Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One hundred years ago, if you were to tell someone from jujutsu high, whether one of the teachers or one of the students who had been taught under Gojo at some point, that Gojo, the Strongest Sorcerer of their time, able to take down special grade curses with just the flick of his wrist, would succumb defeat to a cat of all things, then you’d surely get scoffed at.

The absurdity of the sentence would have been enough to have a few – more on the deranged side – sorcerers, who viewed the birth of a Six eyes and Limitless user as something akin to a God, target you for what they would deem “blasphemy.” 

Or maybe it would be reasonable. Some, maybe like Shoko would pause, cigarette fitted between long pale fingers as she takes in your words, before her wide eyes ease, filling with a tired mirth. She would picture the fantasy you spell out, bubbling out a small chuckle.

“Bested by a cat?” She would tease upon her lips, before taking a long drag of the toxins, letting it pool right into her lungs, more filled with its promise of relief than oxygen. Except for Shoko, this was her oxygen, ashy and bitter on her tongue, fuelling her with the sanity she needs in her position. “That’s quite a Gojo like defeat.”
Nanami might not entertain the idea so freely.

 
After all, it’s quite well known around all the students that Nanami is never free for any news about Gojo, lest it be something that affects him or the students. And it shows in the way the man stiffens up, as if a curse itself had lodged onto his shoulders, heavy and exhausting as it snags at his energy – feasting greedily where technically curses aren’t able to feed off sorcerers – whenever Gojo enters the room.

All the sighs that leave the teacher’s mouth are enough to prove Nanami’s lack of patience for the sorcerer, but it doesn’t go unnoticed the silent hidden respect he carries for Gojo and his troubles. It’s not unusual to think Nanami wouldn’t bat an eye at the absurd idea that Gojo would succumb in all his glory, to a clueless feline.

Yet it is also not unusual to think that Nanami would nod as if it made complete sense. That Gojo Satoru, Six eyes user and heir to the Limitless technique, wouldn’t handle the power of a creature with big round eyes, rolling around in the sun.

Really, it all depends on who you went to.

But frankly, if you were to ask Gojo himself, weave him a tale of the intimidating thunderous presence of a feline, with soft paws hiding gleaming sharp claws, and sharp predatory eyes, you would find a bright hysteric scoff right in your face.

That is, from the Gojo a hundred years ago.

Instead, where Gojo would like to think he’s able to stand against the might of a cat, unmovable against the soft paws that slap against his knuckles, hitting against water, and splashing another wave over his features – drenching him right down to a soak – he finds it’s enough significant evidence of his defeat.

“Satou please—” He tries again with a tired drum of a headache upon a brow, but just as quickly as the words breathe out into the world, another fresh wave of water hits Gojo right in the face, drenching his hair and shirt right down to his stomach.

The devious feline, once a poofy mass of fur – now looking deflated with his wet fur – almost seems to smirk as he whacks at the water again, making a show of his victory against Gojo, with hair stuck to his brow.

The man in question, glares down into the bath, his hands holding Satou against both sides of the stomach, moulding against firm plump spoilt flesh. 

(God, Geto needs to stop feeding this thing.)

“Can’t you stay still for one moment?” He begs, just as the cat hits the water again with a cheeky paw, rushing it towards Gojo, who can’t even defend himself with infinity, lest he hurts the cat in the process too.

The water hits against his eyes again, pet shampoo getting in between his lashes, and for a moment, he has to pause, pain prickling up along with the headache that comes with trying to bathe a dirty cheeky rat of a cat.

He’s not even sure how Satou got dirty in the first place. He’s an indoor cat, Gojo had figured out. The furthest outside Satou travels is to the windowsill, where he likes to stick his head out the open window and watch flying by birds, even when he’s not allowed to.
Geto had worried that Satou, knowing his cheeky, almost foolish bravery, would have leaped out to chase the birds, and had asked Gojo to make sure to keep the windows closed if Satou were in the same room.

Of course, Gojo had complied, not wanting to pose any harm to Satou at all costs, the fluffy creature with eyes too similar to his own. But he was only human. 

One second, he had opened the window in his room, and closed the door behind him, making sure there was no bundle of white blur inside, and then the next second, he was opening the door an hour later to Satou with his half his body out the window, trying to reach out and touch a nearby perched pigeon.

The cat had somehow got inside and found the open window.

Gojo had felt his heart stop. And when he had rushed out quickly to catch the cat, Satou had decided then and there to take a leap, to catch his prey which was the unbothered bird, sitting calmly on the balcony of another apartment.

Of course, the bird had flown away lazily as soon as it had spotted the inexperienced cat’s hunting skills, and Satou, with zero experience in hunting real animals, had failed to catch his kill.

And of course, Satou hadn’t even stuck his landing on the other balcony, nearly giving Gojo a heart attack when he saw the stupid feline slip off the railings.

He wasted no time for thought as he leaped out the window behind Satou, catching the flailing cat just before he and the cat could plummet down a few stories.

“Satou you idiot-” He had breathed, heart thundering in his chest as he struggled to pull himself back up into the room, half his body out the apartment - 50 something stories high - and the other half kicking and holding on for dear life to not fall. 

He thinks he saw someone peek out their apartment at some point, to see his torso dangling in the wind, holding a white puff of fur against his chest tightly, wide eyes startled and agape as they watch him crawl back inside almost embarrassingly. But Gojo can’t find it in him to care when he had, for a split second, imagined the situation where he would have to explain to Geto how his cat was outside on the street as a very grotesque picture.

He then brought the cat inside with a shaky inhale, closing the window immediately before turning to comfort the creature, only to find his dumb little face beaming with excitement and joy at the prospect of a near death.

Gojo realises now, he should have taken it as a warning, because somehow, the cat still hadn’t learnt to stay away from windows after, proceeding to try and sneak out on any occasion. Even through the elevated high small window, opened only for ventilation. It gave Gojo many more near heart attacks when he had checked the bathroom for his phone, only to find a mass of fur stuck in the window.

God. He swears that Satou just desires to send him to an early death. Perhaps it was fitting for him; the unbeatable sorcerer of the world, invincible against the efforts of curses and sorcerers alike, sent to an early grave by the hands- or paws of an evil cat – a heart attack from pranks as his cause of death.

He could already see Shoko laughing at his limp side when and if she still does autopsies.

It was once he had had enough of fear hurting his chest anytime he had found the cat tempt death – and that was a skill, considering Gojo can’t remember the last time he’s been physically hurt – while Geto was at work, that he had just simply decided to leave opening the windows to whenever Geto was home, to distract the cat with pets and cuddles Satou always demands, or if he were holding Satou for the entire time it were open.

In the end, it had led Satou to throwing a kitty tantrum, if that were even possible. 

Gojo had woken up one morning – if 12:56 pm counts as morning – only to find one of Geto’s huge flowerpots overturned, with the soil everywhere.

And when he means everywhere, he means everywhere.

There was not even one spot Satou hadn’t dragged it through, almost as if to spite Gojo when he had not relented to Satou’s sweet pleading eyes to be let go after Gojo had opened a window out.
And of course, with the soil being everywhere, Satou had also been included in that everywhere. 

How that even happened he’s not sure. But all he knows, is that with an almost smug expression, the once white cat, had become brown in his spiteful endeavour, skipping across the once clean carpet, littering the wooden floor with pressed imprints of soil and water from an overturned water bowl.

What a nightmare.

With one hand against his head, holding back the oncoming headache that came with dealing with a cat embodiment of spite and mischief worse than him in his teenage years, he reached with the other for the scruff of the dirty cat, and immediately dragged him to a bath.

It leads him to this moment in time, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, hands sunken deep in disgusting muddy brown water, as he withholds a heavy exhale.

It’s worse than dealing with a toddler, he thinks, pinching at Satou’s side as the cat nibbles at his thumb, sharp canine teeth grinding into his skin casually, trying to free himself.

It almost makes him miss his students, who’s pranks, and mischief had at least been funny. In comparison, Satou has somehow managed to combine his own once energy and spite, alongside with every student he once taught, and somehow emphasise it.

How terrifying.

Satou in question, meows innocently, smacking at Gojo’s arms to be released, but Gojo doesn’t let go, scowling down, without any real heat, as he brings water up to the cat’s side carefully, watching soil wash away with ease.

“You’re not going anywhere.” He answers back to the low meow Satou graces him. Never mind the cat, he still hasn’t even cleaned up the rest of the apartment. He sighs.

“Why are you so cheeky?” He asks with no real reason, head lolling over the bath edge in his exhaustion. Of course, he does not expect the cat to respond, the question rhetorical, aimed at the universe: asking the heavens how his fate had somehow led to this.

The Strongest Sorcerer of the present, humanity’s greatest defence and offence, bested by a cat somehow, and turned feline sitter in a whole different timeline, alone from his world…

It makes Gojo almost shudder another sigh. Just his luck.

Though, he supposes also has Shoko. 

No, what is he saying? 

Of course he does.

Shoko, his best friend from his timeline. The only person who remembers their world, their time, their youth— who remembers him as everything he’s meant to be, and everything he is and is not. 

And it feels reassuring. 

Grounding even, when you belong in a world that does not remember you, your place long gone, and washed away in the sea of time. He’s missed a whole century of events. Missed his students growing up and missed ever saving Suguru, and reconciling with him, and fixing things. 

Even when all his friends had been doubtful, sad, tired expressions spelling out pity when he never yielded, holding out a small hope he could still talk to Geto during his defected years. But with every murder and death number that increased, spilling across hands that had once cradled him like he was the whole world, it became clear to Gojo that Suguru had long since moved on.

