly, desperately-

In the treacherous, heinous, ugly way that Uchihas can only feel.

In this way, too, is Uchiha Obito wrong.

Even for an Uchiha, his love is all wrong.

It’s a simple idea to wrap one’s head around. The more you loved, the more you hate after their passing. The more you’d grief, the more you’d mourn.

It’s a simple idea, but that doesn’t make it any less terrible.

It is a curse that sets you a timer the moment it goes into motion. A curse that begins when you love and ends when you die either by a kin’s hand or by your own madness.

It is a terrible curse, vindictive, insidious-

Inescapable.

At least-

“You’ve figured it out,” Uchiha Obito says, almost whimsical. “You’ve escaped it.”

It doesn’t quite make sense.

Such a powerful curse- a prevalent one that runs in their blood- how could he escape it?

Uchiha Obito hums lightly.

“Perhaps it’s because you lack these eyes. Perhaps it’s because your blood is diluted. Perhaps it’s because you awakened it too early to feel love in a capacity that can make you mad. Perhaps the curse has faded. Perhaps-”

Uchiha Obito looks-

“- you managed to get in your last words to her.”

Did you? Yuta couldn’t help but think.

But he thinks he already knows the answer.

An Uchiha’s love is all wrong.

And for Uchiha Obito, it is doubly so.

He was never quite right, they say.

And they were right.

“It is the curse of hatred,” Uchiha Obito concludes, its voice almost an imitation of someone else’s. Almost like it’s reciting someone else’s words back to Yuta.

It is with a jolt that Yuta realizes that there, too, must’ve once stood Uchiha Obito in his place.

Being told that if he loves, he is doomed.

Or perhaps it is after, after. Wherein he already loved and lost.

Either way, it must’ve once been Uchiha Obito standing here, in his place. Either mourning or feeling the weight of his fate falling on his shoulders.

For such a powerful curse is almost like destiny. It is almost like something you can’t escape, even if you try.

He tries to imagine it. Tries to imagine either being told that when he loves someone he’ll either doom them or himself, or that by loving someone he was the reason why they’re dead.

All to fuel a curse, all to fuel their eyes, in turn.

The Uchiha clan’s story is a terrible one. Something that leaves you breathless and uncomfortable. Feeling like there’s cotton in your chest and something clogging up your throat.

But his clansmen-

From Uchiha Obito to whoever clansmen that existed-

Is it wrong of them to love? Is it so wrong to just feel?

In the end, what did they do wrong? Yuta can’t quite fathom it-

From feeling, to loving, to caring-

An Uchiha cannot do any of the above freely. Because the moment they do so, the curse is in motion, ready to drive them into madness.

In the end, is it wrong to feel? To love? To feel deeply?

If one loves and faces loss, wouldn’t they feel the same?

Why must the Uchiha face love and loss and be forced to extremities- all for their eyes.

Perhaps it did not start out as a curse, at first. For the Uchiha clan probably only felt strongly, but that is no cause for a curse-

Only when they lost and continue to do so, would a curse have been born.

In the end-

Is it wrong?

Yuta doesn’t think so.

But the world had thought so; the heavens had thought so; and so, too, did the gods decreed it.

It’s wrong, Yuta thinks. Unfair.

But now, there is no Uchiha clan to decry the gods for justice; no Uchiha clan to blame the heavens for its unfairness; no Uchiha clan to fight against the world for.

Perhaps that is why Uchiha Obito divulges the truth now.

For the people have gone, the ashes have long been scattered in the winds.

The Uchiha clan is dead.

There is no one left to cry for.

What about you? Yuta thinks, looking at Uchiha Obito.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes are neutral, there’s a mere quirk of the brow at Yuta’s glance, and then nothing more.

There is indeed no one left to cry for.

Just a curse wearing the emblem of a clan that does not exist.

A terribly pitiful curse, he is.

Uchiha Obito.

Is it wrong to love?

No.

But there’s no curse quite as twisted as ones created from love.

And it is the Uchiha clan who are simply unlucky.

Yuta can’t quite understand what to say- he can’t quite-

“It is the Uchiha clan’s curse,” Uchiha Obito reiterates, harshly, quickly, seeing Yuta’s warped expression.

Uchiha Obito’s expression is nonchalant, almost casual, but its- his- Uchiha Obito’s- voice is almost soothing, almost-

They must’ve loved an awful lot, Yuta thinks. For them to turn out like so.

They must’ve-

“Our clan’s curse,” Yuta says, stubbornly, desperately-

There’s something in Uchiha Obito’s expression. Something almost boyish-

“It’s not quite a curse,” Yuta derides, his voice calm in the midst of his turmoil, but it’s incredibly verging on the edge of something worse. “It’s not a curse to love.”

A moment, then two-

“The Uchiha- we- you weren’t wrong for-” He remembers Uchiha Obito’s eyes. His reminiscent of a person long gone. Those last words that he could never say to the person he loved. “- for loving-” His words are choppy, desperate, messy- “You weren’t wrong.”

There is another moment, then two.

In the space of that-

Uchiha Obito is gone.

It leaves a vacuum where the curse-

Where the man once stood.

Is it wrong of them to love?

No.

It is wrong for the heavens to create such a curse.

It is wrong for the gods to condone such a curse.

It is wrong for the world they live in to only take and take and-

Leave them with nothing but madness.

Satoru’s phone chimes on a quiet night.

It’s a rushed message, with few spelling errors and choppier sentences.

It is about Uchiha Obito.

In another quiet room. Someone awakens.

Then, its figure twists and warps. Its hair shortening, the red bleeding out of its clothing. Its once blank face is twisted and warping into something scarred, rugged.

Itadori Yuuji awakens.

'Uchiha Obito' is awaiting him.

Chapter Text

It is a bit of an experience to wake up to someone watching your face like a hawk.

That is an understatement.

It is not quite an experience to wake up and see Uchiha Obito stare at you in the face as it is a phenomenon.

Waking up with bleary eyes and seeing two red haze flickering at you from above, its shape twisting and warping. Red like blood, the kind that’s fresh from your wound. Seeping out from beneath torn skin. It’s the dangerous kind of red, the kind that promises bloodshed and pain, but it’s also terribly beautiful. The kind that’s similar to the flowers that’ll lead you to the afterlife.

There’s something spinning in them, eerie and fascinating all in one breath. Making you want to recoil but also lean closer to observe their pattern and watch them in motion for an eternity and then some.

And then there’s Uchiha Obito.

On its face is a smile.

It’s not quite like any other Yuuji has seen from the curse. It’s not quite the caustic expression that Yuuji is familiar with, nor a smile tinged with nostalgia. But rather it is just that-

A smile.

And that feels wrong, somehow. Just as it feels right in equal measures.

It feels like Yuuji isn’t meant to be seeing this. Something about this feels awfully wrong and Yuuji can’t put a finger on what and he’s not quite sure how to tell Uchiha Obito to stop smiling and he’s not quite sure why he wants Uchiha Obito to stop smiling in the first place.

It makes his head ache with something terrible.

“Itadori,” Uchiha Obito says for a greeting, it’s a familiar cadence. Yuuji can recognize its voice. He remembers it. It fits, it matches his memory but at the same time it does not. There’s something there that he can’t quite put a finger on no matter how much he pushes and prods his own memory for an answer. It feels wrong and he’s not sure why.

It’s the same raspy cadence, the same harsh tonation. But at the same time it’s almost light. Under any other circumstances Yuuji would call Uchiha Obito light hearted, perhaps labeling it as being in a good mood.

But that doesn’t feel right.

“That’s me,” Yuuji replies, itching to- to what?- observing Uchiha Obito more than he ever did before. Something telling him to look and never look away.

