Work Text:
Nanami tsks as he checks his watch under the streetlamp, “half-past nine.”
Yuuji gazes down the street at where the moon sits high, grime sitting uncomfortable on his clothes and making his skin feel tight after an eventful day of curse work.
“I’ll walk you back to the dorms,” Nanami states, then shifts forward.
“You sure? It’s not far from here, and isn’t your apartment the other way?”
Nanami doesn’t respond, electing to stare him down from behind his green-tinted glasses until Yuuji starts to move.
“Okay, okay.”
***
“Is there no food in the entirety of this kitchen,” Nanami grumbles, stooping over the open fridge as he scans nearly-bare shelves.
“Sorry,” Yuuji apologizes awkwardly, “they give us a budget and we’re supposed to shop for ourselves, but we’ve been…busy.” More like lazy.
Nanami pulls out a carton of eggs and lifts a bowl from the dish rack. Cracking the last three, he flings the shells into the trash before setting a pan to heat on the stovetop.
“So…” Yuuji starts as he walks over to settle at the counter, “you like eating eggs at ten at night?”
“They’re for you, you haven’t eaten dinner,” Nanami answers, spawning a fork to beat the yolks.
Yuuji freezes, elbows still resting as the sound of the fire fills the air.
“You really don’t need to do that…” Yuuji fiddles with his fingers as his gaze drops.
“The curse was stronger than I expected and the battle was extended as a result, I made you miss a meal.”
Yuuji isn’t sure how to respond, letting the sound of the liquid sizzle as it hits hot cookware hang between them.
“Besides,” he continues, “I wanted to discuss the execution with you.”
Yuuji’s eyes widen, and he quickly moves over to the table to get out of the man’s peripheral. He drops into the seat and clasps his hands tightly over the top. Nanami moves to a different cupboard, reaching for a box as he moves the kettle to an open burner.
“Tea?” The man offers, turning as he twists the dial on the stovetop.
“Tea with eggs?” Yuuji responds with weakly, then shakes his head. He can already sense the incoming tremor in his hands, courtesy of the conversation Nanami intends on having.
The execution—his execution—isn’t some dirty secret. All of Jujutsu Tech knows about it, and Yuuji isn’t so oblivious to assume that the revival of the King of Curses hasn’t made waves in the community or dominated most conversations.
Fushiguro disdains any discussion about it, electing to either remain silent when the subject rises or smashing a fist against the back of his head in order to change it. Kugisaki gets uncomfortable, and her speech becomes noticeably awkward as she tries to make a joke along the lines of, ‘I call dibs on your sweaters, they make the cutest oversized winter outfits.’
He talks about it with Gojo-sensei in passing, comments here or there that are mostly light, or as light as they can get.
With Nanami though, he absolutely does not want to talk about. Because the man would not joke about it, would not make light of it, would not discuss it any other manner than gravely. Any other manner than would be expected of, considering it is his premature death.
Yuuji knows, the little part of his brain that screams instincts, he probably should talk about it with an adult. A reliable figure who could help him parse out his emotions and make sure he dies feeling somewhat fulfilled. As of right now, the minor conversations with Gojo-sensei are as close as what constitutes to that. Yuuji doesn’t want to let all of his Sukuna-business permeate his time with Nanami.
With Gojo-sensei it’s fine, because the man is flighty and wouldn’t let the sadness filter their relationship in anyway. Nanami would treat him—Yuuji’s shoulders draw closer—treat him like he’s glass, like Yuuji doesn’t understand what’s going to happen but he knows. He knows.
The key difference is that Gojo-sensei does not want to talk about it, and Nanami does. Therefore, Yuuji is perfectly content with have Gojo-sensei remain as his chosen adult confidant.
The plate clinks as it hits the table in front of him, the light scent of pepper settling into his nose.
Nanami perches on the opposing chair, resting his large cup on a coaster as he gestures for Yuuji to begin eating. Yuuji hesitates before taking the fork in his hand, cutting off a small section before bringing it to his mouth to chew slowly.