Just like the universe that had long since coped without his presence, haven washed away his name off the night sky; the star that once belonged to him disappearing in a wink of generations that proved they had never actually needed Gojo Satoru - the limitless six eyes user - Geto didn’t look back when he had walked out of their life.

Compared to the agony that made his arms shake, techniques sparking in conflict at the pads of his fingers, the horror of waking up to an unfamiliar familiar world, made with every mocking reminder that he had failed—It feels nice to know there’s one person in thousands out there— one soul that can speak his full name with the weight of what it entails. Of what he entails. 

Or entailed. 

Considering there aren’t any curses anymore.

But still. 

For as long as Shoko looks at him, and he sees the scars that linger across unblemished skin, an echo of a fight against a stubborn world that cares naught of them, pain and exhaustion of a past life haunting her, all deep rooted in a dark dreary vortex of bottled emotions, locked away behind chocolate pupils, Gojo feels real.

He’s not hallucinating, not secretly born to this world with an overimaginative mind that had somehow dreamt up a whole past life and a world of powers, not secretly trapped in a domain that somehow brings out your worst fears, tormenting him with everything he had but not. Even when he had used his powers far up in the skies – when infinity had cradled him above clouds, thousands of feet between the stars, shooting out techniques that would burst clouds into smithereens, erupting rain – he had not been sure of his truth.

Even when he had peered down a whole world away, watching the flickers and embers of civilisations under his fingers, far up in the frozen vast skies, the risk of falling right there, tempting him with every buzz that tried to strangle at his mind, he had wondered if maybe this was a dream.

When he felt his infinity slip slowly under his grip, like sand trickling out his fingers until he gripped at empty rocks, until he freed the fight from his grip: dropping—He still wondered what was real.

Between the wind that rushed at his face, whipping harshly— If anything was real this whole time, or if he, maybe, was still in the prison cube.

Who knows. The Imposter had been a tricky fellow, knowledgeable enough to know of Gojo’s only weakness, and exploiting it with such a cruel hand that had burned through skin, bleeding out his chest with a stolen ripped heart, beating bright on the train station concrete.

The stars of life under him grew brighter and brighter with every wild thought, until finally— the breath Gojo had taken, ripping through burning lungs and eyes was enough to spark infinity alive across his form. Like fireworks exploding in his flesh, siren alarms wailing in his ears, it bruised cold and cruel, tearing his form through time and space, and leaving him suspended between clouds and lights under him brighter than the stars above.

And yet, it still hadn’t felt real.

Satou in front of him, meows, tilting his cute little head as if to try to answer his rhetorical question, with big blue eyes sparkling in confidence, and Gojo blinks.
A small chuckle flutters out his lips, amusement rolling out into the air with the taste of surprise.

“You can’t say that Satou…” Gojo mock gasps in amused mock offence, rubbing his fingers up between wet tangled patches of fur, deciding to prank the feline back. “Such confidence… What would Geto think when he sees the living room huh?”

Satou seems to pale at that – paler more so than what white fur can become – and then a shaky mewl reverberates through the room. Gojo snorts, confident that Satou won’t try and jump out the bath now that he seems to realise what his actions have done – his head low in thought. Gojo opens the bath drain.

He smirks. “Oh, so now you’re sorry, huh?” He rolls his eyes unimpressed, yet fondly, watching all the muddy water start to sink out, and with one more rinse from the shower head, Satou is all clean.

Grabbing the free towel he had prepared before hand – which, man, it took ages to find, with him almost causing a worse mess than Satou as he checked every crook and canny he could, eventually spotting it in Geto’s storage drawers under the mattress – and gently lifts Satou out of the empty bath.

The cat does not fight as much this time, compared to when Gojo had first brought the filthy thing into the bathroom, and turned the water on with a heatless scowl. The feline pouts sadly in Gojo’s arms, allowing the other to wrap him up quickly, avoiding any water dripping down onto the floor.

Gojo sighs. “Look, he won’t be mad at you. You’re too cute, Satou, you’ll be fine.” Gojo relents, unable to curl his sympathy away when big round watery eyes glance up at him. “You cryin’?” He blinks.

The cat meows in response, eyes watering even more, making Gojo sigh.

“For a devil, you sure are cute.” He mumbles exasperated, before the expression on his face melts into a soft sigh. 

“Stop crying.” He commands. But after all, what power does he hold to make a fine creature like Satou bow?

Gojo exits the bathroom with Satou curling into his arms, almost seeming to be sulking as he buries his head under Gojo’s arm. Gojo exhales fondly, shaking his head with a breathless chuckle when a low mewl rings out from behind him in response. 

“Okay okay I get it.” He drawls back, a fond curl of affection beaming in his chest, until he re-enters the main area, and spots the dark spots of mud and soil coating the floor. The visible battlefield of the war waged between Satou and the plant. His mood sours immediately.

He had forgotten.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes.” He almost cries, watching as the remains of the huge plant in the middle of the room almost wilts under attention.

Satou looks up curiously.

“Fuck me man.”

100 years later, and Gojo Satoru admits defeat for the first time.

By the time, Gojo had managed to dry the cat’s fur and brush it, with one of Geto’s brushes, and then get around to cleaning the kitchen – with Satou locked in Gojo’s room, purring and kneading the bed in a relaxed sleep, window closed— he had felt before he had heard, Geto returning.

The bleed of nauseating cursed energy that had immediately expanded across the apartment, alerting him the first moment its dark claws had touched the walls of the room. His head had snapped up to the direction of the door, pausing in what was him attempting to gather the remains of the plant crushed against the kitchen wall.

Six eyes latched on protectively, burning through his pupils, swirls of deep blue and ice lighting up in the familiar way they always did when Geto was coming home. He never did get used to it though. Even when he had gotten better at easing in his own bed, pretending to ignore the gnarling mess of toxic guck that tried to rip through the walls across the apartment from Geto’s room, it was something else whenever it was the first thing he felt every day when the clock had struck 5.

The time Geto always comes home, and the time Gojo feels his heart shutter stop, memories of fighting curses burning through him, readying him with the adrenaline of battling another monstrous combination of emotion and pure evil condensed into an invisible mass of energy.

And every time, whenever the door handle clicked with the sound of keys succeeding in their turn, it was not a horrible disgusting expression of an inhumane matter, teeth ripped into a manic sorrow, nor eyes that pulsated with a grieving anger that never touched him. 

Instead, a tired exhale, a human face of the sun, eyes glowing like hyacinths dancing in the fields, met him in the far doorway. Black inky strands, not of ghoul like curses – thin and greasy with vengeance – instead, soft and thick with the care of a burning humanity and care that contradicted the horrible blend of gold and black behind.

Instead, a warm kind smile would stretch upon lips, and Gojo would find all his anxiety and hard trained on techniques wash away with the relief of a scarred free face.

“Oh Gojo!” Geto calls out, surprise and joy flickering across tense features that melt away with the curious realisation of coming across his roommate during the day. A rare occurrence. Especially since said roommate always tries to avoid Geto at all costs.

Which failed today.

“Oh… Hi.” Gojo begins stiffly, watching with nervous eyes as Geto starts to peel his shoes off, exhaling with the day’s weight rolling off his shoulders, and then at the broken pot and scattered soil under his palms. Swallowing almost loudly, Gojo grabs as much as he can in his arms, and with one quick blink, he teleports, dumping it all out in the forest on the outskirts of the city.

Now, he’s still not sure how similar this Geto is to his Suguru, but if they’re really reincarnations of another, there is no doubt in Gojo’s mind that Geto will not take lightly to one of his plants being destroyed.

He’s back before anyone realises, standing in place where a bit of dirt remains stained across wooden tiles. With one easy kick, he shoves it all under a carpet, probably dirtying his white sock with the move, but it’s all worth it when Geto steps into the kitchen, no sign of recognition upon his face that something is wrong. 

Fortunately for Gojo, who remembers older days of a silent cold smile that spoke more than Shoko’s angered rants when Gojo had accidentally ripped a whole shelf of bottles of skin and hair care off the wall with one of his parkour attempts across the bath. He can still remember the way he had froze, stuttering explanations drying on his tongue when Geto’s smile only grew larger as Gojo tried to reason it as an accident. 

He shudders at the memory of Suguru’s once patient anger.

“It’s nice to see you so early! How’s your day been?” Geto asks, all too jolly and not angry at all – reaching up to soft looking strands and pulling out his hair tie. In one quick move, he lets his half up spill over his shoulders, before tying it all up to a messy bun, out the way.

Gojo lets go of a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. 

“Okay.” He hums bluntly, wiping his foot in what he thought as a subtle move, against the carpet. And well, if purple eyes saw him, Geto wouldn’t know exactly why he was doing that, not when he made sure to smear the mud across the dark dyes of the material. “Just played around with Satou and such.” 

Geto hums interested, grabbing a pan and setting it on flame, oil spilling across its sleek surface. Another cooking session then, Gojo realises, watching as Geto reaches to one of the drawers, pulling out that darn pink frilly apron—Geto sure does love that thing, Gojo thinks with an unimpressed stare.

Unfashionable and hideous, he wants to argue, even though Geto looks... good in his work clothes; styled and neat, compared to Gojo’s still wet shirt, matted with stray white strands. 

“That sounds lovely.” Geto begins, eyeing his shirt in question for a moment, before turning back to his pan. “Are you hungry? I’m making food.” 

“I’m good. I ate.” Gojo returns, watching the muscles that flex through a black turtleneck shirt, when Geto hums and adjusts strong arms through his cooking process. The tattoos that extend across rolled up sleeves glisten in the kitchen light.