“Good morning,” Uchiha Obito says, there’s a lilt to its words that, if Yuuji didn’t know any better and if this wasn’t Uchiha Obito he was talking to, Yuuji would label as ‘cheerful.’ But it’s not quite that, either, it’s off by half a beat. Something underlying its tone that makes it decidedly more.

It’s not not cheerful. But that’s not quite it either and Yuuji’s brain still can’t wrap around the idea that Uchiha Obito can be cheerful of all things, let alone the revelation that Uchiha Obito may be a morning bird.

Yuuji shrugs casually. His mind still leaden with sleep and his eyes threatening to shut but for some reason his heart is beating faster than it ever has before, his feet readying for flight and his hands are readying themselves to clench together.

Yuuji is torn between both. He’s not quite sure what to make of this.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes are red and Yuuji isn’t sure what to make of it. Perhaps that’s what is off about this whole ordeal. It’s the fact that it’s red and shining bright, like a lighthouse off a stormy coast. A beacon within a dark night, just like now.

It’s not something good though, not something that inspires hope, but rather it’s more a warning siren. It’s the thing where bugs are only bright if they’re poisonous, or something like that. Warning you to not touch, to not look, lest you befall under their lethality.

It’s that kind of warning, that kind of pressure.

It’s the kind of threat that’s left implied but is no less lethal for it.

Yuuji hadn’t quite seen Uchiha Obito’s eyes when they’re like this, just conversing. To think of it, Yuuji hadn’t quite recalled Uchiha Obito’s eyes outside of combat at all.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes are usually the solid kind of black, the kind that’s lulling and calm, in equal measures. Making you think Uchiha Obito human until you put a hand over its chest and realize it has no heartbeat at all.

(Or does it? Uchiha Obito is the closest thing to a sorcerer turned curse that Yuuji has a chance to interact with outside of battle and he isn’t quite sure whether Uchiha Obito is still mimicking the motions of life. Whether its heart is still beating just as it continues to blink, as though its eyes can feel dry.

As though its eyes weren’t just another fragment of cursed energy, made in human form.

Yuuji wonders what’s worse, whether Uchiha Obito’s heart remains still as a grave, or whether it continues to beat, as though reaching for a life that it can never get back.

Will that be me someday? Yuuji can’t help but wonder, will he be standing in Uchiha Obito’s grave? Will his heart be a painful reminder or an aching pain that he can’t wash off?

If he puts his own hand over his heart-

Will it, too, beat?

Yuuji doesn’t want to know this. He doesn’t want to contemplate this. He doesn’t want to confront it at all.

He doesn’t even know how he feels about dying before reaching university.

He can’t even fathom the reality that he might have to live past a century.)

So Yuuji wonders and wonders but he does not ask.

Asking makes it feel real somehow, makes it cemented. It makes it real that one day Yuuji is either going to die before he has even reached his prime or that he’s going to live on as something everyone will despise.

It’s a childish notion, he knows. But he can’t help himself but wants to cover his own ears and block out his thoughts entirely. Yanking his hands back from wanting to touch upon Uchiha Obito’s chest and see whether there’s an artificial heart lying beneath.

Confronting it makes it real.

It’s like with time or birthdays, it’s like when you’re suddenly attending your own birthday at sixteen and you’re faced with the impending crisis that you’re growing older and that there’s no stopping the time that’s in motion. It’s like that. It’s that kind of dread, that kind of thing. It’s the kind of thing that Yuuji doesn’t know how to process, let alone want to confront.

So he tosses it away, to an improbable ‘after.’ To the execution that’ll arrive. He’ll confront it then, when he’s on death’s door. So that there’s no chance to process anything then. To think about what it means to die before he can experience even one third of his life.

“You’re afraid,” Uchiha Obito notes, terribly observant and terribly blunt. Its voice is choppy, in a way. Patchwork word and stitched together syllables. “Not of me.”

It’s stated like he’s a curiosity. With an arched brow that's a bit too high to be Uchiha Obito but somehow just matches.

And it’s true, Yuuji is not quite afraid of Uchiha Obito as he is afraid of becoming Uchiha Obito.

It’s cruel to think about, let alone speak aloud. So Yuuji simply doesn’t. He simply shrugs in a motion that he hopes is casual enough to fool Uchiha Obito’s eyes, but he really doubts it. Uchiha Obito is similar to Gojo-sensei in a way. Both terribly observant in the worst of times. Even when you don’t want them to.

“You’re lying,” Uchiha Obito says, short and clipped, like its usual words to Yuuji. This, too, feels wrong. It's eering on the side of being too blunt. Yuuji doesn’t quite know why but he thinks that Uchiha Obito wouldn’t comment on Yuuji lying, but he doesn’t think that he knows the curse enough to guess its reaction but-

This, too, feels wrong in a way that’s out of Yuuji’s reach besides just his own instincts.

But is it wrong? Does Yuuji even know enough about Uchiha Obito to take a guess at its reaction?

Probably not. Nobara has always said he has a habit of overthinking.

But is it?

Yuuji’s head aches with something terrible. It feels like he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t be and it’s making him want to claw his eyes out.

“I didn’t say anything,” Yuuji protests. And it’s true, he hadn’t quite said anything beyond implying something. But it’s a feeble attempt at distraction. “Why are your eyes red, anyways?”

There’s something about the glint in Uchiha Obito’s eyes that’s terribly strange. One that Yuuji hadn’t quite seen before so he doesn’t quite know what to label it as other than just-

Odd.

Uchiha Obito shrugs in turn. It’s a terribly familiar motion. Right down to the way that it almost looks held down by sleep, arms moving as though they were held down by a bland t-shirt instead of purple robes. It’s awkward in the way that it’s almost a fumble to answer a question that you don’t quite know how to handle.

For a brief second, Yuuji thinks he sees himself, awkward and fumbling for a distraction, staring back.

And then-

It’s gone and his head aches with something terrible.

It passes and Yuuji almost doesn’t know what to make of it. But he feels like he shouldn’t touch upon it at all.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes are red, red, red.

It feels like the pattern in them shifts, sometimes, becoming different and-

And what?

Yuuji feels like he’s overthinking.

He is.

Megumi is the overthinker of the three of them. But sometimes Yuuji thinks he can also overthink. Case in point, with, well, Uchiha Obito. Uchiha Obito, who’s-

“That’s not an answer,” Yuuji argues, shaking his head to clear his mind of-

Of what?

Nothing.

“It’s the answer you gave me,” Uchiha Obito says, as though this were reasonable. A note in its voice as though it’s curious- an innocent edge that Yuuji would’ve mistaken as sarcastic if it didn’t sound so genuine.

This feels wrong. But at the same time, does it?

No.

That’s right. It’s just another Uchiha Obito thing, just like how Uchiha Obito looks at phones as though they’re alien technology. It’s the way Uchiha Obito just doesn’t quite get modern slang, it’s that type of thing.

It shouldn’t be wrong at all.

So why does it feel-

“Is that not how you do it?” Uchiha Obito asks, something almost lost in its tone. Something like the shattering of a mirror and the ensuing glass pieces scattered about.

It’s wrong.

But why?

“It’s not that,” Yuuji says. “It’s just that-”

“Show me again,” Uchiha Obito almost demands. An impatient edge to its words. Rushed and almost a barked order. Its voice is clipped. Its words are harsh, it’s not quite in Uchiha Obito’s voice. It’s a mix of tones and pitches. A patchwork of words and stitched together syllables. As though it was in too much of a rush to-

To what?

This is wrong-

But is it?

Yuuji’s head aches with something terrible.