“I’m assuming Sukuna has had some words,” Nanami lifts his mug, bring into his lips as he raises his eyebrows.
“Sukuna’s made it a little worse,” Yuuji admits after he swallows, then quietly says to himself, yes, you have, shut up.
Nanami hums thoughtfully, thumb brushing against the brim of his glasses he had previously set down.
Without further prompting Yuuji takes another bite, any trace of hunger leaving his body as he sets the fork down on the edge of the dish, before shifting his sweaty palms to his lap as continues.
“Makes ‘lots of predictions,” he mumbles, eyes shifting to the shiny metal of the table, “about… y’know, how they’re going to kill me.”
An uncomfortable silence falls over them.
“They’re dumb though,” Yuuji chuckles a little too loud, “the higher ups don’t like me, even less Sukuna, but I doubt they’d waterboard me or something. I don’t think they even have an electric chair—unless one of ‘em’s got a cursed technique that can make it up.”
His stilted laughter hangs the conversation like a noose.
“You don’t need to pretend you’re alright.” Nanami whispers after a few moments, tone soft and jolting something in his brain.
“There’s no worries, Nanamin,” Yuuji denies breezily, “I knew what I was signing up for—”
“Yuuji,” Nanami interrupts sternly, then repeats, “you don’t need to pretend.”
He falters, imaginary hammer smashing into his chest and carving out a hole through his sternum. The dim overhead lighting stutters, and the blink causes the metal of the table to shine.
“Wonder what kind of alloy this is,” Yuuji knocks against the table twice, ignoring the other man’s words, “or maybe it’s pure.”
“Yu—“ Nanami tries again.
“Maybe I could melt off a small piece and try to figure it out,” he notes hopefully, “I suck at chemistry though…”
“You should—“
“Maki-senpai’s pretty good, I think. I’ll have Kugisaki ask her to help.”
“Yuuji!” Nanami bellows, pulling him out of his stream of talking, then sucks in a deep breath as Yuuji turns towards him with wide eyes.
Some of the blond strands have escaped the comb-over, drooping down over into Nanami’s field of vision. His eyebrows are slightly raised and there’s a line of tension cutting across his jaw.
“I know you’ve been going to Satoru, but I also know how Satoru is.” Nanami speaks quieter, blinking a few times as he scans Yuuji’s tense posture before taking another sip of his tea in a semblance of returning to the previously calmer atmosphere. “This is heavy and I believe—“
“Nanamin please,” Yuuji cuts, squeezing his eyes shut as his voice reeks of desperation, “I could be dead by next week, and I really don’t want to talk about it.”
There is silence from the other end of the table, as Yuuji tries to yank himself back in order before he does something embarrassing.
“It’s not healthy to keep these things bottled up. Especially considering your only a chil—“
“—I don’t feel like it.” Yuuji snaps, digging his nails into his palms. A huff of air escapes his nose as he adjusts his tone, “I don’t feel like a kid at all.”
“I know,” Nanami says gently, then reminds him, “but you are.”
Yuuji lifts his head up, pushing the abandoned plate to the side.
“You are and deserve to be a child today and an adult another.” Nanami declares.
He doesn’t want to sit in this kitchen. He doesn’t want to sit in this seat or have this conversation. He doesn’t want to be here.
“Okay,” he agrees, “I got a bad hand, and I know that. That’s all.” He punctuates his compliance with a smile.
But it feels all wrong, like someone took a pair of tweezers and started shoving teeth into his mouth, not bothering to make sure they fit. The parts of his smile that reach into his cheek are deep, less of a side-affect of lifting his lips and more like someone cut into his skin with a knife and carved him that way. Everything feels wrong, wrong, wrong, but he keeps smiling, oblivious to the amount of time that’s passed. He just needs Nanami to believe him so they can stop talking about this. So Yuuji can go back to his room and sit in the dark and listen to Sukuna whisper—
“Stop that,” Nanami directs, reaching over the table to grasp one of his wrists.
He flinches back, smile falling and wanting nothing more to flick the hood of his uniform up and melt into it.