It makes Gojo sweat a bit. 

He ignores it with a quick shake on his head, swivelling around to make his way back to his room in one quick turn, not wanting to stay and chat. But before he can even make a step out of the kitchen, he hears footsteps reaching him, and without time to react, he feels the inking bleed of rotten energy burn into his shoulder.

“Hey wait!” He hears in his ear, soft and kind with the taste of familiarity he recognises from another time. But it’s too close.

Too close for his liking.

A large flinch erupts through his nerves, shooting right through him with the sound of sirens, and quickly, he slaps the hand on his shoulder away, jerking around with the power of adrenalin. 

Infinity rushes over him in seconds, shattering the space between him and the wide surprised amethyst eyes that reflect his own wide hard blue ones. Ones that fight against an invisible monster: memories of blood and disgusting curses curling in his mind.

“I… just wanted to ask if you’d like to chat…?” Geto croaks, clearly taken aback with the way he blinks rapidly, shocked with the sudden reaction.

And to that, Gojo can already hear the nagging he’s memorised through his soul about being politer. About diffusing the situation with a quick smile or joke to ease the tension. 

But faced with the face of too many memories, good and bad, Gojo remains silence until silence pans out between them, interrupted only by the heavy breathes that wrack Gojo’s body, shaken and wild, and the hard tense stare he shoots across the valley between them.

Geto stumbles back.

“I—I don’t think we’ve actually chatted since we went out to meet Nanami, so—" He finally says, explaining himself through the rough, tense quiet with a nervous flicker of concerned eyes across Gojo’s form.

Except, Gojo doesn’t care for the pity Geto seems to have an unlimited amount around him, when he zeroes in on a red mark fading into life across Geto’s arm where Gojo had slapped it away, full force.

He’s stuttering, Gojo realises with a strange mix of dark satisfaction when his heart rages in his ears, a bitter taste of failure flooding him with the realisation of his fault as his eyes flicker to regretful violet. 

To have his guard down against a stranger, one who bears the face of a past enemy, it’s not like him at all.

He’s growing soft, he realises with a gritted jaw, dark gaze in his eyes turning piercing in its rage.

But at least he seems to have won one of the battles, he thinks, looking over Geto’s worried and yet still close stance.

His energy coils around his form protectively as if in response, extending further around him in thick layers until he’s sure it almost resembles an overprotective curse itself, alive and alert like a live animal; a tiger sole against a pack of wolves as it faces off Geto and his energy. It almost reminds him of a certain student of his with his own cursed bodyguard.

But to see the shock and almost fear on Geto’s face, Gojo feels his fear wither within reason. As if he actually has some semblance of control after days—years of losing it, threads of its power escaping between the grips of his fingers, holding on desperate.

It won’t happen again.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable…” Comes Geto’s voice again, more confident when he gulps, eyes softening as if he seems to realise something, stepping back to give space to the wild animal before him. “I won’t hurt you.”

Gojo squints at him almost offended. What is he talking about? He wants to spit out at first, but when blue eyes trail over purple concerned eyes, he eases, realising. 

Ah, right. He was found in a forest, and amnesia is his story. Of course, Geto’s going to treat him delicately, his whole get up is sus. With how he keeps flinching and shying away Geto, he looks like some sort of abuse victim abandoned.

Gojo sighs. Right, Geto’s righteousness for anyone seemingly weaker than him.

But that is far from the truth. With how powerful Gojo is, he could easily kill the man before him if he wanted to. Fuck, he’s done it before—He’s not weak. 

Sure, he may look a little scarred, but with how hardy the sorcerer world is – to not be left scarred, whether physically or mentally Is a feat in itself. To be born with the eyes to view the world for what it is, filth eroding between buildings and people, living in the air and draining and killing you for seeing a little more. It’s a whole different world to not grow up a bit messed up in this place.

Such naivety from Geto, a man with cursed energy, who will never see curses. Not with the way the whole world is free of curses. And he’s sure of it. Gojo had spent nights over nights scoping out the cities, even teleporting across the country to confirm his suspicions. Japan is completely curse free.

The other countries are a separate matter. He hasn’t had the chance to visit yet, but with what curses work, if there aren’t any across a whole country, the rest of the world will follow the same pattern or have a very small, limited number.

But to think Geto has cursed energy regardless of it all… Why?

Gojo exhales, shuddering out the tension from his body like how one might rip a parasite off skin, blood spurting, but he ignores it. There. Are you happy Suguru? He thinks to himself, easing his features until a soft tug of features melts on his face.

Geto seems to deflate, a bead of sweat dropping down his face as his shoulders drop relieved, tension draining like an exorcism.

“You alright?” He asks, and Gojo huffs annoyed, but swallows it down, rubbing on his neck until his features mellow out into something more acceptable.

‘You’re doing great Satoru…’ 

“Fine…” He mutters once his thoughts whirl to a stop, a decisive goal created for the sake of survival, he reasons, to make the other before him calm down, to stop worrying. And maybe perhaps to distract Geto away from that embarrassing scene.

The strongest startled by a simple touch. How ridiculous.

“How was your day then?” He asks only out of politeness.

Geto seems to pick up on it, because a small grateful smile grows on his face, and he backs up, returning back to the counter. He reaches for the pan, that had been placed to the side, with only one look back over his shoulder.

“It was good.” Geto says slowly, turning the stove on until food starts to sizzle through the kitchen once more. A gentle sound. “…Just tiring, I guess. The classes were wild today. No one wanting to listen, everyone chatting or on their phones. Just the usual Fridays. You know how it is.” Geto pauses, a lull in the conversation, only interrupted by the quiet shimmer of meat on oil.

“Do you remember them from your own school days?” He eventually asks, a soft curious look shooting Gojo’s way when he turns around again. 

A twinge of guilt twists in his gut, memories of hanging out with Suguru and Shoko bleeding in his mind. Of course he remembers. How could he forget those beautiful days with his friends? With Nanami and Haibara before everything went to shit?

“Yeah…” Gojo nods quietly after a while, watching, from the corner of his eyes, as Geto smiles softly, eyes crinkling in something Gojo would dare place as fond, before he looks away. 

Except Geto’s clearly talking about his students. He’s a professor after all, teaching students much older than the ones he once taught.

The thought of it makes him remember the days he’d teach too. More so than his own school days, but the memory isn’t so far gone to be forgotten. He may be 128 years old now, but something about the prison realm didn’t make it feel like 100 years, that or the effect of it all was withheld within its domain. It’s hard to tell when everything felt the same in there, and all Gojo knew were the dark skies above, and the sea of skeletons beneath.

Though, then again, there was the random voices he’d hear at times, and then the rain of what he believes to be blood. He’s not sure. It’s hard to tell what was hallucinations of his mind and what was a by product of the prison realm, trapping him in.

But when he remembers what he thinks was Suguru’s voice, soft and almost dreamy as it called for him, he knows for sure they weren’t real. Only that tone, that familiarity and closeness were a thing of the past, of a past deeper than 100 years, a past locked in Gojo’s heart and memories, only one other remaining witness to it all. 

A dream, a wish, a yearning—pulled out from the depths of his soul by the prison realm to torment him with.

Just how he could hear his students, all calling out to him past the dark fogs that lined the prison realm. Pretend walls that taunted with a possible far away walk, a dream of an exit in the making. But whenever he ventured closer, reaching out to the black fog, he wouldn’t find his hand slipping through smoke like he wanted, but rather resistance.

Resistance that he had fought against desperately when the prison had reached far into his memories and weeded out their voices and words, twisting them into horrific displays of affection, or even screams, until he clawed against bone and energy, vying to escape. To reach them even when he knew it was all a trick.

“The students were more energetic and unruly since my class was at the end of the day.” Geto continues, not really noticing the way Gojo’s face falls with the memories, burning ice-coloured eyes melting through infinity and tracing a familiar comforting silhouette against the counter. “Though I guess it’s kind of on me, considering I like to spoil them all so much with games and fun quizzes at the end of the week.”

Gojo hums in thought, remembering his own version of chaos when his second-year class had started screaming, loud enough for the rest of the school to hear, as he pulled up his own Kahoot made quiz.

The quiz had been so poor. Specifically made vague so that if any unsuspecting innocent person were to stumble upon it, they would have no idea what it meant. And in turn, so did his students, who barely held back on throwing their phones at him, the thought of their phone shattering by accident when in contact with his technique holding them back.

“Can’t you just put it on private??” They would ask, tired unimpressed eyes looking up at him with the youth of a new more experienced with technology generation. 

“Please, the questions and answers don’t even make any sense in the first place!” Nobara would cry, Megumi clenching his fist beside her and nodding silently with a scowl.

He would shrug, mischief curling upon his growing grin and tell them “I don’t know how,” cackling when groans and whines would ring out as he switched to the next question.

“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEANN-“ They’d scream too when another question about pasta came up. 

Little did they know, Gojo had used code words for curse energy and spirits. 

…Little did they know, those code words changed every round.

“Gojo sensei please- Let us just show you.” They would plead when they had enough of questions about ice creams effect upon negative Pancakes, running after him and almost begging as he zipped away in a flash, teleporting with the excuse of a sudden meeting.

Of course, he knew putting the quiz on private would be easier, but he was too lazy to do it. Not to mention, it was fun just making questions and battles about his favourite food. He had even planned on making a Kahoot quiz on deciding which dessert was the best according to his students and tell them it was an important decision for the future of the sorcerer world.

Gojo sighs in the memory, bittersweet it was to imagine, a small smile on his lips as he remembers the familiar curl of amusement playing across his heart, now reflected on Geto as he cooks, and mentions a few of his students, talking about how silly and competitive they were during his desperate attempts to teach.