“Alright,” Yuuji obliges. He feels like he should. He performs another shrug, just as casual but less jerky. Less clumsy. Less leaden down by sleep.

Uchiha Obito’s red eyes pin Yuuji down. Like he’s a butterfly to be added to a collector’s board.

“Ask me again,” Uchiha Obito demands. A part of Yuuji wonders why, but another part just adds it as another one of Uchiha Obito oddities.

“Why are your eyes red?” Yuuji asks, his mind both clearer and blurrier than before.

Uchiha Obito shrugs again. It’s a casual motion. Less jerky. Less clumsy. Less leaden down by sleep.

Even its expression is identical. Like a mirror.

Identical to who?

There’s a resounding laugh in his chest.

It’s not from him.

It’s from Sukuna.

Why?

It feels like there’s a snap in the air but Uchiha Obito hadn’t moved and there wasn’t a sound in the air at all. But it brings Yuuji back into attention. His spine straight with pressure and his eyes going dry with intensity.

Once more, Uchiha Obito is in front of him. Its face is the same as always, its features the same human that it always is. If anything-

It seems more human. There’s a flush to its cheeks indicating blood running through its veins and it almost seems to come alive under the light of the night.

Its eyes are red, red, red. With each moment, each breath it draws, it feels like its getting closer.

But to what?

Its clothes are warping slightly, twisting, almost. It’s the flickering of the light. Making Yuuji doubt whether it’s the clothes that are changing at all or whether it’s him.

It’s just Yuuji.

“He was much less cautious than you,” Uchiha Obito suddenly says, a shot in the dark. To where? Yuuji doesn’t know. But this feels meaningless and meaningful all in one. As though Uchiha Obito is searching for an answer in Yuuji’s frame but at the same time couldn’t care less about it. “He was much louder. More orange.”

Uchiha Obito’s eyes are intent. Its skin is more human than before, but it feels like the flesh lurking beneath the vessel has grown more inhumane.

“He wouldn’t be afraid.” A moment. Then two. “You can never be him.”

Like the sound of a bell ringing, it clashes against Yuuji’s ear. Almost like a death sentence.

“So why?” Uchiha Obito continues, the same loss, irate tone it has earlier. Genuine and almost-

Childish.

It’s wrong.

A wave of the hands, a soft sigh.

“I don’t understand,” it repeats. Soft and quiet. Like a child, lost. Something reflects in Yuuji’s eyes.

Then, the mirror cracks, and once more, Uchiha Obito stares back. Right as can be.

And therefore, wrong as can be.

And yet.

Yuuji can't quite put a finger on it.

On what?

Nothing.

“Understand what?” Yuuji asks, feeling compelled to do so. As though this may right whatever’s wrong.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes sear right into Yuuji.

It’s red, red, red. A blooming flower, a withering corpse.

It feels eerie, it feels like there’s a bell toiling in the distance; a harsh siren against his ears; the drop of a long held pin in a quiet room; everything and anything all at once.

There’s a flickering of the light, something shifting between one moment and the next, a blond boy stares back at Yuuji, his eyes are blue, blue, blue. It’s the color of the sky, of the ocean, of storms and natural disasters and calming lull.

Between that moment and the next, the boy opens his mouth as though to say something before the instance passes and it leaves Uchiha Obito frowning. It’s an expression that’s intense, frustrated, and has more emotions than Yuuji had ever seen Uchiha Obito express before.

It’s wrong.

Yuuji’s head aches.

He realizes what he’s staring at is-

It was not born to understand.

It was not ordered to understand.

It is born and made to bid to another’s will.

It has no purpose, nor goals. No yearnings nor desire. It does not understand worldly matters, for it does not dabble in such.

What happens when you give an object its own will?

The Juubi is that answer. Though it knows not what it means. It knows not of what it entails. All it knows is that it has been given a will and made into a being and now it has everything waiting upon it and an eternity to learn.

Learning through memories, through living another’s life.

And yet.

It only has questions upon questions.

The more it grows. The more it learns. The more questions there are. The more it cannot understand.

It does not understand why Uchiha Madara would cling onto his dead brother and then let the same brother go to the ashes and fire. It does not understand why Uchiha Madara lived amongst the Konoha that was built by the same bunch that killed his brother. He does not understand why Uchiha Obito simply does not bring back that girl if he loved her so much. He does not understand why Uchiha Obito would not kill the silver man despite getting a hand through the heart for his troubles.

It does not understand why Uchiha Obito looks at Yuuji and thinks, Naruto.

It does not understand.

It wants to.

It wants to understand it all. It wants to learn. It wants to know.

And yet it cannot.

To live another’s life is one thing.

To understand them, is another matter.

In the end, it understands what they’d ‘do.’

But it does not understand the ‘why.’

Uchiha Obito is almost animated as it hops away from the wall it was standing atop of, walking with an unfamiliar gait towards Yuuji. Its body is light, almost free, its walk towards Yuuji is almost cheerful.

Its steps are light, its gait is almost sloppy- and- there’s another word for it but Yuuji can’t quite-

Something in Yuuji tells him to run.

Those blood red eyes-

A siren’s call.

A siren’s warning.

He’s not sure which to listen to.

They’re getting closer, some part of Yuuji is moving on autopilot, fists reaching out to-

To what?

There’s a hand on his shoulder, it compels him to look up.

There’s a siren’s call inside his mind. Blaring and hypnotic all in one. Telling him to run to look to run to look to run to-

Look.

“You’re afraid,” Uchiha Obito says, its voice light- cheerful. A hand brushing over Yuuji’s pulse at his neck. Not harsh enough to be a warning, but just casually enough to be a threat.

Wrong.

“That’s strange,” Uchiha Obito muses, bemused. “I don’t remember you being this afraid with me.”

There’s something about the word ‘me’ that feels like a mockery. A vicious twist to the word, like an inside joke shared between the curse in front of Yuuji and someone else, a joke that Yuuji isn’t privy to but is expected to laugh at.

Yuuji wants to move.

Yuuji wants to laugh.

This, too, is wrong.

“Am I not myself enough?” Uchiha Obito asks, almost whimsical. A light note in its voice as though this question means nothing at all. But its eyes spin and spin, a threat and a warning and a siren.

Yuuji remembers the first time he and Uchiha Obito met. Wherein those red eyes had spun just the same.

But it doesn’t quite feel the same. Not like now. It wasn’t quite like this.

He’s not sure what’s wrong, but it’s wrong.

But at the same time it feels right and he’s not even sure why it’s wrong in the first place.

“Don’t scream, nobody can hear you,” Uchiha Obito says, it’s words are familiar, but Yuuji can’t quite put his hands on it. But he knows that it’s wrong. It’s expression is wrong, it doesn’t match with that night, it doesn’t match with whatever Yuuji is thinking but the tone-

Is identical. The cadence, the way the words flow, the minute pauses-

It feels familiar. Yuuji thinks it’s almost identical, word for word, breath for breath-

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Uchiha Obito continues. The same cadence, softened, just as it did back then. But it’s expression is wrong.

There’s a siren call inside his head. A warning and a beckoning.

“Don’t scream,” Uchiha Obito repeats, again- it’s the same. “Nobody can hear you.” But now it’s expression is-

It’s familiar.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” Harsh, but softened, its expression, too, is softening. The smile is almost gone by now. Something is shifting.

There’s two hands upon both his shoulders, Uchiha Obito’s expression is-

It’s getting closer.

But to what?

Yuuji doesn’t think he wants to know the answer.

“I don’t do kidnappings,” Uchiha Obito says- recites. “Not anymore.”

Two hands upon his shoulders, Uchiha Obito stands in front of him. Its expression is cold, harsh, its body is still, just like always. There’s something familiar about this. This whole thing. This.