It makes him almost forget what he was trying to do: escape back to his room, away from facing a puppet of the past. But somehow, the conversation almost made him yearn to stay and chat some more – to delve into that feeling and share it with the other, who clearly understands what it means to have students so lovely, you feel like a father, a man with children rather than a class of unfamiliar faces.

But when he looks back up to a familiar bun, one he has to hold back the muscle urge to reach up and tug, yank it free so a billow of a curling night sky can rain down to his palms, so soft he buries his face in it, he remembers this is not someone he knows. Not the Suguru he loves. A stranger through and through.

Satoru…

It rings hollow through him, and yet, despite how he imagined the pain to curl through him almost lonely, it doesn’t feel so bad. Not when the past few weeks he’s been adjusting, has been accompanied by a feline and a friendly smile, constantly bothering him, taking him outside on walks and to cafes, forcing him out the house.

Heck, it’s through this stranger, that Gojo has a place to stay in till he figures out what’s going on, and through him, he found Shoko and Nanami. A stranger through and through. And yet, a stranger who shares this feeling with him. Who loves his students as much as he once did.  A stranger who doesn’t feel so distant.

Gojo lets a small genuine smile grow on his lips. 

Perhaps this was okay.

“Hey, have you seen where my plant pot went from the living room?” Geto asks Gojo later when he catches him on his way to shower.

Ice falls over Gojo’s head, his expression frozen.

“Uh… No sorry.”

“Ah, sorry for bothering then.” Geto says with a sigh, rubbing his head confused. 

Gojo runs off before Geto can question him anymore, and he hears a distant did I misplace it..? behind him as he flees.

“Yo”

He never should have been surprised when Shoko had found a way to get his number. 

It might have come from Geto, but the way Geto always seems so friendly and caring, he seems like the kind of guy to ask him for his of it consent first. Not to mention, he doesn’t seem like the type of guy to text him like this while they’re still strangers. 

A quick check in with the guy confirms his suspicions when Geto gives him a confused stare.

“I haven’t got your number?” He had said over the kitchen table, setting down a salad he had just prepared. “But if you were offering to give it to me, I’d greatly appreciate –“

Gojo had walked out soon after.

And so, he’s left confused staring at a text message from an unknown number, yet somehow he’s able to immediately tell that its Shoko. Maybe it’s just the lack of respect and tone that threatens to beat him to a pulp if he says anything wrong.

After all, he never was able to get one over Shoko, even back in their high school days with every prank he tried to pull – emphasis on tried – she would always get him back twice as hard, or find him wherever he was hiding, and pay back her… ‘gratitude’.

Often it meant her dragging him out from Suguru’s dorm room, as he begged Shoko for mercy after doing something stupid, like putting bright neon green glitter in her shampoo, while Suguru laughed cheering on Shoko, who with every move, had glitter cascading from her scalp.

Even to this day he remembers her fuming expression, as she dragged his lanky ass out the door, spelling his doom.

A small fond smile grows on his lips. 

But just for safe measure, he sends back a quick Who is this, gliding pale fingers across a cold screen and watching as it sends through.

The reply comes in seconds.

Who else? Can’t even recognise your friend?

Yep, that’s Shoko if he didn’t know any better.

As he shifts the unknown number into his list of contacts, adding Shoko’s name, Satou snuggles closer into his thigh, purring loudly with every absentminded scratch Gojo pets under his chin.

He tries to not get too distracted though, as he stares at the large expanse of options the phone offers him with customising her contact, one suggesting generating a quick image as her profile picture, and when Gojo looks at the choices given, he cackles to himself and attaches the ugly picture of a street rat as the contact picture.

Quite remarkably accurate.

Though, perhaps it’s just missing a cigarette? Then again, it seems Shoko has quit in this world.

A quiet ding reminds him of the present conversation at hand and he promptly returns back to the messenger app.

Thought it was a witch. He replies.

I’m blocking you

You texted me first stupid

Okay dick

Gojo scoffs in amusement, shifting on his bed where he lays relaxed over undone and a messy arrangement of his duvet and pillows, head on the mattress with his legs falling off the mattress and dragging on the floor.

He shivers slightly as the evening air touches his ankles where the pants he’s wearing don’t read past his shins, and in a distracted manner, uses one hand to pull at sheets until something covers him, the other typing away.

What’s up? Why you textign?

Gojo watches the three circles bounce at the bottom of the screen, indicating Shoko typing. It’s just as it had been 100 years ago, whenever he had texted his 1st year’s group chat for educational gatherings.

Interesting how not much has changed between before and now.

Just came to ask about some stff

Gojo goes to type a reply, when his phone suddenly vibrates again, and he pauses, reading.

Last time, you told me you still have your powers
Does that mean you can still see curses?

Ah, so that’s what this is about. Thinking about it, he never really did mention any of this to Shoko before, did he? 

Shoko who no longer has cursed energy, powers that faded away with the rebirth of a new body and mind, and yet the same soul enough to spot Gojo with his glowing eyes no one else seemed to notice. How she must have lived a tense life wondering where the curses were, if she were targeted or if any misfortunes she saw, were at the hands of things she could no longer fight. A life without the insight and control she once had: Guardian turned prey.

A small frown grows on his face. 

There are no more curses. He tells her quickly.

What?

No more curses

He can already see the way her brain must flip at that, gears turning in confusion, until her eyes widen with the implication, chocolate pupils burning.

Are you sure?

Is he sure. Now that was a question, one Gojo pondered anytime he left the apartment, teleporting out into the city as far as he can reach.

He remembers going around exploring in the past few days, observing the city as he goes around, wrapping himself in infinity until even passing bees steered far away from him. He walked through parks and streets, observing people as they pass by, and with sharp eyes, he’d peek into their energy, six eyes shifting through their souls, and finding nothing.

Sometimes, he’d even flicker out of existence behind a tree, and reappear up several hundred feet in the air, hovering near the tall buildings, until he could blink and find thousands of empty crevasses of where energy should be, now replaced with grey toned markers that proved they were at least alive.

Even buildings and objects which should at least have residues of some lingering taste of energy, whether from passer byers or at least the small number of curses that should linger in quieter darker areas. But when Gojo walks down alley ways he recognises as the perfect gathering area for robberies, perhaps even back street deals, one he knows would be filled with curses of greed, devouring away at the material hunger until it could climb up cooperate towers and have a buffet. And yet, there is nothing.

Even when he teleports back up to the skies, looking down at everything and observes once again, he knows it for sure.

No cursed energy at all.

No curses.

He’s sure.

Yeah. They’re all gone

His fingers type gently across the surface of his phone, trying to translate the comfort he wishes to provide her. His hands shake as he types it in, hoping she can now feel free to live carefree as she should have always been.

A world without curses, without suffering and pain, promised with the mere single blank taste across the country, energy now a rare thing.

Memories of long quiet nights sat together as Shoko would tend to his wounds when Gojo’s own reverse cursed energy felt more like nausea against his soul rendered free in his mind. Can’t you be more careful? Gojo’d imagine she’d ask tiredly, one cigarette drooping out from between her lips as she stiches him up. I’m okay, Gojo would answer, a lie, from where he lays on her desk, panting, sweating away with an infection, roused by his early misjudgement. Another mistake on him.

But they don’t say anything. Not when any word could be lost between them, another useless discussion of politeness when nothing changes. When Gojo would leave that infirmary room again, and find himself risking his life again and again, over and over, until he returned once more.

Their continuous cycle of pain and torture for as long as they live, for as long as they are live in a world of curses as sorcerers.

Except now—

We’re free Shoko.

They’re free.

He’s free.

From the other room, Gojo can hear some shuffling as Geto wracks around the apartment.

“Where is that plant pot…” He hears mumbled through the walls, until he pauses in his scribbles of notes across his paper, sat by the desk with Geto’s borrowed laptop before him, guilt bleeding in.

Silence swallows the room, before six eyes open, peeking through the walls curious. He sees a very confused expression plastered on Geto’s face, slowly turning worried as the man stares at the spot where the colourful bright pot plant had once stood. 

Gojo blinks, swallowing as he turns back to his desk, lips pursed in guilt. Welp, he thinks, staring down at his laptop screen, displaying the many news articles dating years back with a small frown.
Even Satou doesn’t make a sound as he looks up at him, equally as quiet and guilty with the sounds of increasingly quickening paces of search breaking in the background. Gojo looks down with a finger to his lip.

“…Just so you know this is on you.” He whispers to the white cat, who’s face scrunches in disbelief.

Gojo barely holds back a yelp, as sharp claws slap him across the ankle, causing him to jump and hit it against the table leg.

Sometimes Gojo and Geto go on walks together, with a fluffy white creature fitted between them and sniffing the ground curiously. Though Snow, if he recalls right, always seems more curious of the infinity dancing across his body.

Unlike their last adventure together, they stick to the outskirts of the city, making their way across the large parks and lakes that seem to border the edges of the main town, until finally civilisation seems to die away, and they enter the full force of Nature’s domain; her loving hands cradling all around them with autumn leaves. 

Though, slowly, they wither away, falling from the skies in a blur of gold and brown, decorating their path in orange. It’s beautiful, like everything else in the city, except this time, he tries not to show how shocked he is at certain contraptions, barely hiding his dropping jaw when he witnesses a few drones quietly zip by through the air, holding parcels in their metal grips.

It’s all surreal he thinks, feeling purple eyes watching him. He thinks he can even hear Geto chuckling as Gojo dodges uncommittedly when another drone flies by. 