The words it’s saying. It’s familiar. Uchiha Obito had said this before, Yuuji thinks. Something about this feels wrong and eerie but-

There’s two hands upon his shoulders, drawing him back to the present.

In front of Yuuji stands Uchiha Obito. Its expression is cruel.

“Are you still afraid?” It asks, words having strange pauses, strange shifts in tonations. But it meshes together, somehow. Like being stitched together by some invisible hand. But its expression is perfect. It’s how Uchiha Obito would’ve looked.

It has gotten closer, Yuuji thinks.

Closer to-

To what?

But it’s still wrong.

It can’t quite hide the glint in its eyes.

Like the cat to the canary.

There’s a siren call in Yuuji’s ears.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes shift and change.

“We’ll try this again, another time,” Uchiha Obito says, its expression collapsing. Its words having different voices at different intervals, as though those words were spoken by different people altogether.

Yuuji thinks he knows what he’s staring at now.

It’s a mirror.

Cracked and broken and seven years of bad luck-

It’s the cracked pieces of a mirror, each reflecting a different thing.

And they’re all staring at Yuuji.

“Itadori,” Uchiha Obito says again, a greeting.

This-

This feels right.

Even moreso than before.

What before?

Yuuji’s mind aches with something terrible.

Before- before-

Before what?

Yuuji can’t quite recall.

He can’t quite recall why Uchiha Obito’s hands are on his shoulders, either.

Were they even on his shoulders?

A blink- a moment- Yuuji glances at his shoulders and he realizes that Uchiha Obito is standing several paces away, looking quizzically at Yuuji.

Yuuji touches his own shoulders.

There’s nothing there.

“Focus, Itadori,” Uchiha Obito says, its words are a harsh reminder, yanking Yuuji back to the present.

He feels like he’s been awake for a while.

But at the same time the facts show that he’s only woken up.

So what-

Sukuna’s laugh echoes within his mind.

He feels like this wasn’t the first time for tonight.

But why?

“Why are you here?” Yuuji asks, falling into a rhythm.

Uchiha Obito shrugs, languidly. The motion is almost familiar- but where have Yuuji seen that before?

“Making sure you’re not dead,” Uchiha Obito says, blunt and brash. It’s a familiar cadence, a familiar bluntness of a dull knife.

It makes Yuuji want to laugh, just a bit.

It’s sort of like his grandfather, in that miserly way of his. Unable to show a fleck of affection in any way that wasn’t awkward or terrible because he was so set in his ways.

There’s a glint in Uchiha Obito’s eyes. Something sharp and almost pleased. But between one moment and the next, it’s gone.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes are black.

That feels wrong. But why?

It feels like it should be-

Black.

“That’s all for today,” Uchiha Obito concludes, something almost wry in its words. A twist of something. An inside joke shared between the two of them except for the fact that Yuuji is left clueless.

“Already?” Yuuji finds himself asking. Not sure as to the morality or ethics behind implying that a curse could further stay behind in jujutsu tech. But it’s not as though anyone could stop Uchiha Obito, at this point. It has been three visits and three, as far as Yuuji is concerned, means that Uchiha Obito is welcomed.

Or at least, it must not be very dangerous.

Or something.

Maybe Yuuji is grasping at straws, here, but there’s not much straws to grasp at for history on vessels.

“It’s too early for us to talk,” Uchiha Obito answers. Looking out the window.

Yuuji head aches.

He’s not sure where that came from. It’s not like Uchiha Obito had ever been concerned about the time before.

Though, was it really the time of day it was talking about?

“You never worried about that before,” Yuuji half complains.

Uchiha Obito just looks at Yuuji, indescribable and wane. Like a phantom about to disperse.

“When the time is right, we’ll meet again,” Uchiha Obito promises.

Something in Yuuji’s blood curls at that, he’s not sure why. But the moment passes soon enough.

Something about Uchiha Obito’s statement is wrong, Yuuji is not sure what.

It’s probably a curse thing.

Instincts, acting up, Yuuji’s sure.

“And when is that?”

Uchiha Obito smiles.

It’s wrong.

Then, slowly, meticulously-

It is made right.

But it’s still off- it’s still-

Still what?

“When it’s right.”

Before Yuuji could ask- before anything could happen-

Between one moment and the next, it’s gone.

It’s a terribly dreary day to be out and about.

But that is Gojo Satoru’s fate. It is his burden, and his blessing.

At least it’s an entertaining morning, Satoru will give it that much. It’s leaning on the side of chilly enough to wash away the heat of summer but just not cold enough to be considered freezing. It’s that time of the morning where no reasonable person should be awake and about at that job.

It’s a good morning to see Yuta’s text and left to brew.

It’s another mark against Uchiha Obito, another sign that it cares. That it’s weakness is clear to see, that it’s a curse with human sentiments.

There’s a clean line between curse and human, Satoru was sure.

Uchiha Obito had trapeze all over it. Blurring it beneath its feet, almost like a taunt to everything the jujutsu world stands for.

An ancient curse, worn down by time even if it were dormant.

And yet.

It’s not quite mad. It’s not quite inhumane.

It blinks, it talks, it gulps at intervals. Unnatural as it is, as terrible as it is-

It’s undeniably human. Undeniably once a sorcerer.

And now, it has shown some care for the concept of ‘family.’ Whatever cursed family it was.

Satoru isn’t clear on the specifics of the conversation between Uchiha Obito and his student. But he’s at least clear that Uchiha Obito could’ve taken it all to the grave and no one would know or care.

But it had told Yuta.

Because Yuta had cared, if no one else did.

Because it’s up to Yuta to make what he will of his legacy.

Because Satoru and Uchiha Obito don't get to decide whether Yuta gets to learn things or not.

Because to Uchiha Obito, for some inconceivable reason-

Yuta is still family. As tangential and weak as that relation is.

There’s a clear line between curse and human.

Uchiha Obito tramples all over it and looks over at Satoru, a taunt, a beckoning.

Satoru’s not sure what to make of it other than to give chase. To catch Uchiha Obito and to question it until it has nothing left to give. Until he knows everything and anything about Uchiha Obito and leaves the both of them playing a game of words and stories. To crack down the armor and tear down the veil.

To finally-

See Uchiha Obito. The man beneath it all.

Satoru sighs, rowing a hand over his hair.

The Uchiha family curse. Uchiha Obito.

It’s all linked, somehow, he’s sure of it.

But he’s not quite sure what to make of it.

What Uchiha Obito told Yuta about the family curse must’ve been vague enough, and what Yuta had told him, even vaguer.

It left quite little information to go around, unless he can talk to Uchiha Obito itself.

Mysteriously enough, its presence had disappeared for a brief moment between a moment and the next. Leaving nothing behind but a small void where it once had stood in Yuta’s home.

But now, Satoru had felt it again.

But this-

It’s not right.

Uchiha Obito is staring up at Satoru with dull black eyes. There’s something about those eyes that feels wrong, instinctively.

It makes Satoru want to recoil and draw closer at the same time.

Uchiha Obito’s chest rises at its regular intervals, machine-like and inhumane. Its blinks are also like so, except it feels sloppier today, as though Uchiha Obito couldn’t quite remember to blink in time or sometimes blink too fast in order to remind itself. Its cheeks are filled with color, and it almost feels like blood is running through its veins.

It looks-

It looks human.

Satoru can hear the faint sound of a heart beating.

There is a moment, then two-

Uchiha Obito’s heart does not beat.

“You’re not Uchiha Obito,” Satoru says.

The curse looks at Satoru, it looks amused.

He recognizes this cursed energy.

It’s not quite Uchiha Obito’s, no.

It’s Uchiha Obito’s but terribly awry. It’s the thing that’s been under locks and chains-

So how is it that it’s out- and what does it mean for Uchiha Obito?

Has the time finally come- has Uchiha Obito finally been consumed?

Satoru doubts it, but-

Then what is this in front of him?

“And you’re not him,” is all it says.

It looks terribly unphased, as though Satoru’s Six Eyes weren’t fixated on its figure.

Him?

“What are you?” Satoru asks, his voice a deadly cheer.

It glances up at Satoru, tilting its head.

Then it shrugs. It’s a familiar motion, though Satoru can’t quite place it in the moment.

“No one gave me a name.” It looks at Satoru, it's a childish kind of amusement. The kind that’s cruel in the way that only children can be. “Though, I’ve been told I’m the Juubi.”

Chapter Text

‘Juubi’ is a meaningless name. It’s a cold clinicality of listing a beast down by its features. Just like how the Kyuubi is described based on its nine tails and how ‘Kappa’ is just the blending of the word ‘river’ and ‘child.’

It’s not quite giving curses a name, persay. But more of categorizing them into groups and ranks.

Sometimes curses are named based on their classification. Their appearance. For lower rank curses usually belong to one group or another. Being born of common, miscellaneous thoughts and feelings that aren’t quite warped enough to form stronger curses.

They don’t quite have a name as they are given one for convenience’s sake.

There’s no fear there, either. Of giving such curses a ‘name’. For most do not fear them, nor would those outside the jujutsu world even fear them. So it’s generally safe to do so.

However, one must remember that names are power, in the jujutsu world.

This is doubly so for curses.

Sometimes, curses are given names based on their classification.

And yet.

Just like humans and sorcerers, curses are not born all equal.

Some curses are born with a name.

Born out of a name.

Such is the birth of the Kyuubi and Kuchisake-Onna.

They are not quite given a name as they are birthed from one. They are granted an unlife from myths and legends and stories passed from one to another, building infamy, power.

It’s a well documented phenomenon. During the age wherein yokai and curse were somewhat synonymous. Wherein yokai were but one a dozen and born from any word of mouth, wherein the dice is casted for whichever name spoken to see which would become the next ‘Kyuubi’ and which would become forgotten within history.

Even the name ‘Juubi’ is meaningful in its own way, for as much as Satoru doesn’t recognize it.

There’s no denying that it’s eerily similar to ‘Kyuubi’.

If the number of tails a fox has represents its age and power. Each tail stripping away its weakness and sharpening unrefined metal into a deadly weapon. Changing a simple yokai into something more, something greater.

The name ‘Juubi’ is much too familiar to ‘Kyuubi’ for it to be a coincidence.

And even then.

There are no true coincidences in the jujutsu world.

There is no such thing as chance, especially in the jujutsu world. No such thing as a perfect vessel for Sukuna being born from pure chance; no such thing as a once powerful clan disappearing off the face of the world out of pure unluckiness; no such thing as a curse named ‘Juubi’ out of a mere accident.

The name ‘Juubi’ is reeking with intent. It’s meaningful in the way that ‘Obito’ is, in a strange way.

But instead of a parent wishing their child to become something honorable in the future, ‘Juubi’ is a name that carries only a malicious intent to create a monster.

If ‘Obito’ is a name given to a babe in the hopes of a bright future; then ‘Juubi’ is a name given to a newborn curse for the twisted goal of its maker.

It’s a name that no one in the world will recognize. It’s a remarkably childish notion as well, if you think about it.

Adding another tail upon the nine, just to see if it would work. It’s terribly simple, and even more childish.

But looking at it now, perhaps it had worked, after all.

The abyss stares back at Satoru.

Uchiha Obito’s eyes have never been quite as dark, quite as devouring.

The Juubi looks back at Satoru. It’s not quite fear, it’s not quite joy.

It’s nothing at all.

Whereas Uchiha Obito is the restrained edges of reeled emotions, then whatever is inhabiting its body now is the devouring abyss of the beckoning void.

There is no fear reflected in its eyes when seeing the strongest. Nothing at all other than a dull note of deja vu, perhaps, but then that gives way to nothing at all. Eclipsed by the consuming void.

If Uchiha Obito’s eyes are the scarlet of blood, then this curse’s eyes are the black of the collapsing sun.

Then, there is a shift in its demeanor. Something resembling a flickering of a light and the minute switch of a frame gone by.

The void gives way to something lighter, brighter.

Human.

Its legs swing in a rhythmic pattern, unlike Uchiha Obito’s stiff, methodical ones. Its blinks are clumsy, in a way, unpracticed. Its breathing is unregulated. Sometimes taking too deep a breath, sometimes doing the opposite and breathing quicker as though to make up for it. Its entire body more animated than Uchiha Obito’s had ever been. Its face, even more so. Stiff lips giving way into a smile and black eyes curving up into an unfamiliar smile.

Its heart beats beneath its chest. Loud and resounding in Satoru’s ear, akin to a death knell rather than anything else.

It’s identical to Uchiha Obito in appearance, but other than that, the two differ in every single way, Satoru thinks.

And perhaps that, too, is no coincidence.

But what exactly it means, eludes Satoru for now.

It's much more human than anything Uchiha Obito is. If you squint and cover up its archaic clothing, you could almost trick yourself into believing that it’s another sorcerer with a too potent cursed energy.

But perhaps, that is what makes it all the more eerie. For it is not a sorcerer, and you are not comrades.

Each heart beat is a reminder that it is wrong.

That there is an artificial heart in a space where there should be nothing at all.

For Uchiha Obito’s heart is probably long gone, just like the seal that was once upon it.

And perhaps this is something that Uchiha Obito knows, itself, for its heart does not beat.

But the Juubi seems to disagree, for it forces there to be a heart where there is none. A defiance to the natural order, an extra effort extended for something that no one other than Satoru and the most sensitive of sorcerers will notice.

Again, this, too, is probably no coincidence.

“Is ‘Juubi’ not a name?” Satoru questions, breaking the brief silence between them.

The curse gives a shrug, it’s incredibly familiar. It’s a motion that’s a tad too casual for Uchiha Obito.

Its lips curl into something that’s a smile, but not quite.

It’s a smile that reaches its eyes, but Satoru can tell that it doesn’t quite reach anything beyond surface level.

“Is it?” The Juubi parrots back, sounding almost sincere, if only there wasn’t the slightest tang of mocking beneath its words. Like a well hidden viper that lurks beneath the grass right up until it lurches up for a bite.

This, too, is another way in which Uchiha Obito and this curse differs.

Uchiha Obito’s questions are sharp, uncompromising. If it were here now, it’s ‘is it?’ would be spoken softer, with less emotions, more stoic. Leaving you wondering whether its displeased or not and leaving you with nothing at all.

The curse in front of Satoru now has none of that subtlety and none of the restraint.

“Feel free to call me as such, then,” it says, almost light.

There’s something dismissive about its friendly words. Something cold that meshes terribly against its seemingly welcoming statement. A cold edge to its cursed energy that goes against its lackadaisical smile. A minute shift in the space around them, the cold tendril of something slipping through the cracks before being sealed shut once more.

This is a sensitive topic for it, Satoru recognizes. Something almost raw about the way it's acting. Something like a wound touched and a scratch teared open.

“It’s an odd name,” Satoru notes, his voice just as light, just as casual.

He’s always been keen on picking at open wounds.

The Juubi shrugs, again, then looks intently at Satoru’s face. Not quite the searching gaze of Uchiha Obito, but something more dismissive instead.

“It was not meant to be a name,” it answers simply.

This, too, is something different.