It’s nowhere near his head, nor is it a danger with how infinity coils around him protectively in the open space outside their apartment, but it doesn’t stop the compelling need to shift away when his towering height brings him slightly closer to the soaring clunk of technology.

Nor does it stop Geto from attempting to hide his chuckles in a faux cough choked into his fist.

“They won’t hit you, you know?” Geto tries, smile strained where laughter is a string away from snapping and bursting into the open air. Gojo grumbles.

“I know.” He says, voice as definitive and icy as always, and yet never enough to push away curious purple eyes that keep pushing forward through his distant barriers. Somewhere along the way, Gojo wonders if it’ll ever be enough with Geto. “I’m just not used to it.”

Geto cocks his head. “Not used to it? But I’m pretty sure the drones were brought into public use before you were born though? Wait- How old are you even? You look like 22.”

Gojo splutters. “What-- 22?” He asks, slightly caught off guard, and when he looks to his side, he finds scrutinising purple eyes trailing along his form intensely, as if trying to gauge his age by observing him again. As if he were a piece of work to be dissected or analysed. 

He hates the way he has to fight back a blush.

In front of them, Snow walks happily, tail wagging content.

“I mean, you look really young by your face, but yet you do have white hair, so I wasn’t quite sure…”

Gojo groans. Oh no not this again.

If Gojo had a 100 Yen, for how many times someone has brought up his white hair during the topic of his age, he’s pretty sure he’d end up tenfold rich.

“Oh my god, are you one of those elderly people who aged like fine wine? That would explain the haughty attitude…” Geto ponders out loud, and slowly his face becomes paler. “Wait, are you like secretly 60 or something??”

It’s almost tempting to stay silent to listen how far and bizarre Geto can theorise about his age, but alas, something tells him he should clear up the misunderstanding quickly. Maybe it’s the way Geto seems to pale significantly, murmuring something under his breath, seemingly coming up with something even worse.

Or it could just be the blatant slandering right to his face.

“Geez, you sure do jump to conclusion.” He resists the urge to roll his eyes, hand pushing through white locks till they split out over his head. Amethyst eyes trace it curiously. “I am older than you yes—”

He takes in a moment to savour the way Geto’s face falls, amused.

“– But I’m no elderly geezer. What the hell are you even thinking?”

“Oh, thank god.” Geto seems to deflate, hand on his chest. “Nothing particular outrageous. I simply needed a moment to reflect if I had really been flirting with an old man or something.”

“What—” Gojo chokes, while a shy, yet fox like smile grows on Geto’s face.

“I thought it was obvious?” Geto teases with a mirthful smile, shrugging when Gojo stares at him like he’s grown a third head.

He coughs, surging reverse cursed energy down his vessels to calm the dilation that bursts across his skin, painting his ears and dusting his cheeks a light pink. This isn’t real flirting- Just playful banter, he reminds himself.

“Anyway—” Let’s not think about that too hard. “I’m only a year older—” or 101 if you count the time in the prison realm “29 to be exact.”

Or 129. But hey, he feels quite young.

Perhaps by that logic, Geto is right. He is an old man that aged like fine wine. 

“Ahh, I see.” Geto says with a curious flicker, eyes creasing as if amused. Gojo looks away. “Then you should have been around during the passing of the law for drones to be used by registered companies in daily life. Think it was like the year 2105? Or something?” Geto ponders, “Though I’m not fully sure as it’s not my area of department. I just know that Shoko was weirdly really into it after I met her.” He shrugs.

How odd. He thinks, but shrugs. That’s just Shoko after all.

“Must be my amnesia.” Gojo says with a shrug. 

Distantly he wonders if he’s abusing his story of an amnesiac for his cover story, but somewhere along the way, he kind of stopped caring. He blames the ever-trusting look Geto gives him, nodding to himself as if it made perfect sense. 

“How did you guys meet?” He adds though, because as much as he loves them both, he wonders how Shoko found Geto and Nanami in the large expanse of a city. All three of them. Even four if his suspicions of Nanami’s lover are correct…

“I could ask you the same question.” Geto says, because of course, he’s a nosy sly fox.

“Too bad. I asked first.” Gojo says, sticking his tongue in a bratty manner, uncaring when the cool autumn, nearing winter breeze dries it up. Geto’s thin eyes squint at that.

But Geto’s quickly looking away, clearing his throat against his fist. 

“I bumped into her at a café.” He answers, turning back, and with the movement, his raven locks pick up in the wind until it billows; a familiar sight to Gojo. 

“She spilt all my coffee on me, and when I told her it was fine, she just ran after me and insisted on paying me back for the coffee until I was basically forced to give her my phone number.” Geto chuckles, purple eyes trace across the dying leaves before them, a distant amused memory replaying softly in them.

“Shoko? Repaying?” Gojo repeats almost shocked, eyes comically wide at the near impossible. It makes Geto bark out in laughter, tears leaking across lashes.

“I know right? I thought she was just weirdly generous at first with how she practically chased me down, but after we became friends, I realised just how stingy she truly is.” Geto muses, wiping at his eyes.

“Huh.” Gojo murmurs, watching the other until purple moves up to his, catching his gaze, until he’s flinching away in surprise. 

But they became friends? So, Shoko chased after him? She saw her long-lost friend, and tracked him down until she found out the truth that this Geto does not remember?

“And Nanami?” He asks, just to be certain.

“Nanami? When’d he enter the conversation?” Geto laughs, pushing stray hair lines out the way.

“Now. How’d you meet him?” 

Geto hums, looking away as he scratches his chin. “Gosh, it’s been years now. How’d we meet again… Ah! That’s right… We met in Uni together.”

“Uni? Like University?"

“Yup. We had a few extra credit classes together.” Geto hums, an amused grin on his face. “Does that answer your endless curiosity, or do you have anything else?” He teases, leaning in, until their shoulders bump against one another.

Gojo glares lightly, pulling away until the bleeding of unfamiliar energy disperses with the quick kiss of infinity across his limbs.

“No. I’m done now.” He says, head leaning up as he looks down at the other; arrogant and cold. The perfect way of creating distance.

And yet—

“So, is it my turn to ask some questions now?” Geto steps right back in his space, until Gojo can almost feel the warmth of the other bleeding through his infinity, right into his soul. A gasp escapes him, and his eyes widen as blue reflects in purple, mirth and something more curling in those daring pupils that keep pushing and pushing. And yet they always pull away just before Gojo can feel the pressure cracking away at his walls, breaking his resolve with just a smile.

“What—” He chokes, infinity melting away at the familiar touch of warm hands that once found their place in Gojo’s hair, curling and stroking anytime Gojo had been once overwhelmed with his techniques and abilities.

A spell of the past, he knows, but when Geto stands so close – a familiar scent and scene – it’s hard to ignore habits.

Geto seems to peer right into his soul for a second though, searching for something past Gojo’s infinity, past his inner turmoil when a familiar breath tickles against his cheek, and when he doesn’t seem to find it, disappointment devours every soft feeling into a gentle mellow rain. He pulls away.

“What about you?” Geto asks once he’s back at his station, snow trotting beside him obediently, stopping only ever few seconds to sniff at the ground.

“Me?” Gojo asks breathless, heart thundering in his ears. What was that about?

“How did you meet Shoko?” 

“Ah.” Gojo startles. Right.

Really, what was that about? It really threw Gojo off his course, burning him inside out.

Fuck—

“In high school I guess.” He chokes out with a shrug, turning away when he feels his ears tingle with warmth, and not due to the cold air. His gut churns uncomfortably. “First year.” He adds, just to seem more convincingly with his shaky voice, but not too much. Not when the memories threaten to bleed in with familiar sorrow and regret. 

But as always, Geto never backs down when it comes to Gojo it seems.

That’s something that’s different to his Suguru, who always waited for him first. How strange.

“Right, you mentioned that before in the café with Nanami too, didn’t you?”

Gojo nods.

“Does that mean your amnesia doesn’t extend as far before your high school times?”

Fuck. Was this a trap?

“Ahh, no—uh—I just seemed to remember Shoko specifically only.” He attempts to lie, but with what his tongue wraps around the dishonesty, it comes out poor before Geto, weak and almost pathetic. So, he prays Geto falls for it.

Thank fuck he does. 

“Ah I see.” Geto says with a sympathetic look mixed in with something else there that Gojo can’t discern. 

“Shame then.” He adds with a heavy sigh, “Don’t you worry about your family? I’m sure they’re worried.”

Gojo thinks of Megumi, and Tsumiki. Of their barely hidden concerned faces whenever he returned home late every day, only melting away when he plastered a large grin across his tired face, a boisterous laugh immediately filling the corridors as he showed them the extent of his shopping every week: pure sugar.

He huffs amused to himself when he remembers Megumi scowling at him and cursing at him to get back out the house for proper shopping; the tiny man’s anger increasing more when his sister had offered to go instead, out in the dark evening. 

“Don’t you come back until you bring normal food!” Megumi had yelled, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving poor Gojo out in the cold without a jacket.

But as long as the amused note exists, it soon turns sorrowful when he realises, he’s been gone for too long.

Megumi probably grew all up without him huh? He hopes at least Megumi got his act together and finally spoke with Yuji about his feelings.

He’s not sure what he’d do if he came to found out they ended up anything like him and Suguru of the past.

“Maybe.” Is all Gojo says, and Geto quiets down, probably noticing the heavy lingering silence between them that whispers to him to let Gojo have this moment. 

Snow lingers off to the side, sniffing something between some bushes.

“Anyway, I’m just glad you seem to be in better spirits than before.” 

Gojo purses his lips. But before he can even say anything, refute that sentence with the spark of a defensive 129 year old, Geto is reaching into his pocket and pulling out a neatly folded post it note, a list written across in neat fancy letters.

“Ah right, I was meant to head to the shop before it gets dark.” He says out loud, cutting Gojo off with a gentle sigh, one that seems to soften right the way through Gojo.

“Before it’s dark?” Gojo huffs, looking over in the distance where the autumn cold air starts to deflate in colours, burning in a pale orange across the sky as the sun grows sleepier, heading lower and lower. “You’ve not got a lot of time if that was your intention.” He huffs.

Geto chuckles beside him. “Perhaps not. I guess I got a bit distracted talking to you.” A small smile graces his lips as purple traces blue.

“Oh.” Gojo blinks, a small blush raising on his cheeks. “That’s not on me though.”

“No, it isn’t.” Geto chuckles again, eyes crunching together in amusement, before softly opening and gazing upon him. Gojo’s blush grows more. “It never is.”

Snow gruffs behind them, panting as she pushes between them, jogging off to the front. Her tail wags happily.

“Here, how about I quickly head to the shops over there, just across the road, and I’ll meet you outside in a bit?” Geto proposes, and following Geto’s finger, Gojo spots the quiet bustling convenience stores.

They look like the kind run by the elderly, the kind he and Suguru used to visit often in their high school years due to their cheap prices and friendly elderly shop keepers. It’s from there, Suguru always managed to supply Gojo with his sugar needs without going bankrupt on the income of an underage unemployed teen.

“Sure.”

And with that, Geto disappears with in the whisk of the wind and a blur of inky blown strands across pale soft pinks and orange hues, until it’s only him and Snow left.

“Just you and me now, huh?” He chortles to the dog, who rudely ignores him for the sake of sniffing in between some more leaves. Gojo shakes his head fondly. Somehow snow looks like one copy of Megumi’s dogs.

“Come on now, Snow.” He calls, clicking his tongue until the dog catches the sound, looking up curiously. She pants, tongue lolling out as she brims in her natural environment, the cooling evening temperatures of Japan, outside between the smells of nature and large expanse of land to run across. 

With a quick whistle, Snow jogs over to Gojo, fitting by his side perfectly without any problem. Really, Snow was just a beautiful creature. So well trained and beautiful. He wonders what kind of dog

she is to be honest. With her beautiful mane of white fluffy fur, and pale piercing blue eyes, Gojo would think she’s a husky. She looks like a husky.

Perhaps a husky with albinism? Do huskies get albinism?

But for a husky, she’s also so well behaved. No screaming, howling and talking as he’s heard those kinds of dogs do. Instead, she seems almost serious, always staring with her cold unimpressed look, and curled wagging bush of a tail. Gojo has to hand it to Geto. For someone who lives in the city, especially in an apartment, Snow is so behaved and clearly well taken care of, with how healthy she seems to thrive. She clearly goes on walks often.

It almost makes Gojo wonder why Geto didn’t just buy himself a house. Perhaps an open garden for Snow would have been much better too. But he can’t really say much, not when he had slept at his school every day, too busy to make ways to leave the school and find himself an actual home other than his friendly quiet apartment, he soon gave up living in.

Not when he always got so many calls for missions. 

It just got easier to live on school grounds.

But not Geto. Not with his seemingly well put off job, he seems pretty stable. After all, he is taking care of a cat, a dog and a whole extra human being.

Clearly, he has the ability to get himself a house, rather than live in his studio apartment like living space.

But maybe it’s just the new modern world? After all, everywhere he goes, Gojo keeps seeing distant blocks of apartments towering up into the sky, the highest ones concentrated in the main city. Even on the outskirts, where the living areas bleed into the suburban’s, there’s not many houses.

Perhaps it was to conserve for living space for the ever-increasing human population? He remembers Shoko discussing something like that once when her old apartment building got renovated for more space, leaving her to live in the school for a few days. She had an awful temper that week with him, smoking more and not taking any of his familiar greetings any time he came to chat with his ‘neighbour’.

As they cross the road, following slowly after Geto, Snow sniffs against his pant leg where infinity had dropped away, melting away in the vision of a beautiful fox-like man teasing him. He snorts a bit when the wet of Snow’s nose tickles through the fabric.

“Just what are you doing?” He questions as she noses insistently when they reach the pavement. “Are you taking advantage of this moment while you can actually smell me?” 

Snow ignores him, favouring the scent of her owner clearly on him. The scent of Geto’s clothes he’s still borrowing, pressed against his limbs. 

“You have Geto to thank for that, by the way.” He pauses at the shop window, peering in to try and find the latter, but when he can’t locate him, he notes he’s all the way inside. He huffs, his breathe condensing against the cool glass as the sky bleeds darker, bright orange casting across the town in the last trails of daytime.

Gojo squints against its bright shine, sensitive pale eyes cowering away until white lashes shield them, glowing almost against the way the light curves across his cheek, kissing his pale skin paler, until he almost looks like an angel in all its glow.

Snow beside him, shares a familiar reaction, huffing annoyed and running behind his long legs for cover. He snorts at the sight, leaning over with his hands in his pocket, until he can see the dog between his legs. “Where are you hiding? Are your eyes sensitive too?”

He receives no audible response, only an unamused look, before she starts to sniff against him again.

“Again? Really?” He huffs, sliding down the window, until he meets the earth crouched, and dog face to face. “Just why are you sniffing so much?” He asks, just as Snow dives in, using the closer proximity to really reach in against Gojo’s face and inspect him. It tickles like actual snow against his warm cheek, a cool black nose merciless against him.

He laughs a bit. “Oh my God- Snow please-” He begs, pushing at the dog, until he gets a chance to breathe. “Really, what would you do if Geto hadn’t worked all his fancy magic on me to let you sniff me. Hm?” 

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? 

Geto who had used his fancy ‘magic’ and broke his way right through Gojo’s resolve, until it shattered like grass against concrete, fractured and broken at his feet for him to gaze at, raw and unguarded. Familiarity that had swirled its way into his heart, until his fear of the unknown world had washed away with just the inhale of Geto’s lips, so close to his, and yet not close enough. Not with infinity in the way.

And almost as if because of that, his body had responded in full, peeling off those layers of protection and growing blind to the distasteful energy. Because for as long as those soft purple eyes gazed into his, warmth kissed skin radiating heat so close, Gojo was weak- is weak, unable to move as he’s cut open, bleeding and exposed for the other.

He sighs, drawing hands from masses of fur to his face, uncaring when a few strands catch across his lashes.

Oh god, what is he supposed to do?

There is no way he can just pretend this is okay. No matter what he tries to tell himself, he’s clearly unable to pull his affection from Suguru from this man. Not with the same face and personality! 

And as if to make it better, Geto seems to have interest in him. 

That, or he’s not sure if he was joking. 

The way he looked at him… Yes, it was familiar, just as warm as Suguru’s once gaze, but it was different. Curious, cautious and yet, a spark of chance in those lavender orbs, that promised an extending hand and something more. It makes his face grow warm. Really, for someone who JUST met him, Geto should be more cautious.

But perhaps, that’s what was different about him?

How he seemed almost more rushed? Or perhaps that’s not the right word. More carefree. Less controlled and cautious as his Suguru had been, weighed down with the responsibility of being a sorcerer. Suguru who had always been quieter. A listener. Patient as he let those who wanted to, approach him first; a gentle patient guy who always welcomed anyone to him.

And yet, as much as Geto is all that, he’s also not.

Geto who keeps talking when Gojo won’t speak, who fills silences with stories, weaving memories for Gojo to listen in to, until his dull eyes grow brighter, something more humane and warm bleeding across his expression, until Gojo starts talking and he goes quiet. Listening. 

Just like Suguru. And yet not.

Geto who had pushed into his space, telling him he’s flirting with a curious playful look, prodding him until he cracks, blush rushing to his face. Geto, who just like Suguru, is observant, but unlike Suguru, approached first, pressing into Gojo’s space until infinity washed away, trembling under its familiar lover, and yet different.

He sighs, leaning back until his head hits glass, white hair blowing out in the breeze, like early snow in the autumn promise.

It’s just so strange now. It’s been 100 years, and he’s lost nearly everyone, with the rest reincarnated as almost carbon copies of each other. They’re all so similar, yet different. With no memories of him, of all their time together, it’s all for Gojo to carry as his burden, shared with Shoko, who’s gaze holds the same longing he does.

Whenever they look at those they love, eyes flickering between expressions they’ve seen over and over, faces of people they know like the back of their hand. Of people who don’t recognise them, but are clearly them...

It just makes him think so much sometimes. Perhaps they were all what they could have been if no suffering existed in this world?

Perhaps Geto is Suguru? A version of Suguru where he had never felt such pressure?

Is this what Suguru would have been if he never had to take on the burden of the sorcerer society, until his beliefs turned radical and his helplessness turned into hatred, disguised as justice?

Would he have been this kind and carefree Geto? Who sparks mischief in his path just as familiarly as he once did, glowing with the health and freedom of someone unrestrained by the sorcerer world?

It’s a sad sorrow thought. One he might never get the answer to, not when one version of his lover lives buried in the path of time, far from reach. Far from his warm hands that used to hug him close at night, until they had moulded into one being, rather than two.

His other half to his soul; his soul mate, his lover, his one and only best friend. One he will never see again.

But, perhaps this Geto isn’t that bad. 

Maybe he can give him a fresh chance. One untainted by the expectations and memories of Suguru, of a past life where they had known each other inside out, filled with love and grief.