“What was it meant to be, then?” Satoru asks, simply because he can.

If it were Uchiha Obito standing in the curse’s place, now, there’d no doubt be some vaguely spoken answer or an exchange of glances. Something like ‘What can you offer me in return?’ and ‘How much are you willing to pay for your answer?’. For it was never a game of questions and answers between the two of them but rather a bargaining auction between offering up information in exchange and seeing which one will come out on top, which one will get the bargain of a lifetime and which will come away with less than they’ve given away.

There is no such exchange, no such minute calculations with the curse in front of Satoru now.

“A title,” it replies, tossing an answer out as though it didn’t particularly care for mind games. Whether that’s due to its portrayed innocence or whether it does not care whether this particular truth gets out is up to anybody’s guess.

It’s an anticlimactic answer, drawn out with almost no effort. No fight, no struggle, not a single back and forth exchange.

It’s certainly an easy answer. Probably important. But it also feels wrong, somehow. Like this isn’t meant to be known so easily. Especially not with something wearing Uchiha Obito’s face but bearing none of its penchant for restraint.

It doesn’t feel like an exchange but rather a passing of glances between two that views each other as the ant.

There’s a marked indifference about the way that it’s looking at Satoru. Something cold and distant and high from above, almost like it could care less what Satoru makes of its answer. Almost like it feels like whatever Satoru thinks will amount to nothing at all.

It irks at something terrible for Satoru. It’s the same type of haughtiness that Sukuna is, in a way. The same type of deadly confidence, of poisonous arrogance. But it’s also not, in a way. It’s not quite the type of insidious confidence of a millenia old curse, like Sukuna is. But rather a simple sort of simple conviction. Like a child knowing that the sky is blue and the grass is green.

It’s that sort of uncomplicated assurance, that sort of easy acceptance of the facts.

It shows no thought in hiding anything at all.

It doesn’t feel like it needs to hide a single thing, laying its cursed energy for all to see. A declaration, a simple statement of the facts.

Though, it’s cursed energy feels tepid. Quiet and almost miniscule. It’s a thing that’s insidious to the touch and miasmic to the atmosphere, but not quite oppressive. Not quite matching with the curse’s demeanor, its loud confidence.

It’s almost benign in the way that grade 3 curses are. A slight threat, to be sure, but nothing to write home about.

It’s a low amount of cursed energy, Satoru notes. Too low for the low, trickling miasma of cursed energy it’s giving off.

It’s a type of condensed malice that’s only associated with special grades. The vicious type of bite that only comes with a curse made from the very worst of humanity. It’s something pungent and scrying, trying to dig deep into your skiing, prying beneath your nails just to see how long the pressure can last before it just pops right off.

It’s not something that belongs to a mere grade 3 curse, not even grade 1.

Only special grade can encompass something like that.

And even then, that’s a stretch.

It’s a blatant contradiction against its tepid curse energy. Low, akin to the sluggish waters during a spring tide.

It’s a familiar feeling, Satoru notes. Something that he has only felt in the presence of Sukuna.

“You’re only part of the Juubi,” Satoru muses bluntly.

It’s that type of feeling, Satoru recognizes. Like glancing at a mirror that’s not quite whole. Something cracked and fragmented and made all the more wane for it. Like pieces of the moon before its full rise.

The Juubi smiles, this time, it reaches beneath the surface.

“You’re right,” it says, sounding almost alive. Its voice is odd in the way that a jumbled jigsaw puzzle is. It’s Uchiha Obito but not quite, it’s Uchiha Obito blended with another’s. “You’re observant.”

It’s a factual note, a tidbit that someone would mark down during a presentation and toss into the trash mere moments later.

“This is only a fraction of ‘me.’” It places a hand over its heart, a motion that’s supposed to mean something. But now is more a mockery than anything else.

It’s a motion that’s only done for the sake of doing it, of placing a hand over one’s heart to say ‘me’, but Satoru can tell that the curse in front of him has no clue of the reason behind the logic. For it places a hand over its heart and tilts its head, almost in consideration, before letting its hand fall down to the wayside.

“This body is a clone,” it admits, after a moment, its tone growing distant and almost bored. As though it’s done playing human for the moment. “It is a copy of Obito.”

Clone. A technique, Satoru thinks. A remarkably useful one, at that. Probably something that Uchiha Obito managed to copy from centuries ago and brought into modern times.

Though, of course, whether due to it only being a mere copy or whether the technique was flawed to begin with- it seems that the clone’s flaw lies in the fact that it can only be a fraction of the original.

However, it bodes nothing but ill news if the curse has managed to manifest itself as a clone, or even within one from its original restrained state.

“You’re not a clone,” Satoru notes. For while it had mentioned its body being that of a clone’s, it had no mentions about itself.

Again, it looks at Satoru. There’s something about its gaze that’s cheerful in the way that children are. Simple and direct, the first shades of uncomplicated joy that one usually associates with only children.

“I am not,” it answers easily, there is no back and forth, now. And Satoru doubts if there’ll ever be one. “I should not have been within this body.”

‘Should.’

So it was Uchiha Obito that created the clone, rather than the curse within Uchiha Obito gaining the power to. Which bodes well for the prospect that perhaps it’s not quite powerful enough just yet.

But then what was the purpose of creating this clone? And does this mean that Uchiha Obito cannot control the clone that it had created?

More questions, Satoru thinks. More questions from an answer.

Perhaps, in this way- in this single, frustrating way- the curse inside Uchiha Obito mirrors the vessel itself.

“I am only a fragment of myself,” it explains. “When this body disappears, I will return to myself.”

It then glances right at Satoru’s eyes, there’s something resembling childlike curiosity in its eyes.

“Does that make you feel better?” it asks, bluntly. There’s something sincere about its mocking words. Though, at this point, the two blend together seamlessly.

Satoru smiles back, it’s nothing pleasant.

Satoru wonders if this curse can even tell the difference.

He wonders if it can even tell the difference between a smile and something meant to threaten.

He wonders if that matters at all.

He wonders what it means.

For a curse to be born like this. To grow into this. Carefree and lackadaisical if you ignore the torrent of insipid miasma lurking beneath its skin.

He wonders what created this curse.

“You wanted to kill me,” it says, its voice stretching out the word ‘kill’ as though something new to test upon its tongue. It still sounds remarkably cheerful. Satoru thinks the cheer is genuine, though he does not know what for.

“Well, you are a threat,” Satoru answers, just as cheerfully.

Though, his cheer is much less sincere.

But does it matter?

The curse in front of him doesn’t seem to know, nor care.

“You aren’t the first,” it answers back, much too uncaring to have been threatened by the strongest. “To kill Obito and kill me in turn.”

Satoru’s brain skips for a moment, lagging behind at the casual admission of the curse in front of him.

“You even share his appearance,” the Juubi muses, cruel in the way that only children can be.

It remembers a man. With hair of fine silver and eyes that did not match one another.

It remembers that man. It remembers the smell of wolves and the scent of thunder in the air. The feel of lightning upon its skin when the man’s chakra flared. The strange feeling of pain within Obito’s heart, as though being ran through by the worst of storms.

It remembers that man, standing a battlefield apart.

It remembers Obito thinking about his younger life. Of the man and Obito and a girl that it never saw upon the battlefield.

It remembers flashes of another’s memories in its mind.

It remembers a searing pain through the heart.

It remembers staring at the man through another’s eyes and thinking, you win, again. With something terrible on its tongue, like swallowing stones and rocks. It remembers thinking-

Why is it always you? with the same emotion that Uchiha Madara had felt when gazing upon his brother that will never wake up again.

In the end.

The man is gone. There is a different moon residing over its head. The battle has ended.

The war has concluded.

There just remains-

Why?

It does not understand.

It does not understand why, even if the worlds are different-

Obito sees the shadow of Hatake Kakashi within Gojo Satoru.

It thinks it can see another similarity, now.

It understands even less with that realization.

This, too, is something it’ll learn with time.

It is one thing to hypothesize that your ancestor has once tried to kill the man turned curse they- he?- had obviously cared about.

It is another matter entirely to have it confirmed.

It is one thing to know that no named, no good Gojo had killed Uchiha Obito to turn him into a curse.

It is another matter entirely to know that, rather than it being a protection of Uchiha Obito, it rather was something cold and calculated instead. An attempt at Uchiha Obito’s life to save the world.

To kill Uchiha Obito and the curse within the man, in turn. Those are the words that the Juubi spoke.

It could be lying, Satoru thinks. For he knows not its cues and indicators when it does so.

But then again-

What if it were true?

Satoru thinks he should be happy.

He thinks that he should be happy that his ancestor had carried the responsibility of the world upon his shoulders, just as Satoru is. He thinks that he should be happy that his ancestor saw the world and Uchiha Obito and ended up choosing the world, after all.

But he’s not.

He’s not happy.

It feels like a bitter realization. Burning rancid and hot upon his tongue, because something had obviously gone wrong in the process.

That no-named, no good Gojo had chosen the world-

But something went awry.

And perhaps that something is ‘regret.’

Satoru can almost picture it. He can taste the blood in the air and see the dying man laying ahead. He can imagine someone else standing upon his place, with the eyes of heaven within their skull and the world at their fingertips.

But all the power in the world cannot bring the dead back to life. Not in the way that matters.

This is something that Satoru knows, best of all. Seeing that man dead against a forgotten corner of the jujutsu world. Body slumped over and hair in disarray. An arm torn out and life torn apart.

He wonders if they had once stood in his place. Except instead of a man with flowing dark hair and a torn golden kasaya, there laid a scarred man with short hair and bloodied purple robes.

He wonders if they stood in the same place as him- for they must’ve surely- for surely-

He wonders what words were said. He wonders if Uchiha Obito had parted his lips and said-

At least, curse me a little. A lament, a regret, a yearning for something that once was and never could be again.

Between a friend and being the strongest, Satoru could’ve only ever been one.

And so it was.

A Gojo cannot curse anyone. And a Gojo is forbidden from ever doing so. For in doing so, they have broken the taboo. For, in doing so, they have crossed a line that they can never step back from again.

Perhaps Suguru had said it as a joke, a last sardonic jab before he goes wherever the dead goes.

But there was a hint of sincerity in those words that even Satoru cannot deny. A brief, maybe in them. A hint of a future, drawn, together. A glimpse into a ‘what if’ and ‘maybe I could’.

Something had flickered in Suguru’s eyes in that moment, something in the space between him uttering those words and laughing.

Perhaps he, too, knew that Satoru was the honored one before he was Satoru.

And gods do not get to pick and choose who to defy the natural order for.

But Satoru cannot deny that there was a brief glimpse of the future within his grasp at that moment. Something tantalizing and almost hypnotic about those words. Something that made him yearn for a future that will not exist and cannot ever come into being.

There, once, too, must’ve been a man standing in his place.

He once thought that their paths had never aligned.

And yet.

It had.

For that one moment in time. Both their paths had converged into one moment. Wherein the burden of being the strongest vied against the duties of being a loved one. Wherein there is a choice to be made but in the end you know that there’s only one choice that could possibly be chosen.

Between being the strongest and being a friend, there was only a chance for one.

This, too, must’ve been something that the no-named Gojo knew.

This, too, must’ve been something that crossed their mind at least once during that capsule in time.

Between the world and Uchiha Obito, that no-named, no good ancestor had chosen the world.

And yet.

When that no-named, no good, terribly indecisive Gojo had stood there, where Satoru once stood and forced to make the same decision-

Between being the strongest and being a friend-

There could only be one.

Satoru does not know what words were passed upon on that day. He does not know what was said between Uchiha Obito and that no-named, no good, terribly indecisive ancestor. He does not know the before, nor does he know what future that no-named, no good, terribly indecisive ancestor saw.

But it must’ve been a future worth more than the world.

And perhaps that ancestor wasn’t terribly indecisive, after all. Because in the end, a decision like that does not come from someone who could ever be indecisive.

It’s a decision you know that, when you make it, you’ll be forever damned.

There are many things that ancestor lacks. A name, Satoru’s good looks, ethics, morals-

But perhaps the one thing that that ancestor did not lack was conviction.

At the eleventh hour, that ancestor had stood in Satoru’s shoes and had taken the other path. He must’ve envisioned a future he so desperately wished for.

He does not know what is worse.

To kill a man and doom the world for the sake of love. Or to kill a man for the world only to regret at the last second and seek to undo everything you had stood for moments ago.

The story between Uchiha Obito and that no-named, no good, terribly decisive ancestor does not end there.

But it feels like whatever comes next is surely not the fairy tale that Satoru’s ancestor had imagined.

The Uchiha clan is gone, Uchiha Obito is supposed to be dead, and the world that Uchiha Obito once knew has long been gone.

Uchiha Obito would’ve woken up to a world that no longer holds the ‘Uchiha’ clan in esteem, with his blood upon his friend’s hands.

In the end, that Gojo had dragged them both down into the quagmire to drown.

And yet.

Uchiha Obito is still alive now. By a long dead man’s will.

Perhaps he, too, wished his story had ended centuries ago.

“And what was his name?” Satoru asks, sounding much too casual for what he’s feeling.

There’s a pounding in his ears.

He thinks that it’s his own heart.

Or perhaps that’s Uchiha Obito’s heart.

“Kakashi,” the curse says, it’s an exact match to Uchiha Obito’s cadence. It’s no longer a jigsaw puzzle of mishmashed voices but rather something concrete and melancholy. A whisper in the wind, drawn out with a thousand emotions and a thousand more memories. It’s a weighty kind of word. The kind that’s short and simple but can weigh down the entire sky and then some.

Kakashi, Satoru thinks. Scarecrow.

It’s an awfully odd name, if you take it literally. And Satoru is certain that no one, outside the most traditional or oddest sorcerers would deign to name a child that, now, but if you look upon it from another angle, it’s a surprisingly fitting name for someone marked as the strongest.

A scarecrow watching over the fields. Deterring birds and pests from disturbing the fields.

It’s a roundabout way of the Gojo clan naming the newly born babe as their, and the jujutsu world’s, protector. A scarecrow over the fields. A stopgap to the curses threatening the mundane world at every hour.

It’s certainly different from Satoru’s, whose name was only meant to propel himself, and the Gojo clan in turn, to greatness.

‘Kakashi’ is almost a noble name, a sentimental one.

Satoru even thinks it's a bit ironic.

Because for all that Gojo Kakashi must’ve protected-

In the end, he couldn’t even protect what he most cared about.

Between the world and Uchiha Obito, he could’ve only protected one.

And so he had chosen.

The dice has long been casted, and in the end, he had lived up to his name.

A scarecrow upon the fields, protecting all but one corpse.

“It fits,” Satoru says, almost whimsically.

“Does it?” the curse questions back, just as lightly. Its gaze is lofty, almost amused. Its shape a warping thing, flickering in and out of the fabric of reality.

One moment, there sits Uchiha Obito.

The next-

A man with gray hair sits in front of Satoru.

Everything else about the man is blurred, becoming shapeless and flickering back into the void.

The curse sighs, for a moment, then two. The man’s lips curving up into a lazy smile before it returns to being Uchiha Obito.