Perhaps… It’s time to say goodbye to the hold Suguru has on his heart.

It’s clear now. 

With how far he is from his life, a century in the future away from those he loves, there is no way for him to return. He must adapt now. The sorrow and grief in his heart cannot keep chaining him down, until he loses another chance before him, succumbing to the whispers of why why why and memories of familiar joyful smiles.

He smiles softly to himself as Snow pushes gently past his palms, slowly shifting her head onto his shoulder, and resting there. He can’t help but run his fingers through the soft white fur, petting her, where she seems to pick on his deep thought.

“I think I’m finally ready to face this world, Snow…” He whispers to her, hugging deeper into her neck, a relieved smile on his face.

He’s ready, he thinks, looking out across the darkening sky, painted with trails of purple and blue as the night takes over, swallowing down the sun in one gentle wash, until stars are twinkling in his eyes. A blanket, a bastion of comfort, descending over the world, like the gentle cover the mother provides, a kind hand carefully pulling your cover over your shoulder while you tussle and turn.

Almost like the universe is welcoming him back.

He smiles.

Perhaps, the place for him amongst the stars was never gone.

His throne of person has always been waiting for him.

Welcome back Satoru Gojo, it almost feels like the stars say, twinkling under his growing resolve. Perhaps this is what they were waiting for; his acceptance, for the return of Gojo who knew who he was. Who could stand on his two legs without grief and sorrow gripping him and stumbling him over.

Until the lingering effects of the prison realm blew away with the gentle kiss of the wind, the world yearning for their child.

And he was ready. Back in the same form he had always been in. 

With one gentle exhale, the buzzing and fog over his mind cracks, as the sudden spillage of reverse energy floods his mind like a waterfall crashing down upon rocks, until he can feel every single shatter of doubt and what if wash away against its strong tide.

It’s cool sensation rushes through his form, and as he sits stationary against concrete, knees brought up to his chest, snow pressed against his side, it fills him with a clarity, like light shined upon diamond, glinting and forged into a new perfection. Every single cell and nerve inside him tremble with the weight of his might, and yet, reinforced by the same strength, he breathes, lungs shaking, until hot smoke of lips whisper a cloud against the air, as the last of his energy reaches to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Reborn new and complete; every scar and mental turmoil that had plagued him for the last few weeks, breaking and rebuilding just to be torn down again, shatters, like a dam before the tsunami that is Gojo’s infinity, bleeding and running through veins until a newfound strength buzzes in it’s rightful place in his veins.

It feels good. Familiar. Just as he had been in his prime, but perhaps, without all that loneliness. After all, he has no reason to fight anymore. Not without any curses here, not when the world is so peaceful and kind, with Shoko and Geto here, it almost feels like heaven. You could tell him this is a dream he’s lost in while in the prison realm and he’d full believe you.

That is, if not for the real feeling of ice in his veins as reverse energy glides gently, cooling him down into a state of lull and calm; every exhale a shiver of sparks of potential energy, turning him into a beacon of truth and power once more. That is what he was. But there’s no need for that.

Exhaling shakily, he smiles, glancing up to the skies, until he feels it for sure: that sense of certainty that he is right where he is meant to be. 

“I’m back.” He whispers against all odds, against all the fear and doubt that had blinded him in his first few steps into the new world, right up to the stars that await his grand finale, and in one inhale, blue eyes glowing with promise, he delivers it just as they wish. 

A scatter of gemstones breaks under his feet, shattering and cracking until all the ice inside him is broken into a thousand tiny pieces, each a mirror of himself. Before they ignite, bursting alive with the feeling of his technique, red, burning and blazing right up to an explosion.

One that rings right through his soul, and in a gentle beam of light, it scatters all across the land. Like the shimmer of summer rain down to the lands from right up in the sky, where the pulse of it, bleeds across the stars, beating red through the clouds, until a nice clean gale of clouds clear for the galaxy to peer down.

A quick expel and pushing of energy, unseen by the non-experienced eye, until he feels free again, able to breathe with clear confident lungs, devoid of shaky inhales that wracked him through the night. A bleed of power like the draw of hope for the future, only for him, that he now can reach out and feel.

He’s back, he knows it now in his heart and soul.

This time for good.

The chime of the bell wakes Gojo up when it rings beside him, and momentarily startled, he stands up quickly, holding Snow in his arms tightly, almost buckling under her weight.

He’s sure looks daft, with what the dog being almost double the size of his torso, drowning him in his fur, but Snow doesn’t seem to mind, tail wagging, hitting against Gojo’s thigh, as she greets the on comer with another one of her many cold serious expressions. 

“Oh, there you are…” Geto spots them from the door with a relieved smile, hands filled with bags of shopping, before he pauses, confused. “But… Why are you carrying Snow?”

Gojo pauses, turning to face the dog who looks at him too, an almost identical look of confusion, before he shrugs, beaming as Snow licks a strip across his cheek.

“I wanted to.” He decides to say, because that’s what he chose to do, with hair tangled from Snow’s rubbing and the playful nature of the wind, all falling messily over his blue dim eyes. He slowly places Snow down on her 4 feet. “You ready to head back?” 

Geto eyes him for a moment, a wide eye look of awe plastered across his face before a familiar fond smile grows on his face. “Yeah…” He says almost breathless, taking his first step towards the other, guided by those clear glass-like eyes, he’s never noticed before.

“Let’s go.”

You know, while we’re on the topic
There’s something else I should probably tell you

Gojo types into his phone, now curled up against Satou, who joins him on the bed, snuggling against him warmly. It was welcomed, very much so, where his lazy attempt to remain laying across his own sheets, leaves him with a pitiful curl of the fabric over his body. 

It’s nearly not enough to cover him, with his long limbs and large body, but with Satou now curling up against his side, the warmth he radiates is almost enough to keep Gojo content against the cool air.

Hm? Shoko types back, quick and responsive, clearly awake despite the evening dark sky looming over them. Just like him, a night owl, he knows.

Did you know Geto still has his cursed energy? Gojo asks, before realising. Wait, this is a dumb question, she clearly can’t see curses any more, how would she even sense his energy? Never mind actually see it.

But Shoko glosses over that matter easily, especially when the fact her friend reincarnated actually kept some of his past energy. There was a priority here after all.

What? He does???

He does, Gojo replies just as quickly, gliding fingers across the ever-cool screen. It was something he noticed in contrast to his past technology, the fact they never heated up anymore no matter how much he used them, even throughout the entire night and day. Not to mention the never-ending battery life.

For the futuristic technology, he was expecting travels to new planets, not this. 

Still cool though.

He does but not in the way you think

Explain. Shoko shoots back.

Gojo thinks back on the energy, dark and coiling around Geto, almost like a possessive toxic waste that had grown enamoured with Geto’s kind spirit. Leaking out of his form, where most energy resided in for sorcerers, trained to channel inwards, but bleeding out much more than your non sorcerer. It was almost like a curse, if you ignored the fact, it didn’t have a will and acted completely differently.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t actually like a curse, but for Gojo, who’s six eyes allow him to see the intricate details, the taste of it from just staring or feeling it, was horrible, like something garnished from a root of tragedy. Like a curse.

Was it perhaps because he was possessed before?

It… it just feels wrong. I can recognise it as Suguru’s energy, but it almost feels distorted, yk? Like, it’s been changed and almost cursed itself??? I don’t even know

No energy should feel this way, and yet his does

Almost disgustingly so

Okay rude, that was your mans

Hey, no, I’m not joking

And yes, my mans

Was mine

Possessive

Get back on topic

Okok

So, it’s all wrong now?

Yeah, like Imagine dratini

How he turns into dragonite

What…?

It’s just …completely wrong 

Awful

Upsetting

Everythings different

You get it?

No.

Oh,

Okay, well

It doens’t matter. It’s just kind of like that. 

It’s clearly Suguru’s energy, but it’s so faintly in there, as if Geto’s turned from dratini to dragonite 1000 over until it’s almost undetectable

I don’t even know why, but all I can say… it’s not a nice sight to look at.

Oh… do you maybe know why?

Well, I was kind of hoping you might have an idea

I have none

Gojo types, frowning as he remembers every time he had stared at the back of the man, watching the way energy just exuded from his form so casually, unrestrained like one of those ‘monkeys’ Suguru had always been adamant on calling, but it was also so different. It was more concentrated like a sorcerer, but didn’t have the look like it could be manipulated just as a curse user is able to.

All in all, it was like he had turned into a non-sorcerer, but with the same reservoir of his past special grade energy.

Ah, Shoko replies slowly, dragging as she types until Gojo is staring down into his screen impatiently.

Well, as your professional ex sorcerer doctor… I can confirm I also have no idea

Gojo huffs out the breath he was holding, almost dropping his phone in disappointment.

Whats the point in you then

Fuck off

Gojo cackles momentarily, shoulders shaking, and he shakes Satou against him, but the cute cat doesn’t even seem to mind, instead curling more into himself, pulling at his own hind legs until he’s hugging them against his face. An adorable sight.

He types into his phone again. I originally wondered if it’s because he had so much curse energy before, but if that’s the case, why doesn’t Nanami, who was also pretty strong?

And me?

Well…. He looks away as if to avoid Shoko’s imaginary dead pan stare.

Why are you so mean today

What do you mean? He chuckles.

But anyway, it’s just strange right?

There are no curses in the world, and yet there’s one guy here with cursed energy??

Two

Gojo pauses, fingers slowing against a cool screen. Two?

You have your cursed energy too

Oh yeah

Stupid.

But anyway, considering Geto was reincarnated, it’s safe to say he probably had his cursed energy since birth.