“This body is running out of power,” the curse says, lightly, cheerfully, in another man's voice. It's a soothing, deep one. One that clashes terribly against Uchiha Obito's appearance. “I do not know when we’ll meet again.”

The curse stands up, then. And gives Satoru a wave.

“But we will meet again,” it promises, and Satoru has no doubt that this, too, will hold true.

There’s a smile on its lips. It’s viciously childish.

“Maybe then, you won’t be able to tell the difference.”

This, too, Satoru recognizes, is a promise.

“I doubt it,” Satoru challenges. His mind a thousand paces away.

The curse just smiles, its hair a flickering thing in the moonlight. Warping between silver and black.

"If you can tell, I'll give you a story as a gift."

And then, with a whisper, it’s gone.

Satoru reaches up into his own hair, putting a fine strand between his fingers.

It’s not alike at all, he finds himself thinking. Uchiha Obito must be blind.

He’s not sure why he’s so frustrated.

He’s not sure why he wants to eclipse Gojo Kakashi’s shadow with his own.

Chapter Text

It comes in a flash of blinding pain.

Like a brand being seared atop his brain. Burning hot and true, a pinprick spearing straight through his skull.

Obito is no stranger to a memory overload after a clone disperses. He is no stranger to the headache that follows, the ache in his mind. The rush of memory and nausea, the familiar tinge of a slight pain from too much and all at once.

What he is a stranger to, is this. This blinding pain, digging straight at his skull to get to the meat beneath. Striking hot and true and making you want to claw out your scalp just to get it to go away. It’s a pain that refuses to subsume even if you beg and wish, it’s a type of pain that doesn’t get better even if you adjust because you can’t.

It’s the type of pain that goes beyond the line of too much and makes you want to curl up within yourself.

It feels like taking a bite out of the sun and trying to process the taste.

It feels like that and more. It feels like Obito had taken chunks and chunks of the sun and stuffed it into his mouth and there’s a thousand flavors at the tip of his tongue and a hundred thousand more to be deciphered.

It’s the type of pain that feels like it could last an eternity and perhaps it will.

There are pieces of the sun in Obito’s gut and mind and blood and they all burn.

There are shards of memories entrenching itself in his mind, hot and true. Flashes of people that are here and people that are there. Pieces of memories that are his and those that are not. Flashes of another time- another place- fragments of a life he’s never lived.

They all burn. They all hurt. They’re all not meant to be processed by his mind. But they are, nonetheless.

There’s a phantom pain atop his chest, a lightning through the heart- a silent, Obito-

Thunder runs through his veins, hot and true. Just as it had that day.

There are pieces of the sun within his gut, he thinks he had choked on one of them.

Thunder flashes inside his blood. Through his heart.

But he no longer has a heart.

He reaches for that spark of lightning- that flash of thunder-

The keening cries of a thousand birds-

A thin, white thread-

There’s a beast with ten tails staring back at him. A searing red moon atop the sky. There’s dust afloat and there’s cracks along the ground.

The beast blinks, guileless.

“You,” Obito spits. It’s much more guttural than he anticipates. Something that came out from deep within. Something tasting like ash and the dying chirps of thunder.

The fucking thing blinks at him, innocent.

“Drop the act,” Obito says, his voice words and his expression even harsher. Heat still branding into his brain and the world is still tinged with fire and pain. “We both know you’re not just a mindless beast.”

At least, not anymore.

Obito knows, best of anyone here, that the Juubi was once the most mindless of them all. An incarnate of nothing but chakra. A weapon to be used, not to be reasoned with.

It’s growing, a part of him whispers- warns.

The Juubi tilts its head, its jaw creaking open.

“You were fond of this act,” the Juubi says, with a familiar sort of tone. The kind that old friends have to each other.

The kind that’s familiar, but Obito can’t quite place it at the moment.

“It was just like this,” the Juubi says, and between one breath and another, Obito stands, staring back at himself. “Or do you not like it anymore?” There’s a childish giggle, the Juubi’s voice growing higher in pitch.

Tobi’s mask stares back at him, his hands bunched together into a childish gesture of concern.

It’s like staring into a damned mirror.

One that reflects back only a distorted version of yourself.

It’s growing, he thinks. It’s with the sort of horror of watching an abomination grow under your watch without being able to do a damn thing about it.

There’s a shot of fear curling through him, rancid and terrible.

Culling at the searing pain cutting at his brain, instead replacing it with something cold and just as horrendous.

“What do you want?” Obito asks, his voice growing calmer, tenured down by the weight of what he’s just discovered.

There’s no bargaining with beasts.

But then there’s no real harm in finding out what makes it tick before it grows too intelligent to let you see its true intentions.

But then again-

How far exactly has the Juubi grown? How fast will it grow?

Tobi shrugs, it’s an exaggerated motion. Although jagged, and crude, as though the Juubi hadn’t quite learned the finer details of the motions just yet.

“Whatever you want,” the Juubi says, its words glib and honeyed. Like the finest of deserts. Sweet in the way that’s leaning on too childish and too saccharine at the same time. “Promise.”

Sharingan red stares back at him, there’s a playful curve to those eyes. Something almost innocent.

But they both know that that, too, is false.

“I am your loyal subordinate, Leader,” the Juubi says, with the same jovial tone he once used to Pein’s face. Right up until he dug out the man’s eyes.

“We both know how loyal Tobi was,” Obito replies, finding it to be something like an out of body experience. Like talking to himself but at the same time- not.

Between Tobi and Madara and every name in between that he had taken on between the years-

Tobi was the one that was closest to ‘Obito’. In a strange, twisted way.

For as much as Obito wished he was ‘Madara’, he could never quite measure up to the man.

Tellingly, the Juubi does not answer. Instead, it rocks back and forth, from the soles back to its toes. A motion that he often did when he was pretending to faze out words during meetings. This often earned him Deidara’s ire, though it was most useful in keeping up the front.

It’s off in places now, though, the rhythm too static, too unnatural. But a part of Obito knows that this, too, will be fixed with time.

“I won’t be so careless again,” Obito says instead. For he knows, best of all, that if Tobi was intent on ignoring a topic, it’ll never be addressed at all.

“Of course, Leader,” the Juubi says, as though humoring him.

Though, it’s in the sort of tone of an innocent child. It’s almost sincere, in a way, if you didn’t know any better. Spoken almost lyrically, like words to a children’s song.

And that’s precisely how Tobi gets you.

Obito knows this, too, best of all.

But in the end, he knows, too, best of all, that there’s no use in trying to drag an answer out of Tobi.

So instead, he asks-

“Why Kakashi?”

It bugs at his mind, the thoughts crawling atop his brain, like an insect that just doesn’t know when to stop and die.

There’s a thousand of those insects crawling within his mind, now, burrowing into his brain and making it their home as he does nothing but think.

On night patrols like this, wherein the streets are silent and the curses are terribly loud and plenty bountiful, there’s nothing to do but think. There’s nothing that stands between him and his nagging thoughts, nothing to quite distract him from it other than the next curse on the menu, but they, too, provide no distraction.

For they are weak, and he is Gojo Satoru.

There’s no need for thoughts when exterminating them. It’s a mindless task, something that you do and eventually realize that dawn has broken and the day has restarted once more with the quiet chime of Ichiji’s message checking in on him.

It’s a formality at this point. They both know Satoru is neither dead nor going rogue.

But Ichiji does so, nonetheless. Maybe it’s out of professionalism. Or perhaps the man is too soft. Satoru thinks it's a factor of both.

Ichiji has always been a bit like that. A bit too loyal, per say, despite his whinings about Satoru’s antics. A bit too professional and a bit too concerned over the fates of the younger sorcerers.