Gojo remembers a photo gallery of a young Geto with dark eyes.

Very likely.

So, then, it’s clearly not doing anything to the world and the lack of curses. I mean, it’s been 28 years now, if something were to happen, it’s sure to have worked now

Yeah, I thought the same. It also explains why his energy just feels… different too. It doesn’t feel like he’s a sorcerer who doesn’t know how to use his energy, but more like a non-sorcerer.

So he’s the only non-sorcerer with energy?

I guess?

Heh, how ironic then

To think he became one of those he hated then

His mind flickers back to the 10 years he hadn’t seen Suguru after high school. How he had last seen the other on the side of the road by a random junction, completely different and changed in the blink of an eye. How he hadn’t realised all that was swirling in a mass of doubt, cracking and pressuring down on his lover, behind that tired face until it was too face.

Until it had led to the one, he had once loved with his soul- still loved- unrecognisable, committing atrocities he had never imagined Geto able to commit. Not when those strong kind hands had steered his own pair away from the innocent, whispering in his ear to always remember to protect the weak, now drenched deep in the blood of the innocent.

In the end, it was because of everything, he ended up stood before Suguru’s dying body and pale, shaking, yet relieved face, tasked with taking his life.

“At least curse me to the end…”

Gojo frowns to himself.

Yeah… Ironic

At least, his energy isn’t causing any issues. For someone who is basically a non-sorcerer now, it’s acting very sorcerery

Yeah, though it doesn’t explain the unnatural phenomenon that HE has it tho

Are you jealous?

….

Gojo stifles a cackle, before putting down the phone on the mattress, beside him. His free hand turns to Satou’s warm form, striding fingers through fluff. He sighs lowly, staring up at the ceiling, as if it will give him the answers to everything. 

He has tried so many ways in the past few days to figure out what Geto’s energy was, how it behaved and if it really did have any effect on the world. With how peaceful this life was now, Gojo finds he’s kind of attached to it now. Attached to the way he can actually sleep now, snoozing away for hours until the skies turn dark, and he’s awoken up by the sound of keys at the door, indicating his benefactor is home.

It's why he wants to figure out if what it all is. But, where he gets no answers, he’s at least calmed down by the fact that Geto’s energy has never actually caused issue to this world, never haven caused any curses. And where Gojo wonders if that’s just because of Geto’s seemingly carefree and cheerful nature, the image of Geto’s dark eyes as a child, so full of grief and yet exhaustion; he knows that if it had the ability to create curses, it would have already by now.

Or at least, there would have been some sign of something happening all those years ago when Geto had been young. And Gojo’s checked. He’s explored everything he can, borrowing Geto’s laptop and sometimes even ventured outside to the local libraries, easily wooing the librarian and convincing her to let him use one of the computers for his continued search.

But perhaps, he was still missing something. Maybe, entering this world so late means he doesn’t actually know all there is to access. After all, everything’s changed, systems, technology- Gosh, at the library, he struggled to get in in the first place with the new kind of doors they put in.

He had to teleport in just to get a chance to search between catalogues of history books. But even then, there was nothing.

In fact, he knows for sure he’s looking in the wrong places, because when he looked through Japan’s last 100-year history, he found things he couldn’t recognise. Hell, there wasn’t any sign of curses existing through the years even HE lived. 

A complete wipe out of knowledge, and Gojo knows 100% that even a single clue would have been enough to prove curses existed in the past between articles and newspapers of the past. He knows what he’s looking for. He’s been there when curses had ravaged through towns and buildings, leaving their tell-tale marks across the earth, he’s able to tell difference between natural disaster and curse disaster. But there was nothing. 

Nothing, when he checked books about Osaka, or Tokyo. Hell- even Shibuya. But there was nothing. Only mentions of the usual historical recordings of traditional festivals, WHICH even then should have had something bad going wrong in them, with what the high concentrations of people gathering in one place. There would definitely have been at least one higher grade curse lingering there. But nothing.

Clearly, he’s not looking in the right places. Though, in his defence, it was always Suguru who helped him with the theoretical side of homework, when research and philosophy were included. Truly something he found boring, preferring their classes of the theory on techniques. In fact, some of their less prioritised classes, such as physics, were just as exciting to Gojo, who excelled easily.

But research in physical documents and pondering on ethics? Come on, that was SUGURU’S area of expertise. Not his.

Gojo sighs, tracking one line of paint on the ceiling, before picking up his phone again. 

Hey, how good are you at research?

“Satoru.” A velvet kiss on his eardrums, whisper of a breath against his forehead.

“Hm?” He returns, sleepily, nuzzling his nose into the rich wave of cinnamon and autumn.

The torso shifts as an arm moves to push a hair strand away from his face, carefully gliding across his skin, handling him like glass, as Suguru chuckles. He feels it where his face, smothered into his chest, shakes with the amused rumbles, and warm laughter paints kisses across his face.

“Satoru.” Suguru whispers again, his hand cupping his face this time, thumb stroking his cheek gently, erupting small explosions across his skin, like bursts of fire and stardust colliding under Suguru’s careful handiwork.

He hums contently, snuggling in closer, despite the evening summer air.

“Wake up Satoru,” Suguru chuckles, leaning down where Satoru can feel the ghost of his lips caress his ear, enveloping him whole, weighing down on his soul like a comforting blanket, moulding him to Suguru’s every word and breathe.

He feels at peace. Safe and vulnerable in Suguru’s arms, with his own wrapped around the other’s waist softly, holding each of Suguru’s inhales and exhales against each light beat of his heart in his chest.

“Wake up Satoru.” He hears like cotton in his ears.

“You’ve been in this dream for too long.”

Somewhere far in the distance, between buildings and people, between the many sighs of exhaustion, rolling eyes, splintering nerves and bursts of vivid bleed of emotion, the world flickers.

Like a spark, something changes. Silent, before it rips right through the air.

Like a firework, it shrieks through air, tumbling down through clouds, before exploding in a burst of pain. 

It cuts right through space, shattering through reality, tearing, breaking; crying out with the wail of a siren. And yet, No one can hear it. 

No one notices, until it’s cry grows shrill, shaking the buildings around with its blistering burn, tremoring the ground with the power of its call and grief. It’s rage, hatred, fury, sorrow, agony, that crack away at the surface of the band aid of the world, until a new shudder assaults through brick and concrete.

Plants wither, smoke erupts, fire rages out, until even the very sky shatters.

A burst of furious flame shrieks out across the city, and from it; an explosion, burning and devouring right through concrete, glass and clouds. It reaches higher, like a power-hungry demon, with claws digging right into walls, splintering through rooms, until its body grows larger and larger, tearing through floors, savouring on its sudden nauseating birth.

Down below, people scream, fleeing away as a thunderstorm of glass breaks from the heavens, splintering out from the buildings, from which a cloud of dark smoke breathes. 

Another explosion thunders the earth, as if intent on breaking the city with its claws. And with them, it cries out through its chrysalis, bellowing out from the building, until cool air touches its mangled twisted features, and many eyes sliced open across twisted broken limbs.

It’s voice, a shudder of emotion, broken and trembling, cries out over the crevice of it’s destruction. A plea, a sob, it’s body trembles, ribs growing out, until it splutters out from it’s body with a shriek, blood gushing out in waterfalls over open air. 

Ku... Ku… Ku… 

Claws dig into glass once more, from where it dangles out on the edged side of the towering buildings, before it’s breathing calms, eyes shimmering in colour, as power gathers close in the core of its protruding ribs.

Finally… It breathes with it’s distorted voice, fracturing through the windows with its low tone. Free…

Amidst the city, somewhere far in the distance, while Gojo sleeps safely in the apartment of his once lover, now turned stranger, the world flickers— groans— disturbed in the wake of its catalyst to terror.

100 years in the future; Gojo returns and suddenly the past catches up to the present.

“Huh, what was that?” A young boy calls out during a cool evening, pausing in his step, as curious green eyes peer out over a football.

Far out in the distance, under the blissful calm night sky, he can spot the far away city, glowing in its usual glamour and shine, never unnoticeable from its domineering stance out in the far wide. Even from where the boy stands, long black sleeves covering the length of his arms, by the edge of town by the forests, the city is still in view.

And for a second, he thinks he could hear a distant echo of something, coming from the direction of that city.

“What? What are you yapping on about again?” A girl asks, sighing from where she lays lethargically across the damp grass beneath their feet. Ginger brown strands halo around her head, growing wet with the cool moist evening air, but it doesn’t affect her further than a small shiver. Beside her, her phone vibrates repeatedly.

The boy doesn’t say anything. 

He’s quiet, he does not answer for her.

“What is it?” Another voice calls out in the open. Another boy, with curious soft eyes that trace the first, steps closer until a hand reaches towards his friend’s shoulder, comforting and warm against him.

The boy is quiet for a moment, staring out past the forest, past the dense packs of trees that almost shield them away from the city’s lights and glare, until the warmth of that palm bleeds into his body, and he turns to face the other.

Emerald eyes trace a cheery curious expression, until his own wide eyes ease with its comforting nature. A small dust of pink gathers on his ears.

“…Nothing.” He finally says, shaking his head, and moving away until that curious face follows him like a puppy towards its pack. He drops his football back onto the grass, resuming his stance unbothered, until black strands dance in the wind.

“Must have been my imagination.” The boy says with a low exhale, stepping his foot on the ball. “You ready to lose Itadori?”

Yuji’s smile turns sharp with game. “You’re funny Fushiguro.” He laughs. “I can beat you without Kugisaki’s help.”

Megumi smiles fondly. “Let’s let the game decide that.”