“Yuuji,” he feels disconnected—that’s his name, isn’t it? Nanami draws back into his seat but pushes his steaming tea over, the minty scent wafting into Yuuji’s nose.
“Please,” the man pleads, “talk to me.”
He shifts to hunch over the table, trembling fingers skittering up the table legs until they settle flat on the surface of the table. His mouth feels like a dried up river, the few drops of water left useless and soon to disappear too.
“The worst one is where they don’t kill me at all.”
One of his hands wraps against the mug, idly fingering the engraving on the ceramic, and the other skims the top of the liquid, soaking up heat through the pads of his fingertips. He doesn’t shut his jaw, afraid if he stops he won’t start again—or maybe he’s afraid if he starts he’ll never stop.
“They keep me in that room down under, where I first woke up in the beginning. They buckle me to a chair and drown me in talismans.” He skirts the edge of the rim then slides back in a spiral, creating a tiny whirlpool. “They don’t tell anyone, leaving me alone until there’s a big enough storm that they need Sukuna.
“There they’d let me pop out, but only if there’s a binding vow. At that point the battle would already be nearly lost, as I’d be the last stand. Afterwards, they’d put me back in my room, either waiting out for when I die or when there’s another war.”
The kitchen feels like another plane of reality. One full of words never meant to be spoken and revelations never meant to come to light.
“’S kinda funny though,” Yuuji dips his finger below the surface, submerging it in warm tea, “I don’t think I’d mind it all that much if they at least gave me Sukuna to be with.”
The neon green clock set into the stove ticks by.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, grimacing as he pulls his finger out of the liquid and wipes it against his pant leg, “you were drinking that.”
He gently pushes the mug back over, jolting as he catches the firm line of Nanami’s mouth and the hard look in his eyes.
“What makes you think Fushiguro or Kugisaki would let that happen?” The man asks tonelessly, similar to a teacher asking for an answer they already know.
“Well,” he trails off, “they didn’t catch on last time when I ‘died,’ so the higher ups could just say It was a closed execution without witnesses.”
His speech comes easier, a figurative weight being lifted from his chest. Now that he’s admitted his greatest fear, and Nanami isn’t acting emotional, not that the man ever would, he’s starting to feel almost secure in filling the details.
“That had only been accomplished with your sensei though,” Nanami hums, taking care to maintain eye-contact, “what makes you think Satoru would let them do that to you?”
Yuuji falters on that one, eyebrows pulling together as he works out a response.
“Well, he’s made his dislike of them known before, yet he still follows their orders. I don’t think he’d end up having that be his reason to suddenly rebel.” He nods once, twice, confidence filtering into his voice.
Nanami sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose before clearing his throat.
“Yuuji, what makes you think I would let them do that?”
His breath hitches and the response gets clogged in his throat.
The past few weeks of working with Nanami one-on-one has given Yuuji a particular insight on the man’s personality. Nanami Kento irons his shirts every night to keep them pristine, but does not seek out compliments or any sort of acknowledgment for his consideration. Nanami Kento walks grannies across crowded intersections, but does not wait for them to give thanks or any personable statement.
Nanami Kento goes out of his way to protect people, but he does not make future promises he cannot keep.
It didn’t register though—barely computes now—that somehow that knowledge would apply to him.
“You…wouldn’t,” is his stunted answer, “would you?”
“Never.” Nanami states firmly, with a distinct air of something akin to righteousness. “And trust me when I tell you Satoru’s been waiting for a proper reason to gut the elders.”
His world tips a little, before righting itself.
“Okay,” Yuuji whispers, then again, “okay. Then I’d just get executed—er, regularly.”
Nanami’s shoulders droop almost imperceptibly, his chest stops moving for a second, he stops breathing, before he continues, “I do plan on stopping your death, regardless of the finer details.”
Yuuji snuffs out the wick of hope before the candle even gets the chance to melt.
His palms hit the edge of the table quickly, causing the legs to shake as he rises from his chair. Nanami gets up too, setting the plate in the sink and emptying the mug. He leans against the doorway, scuffing his shoe against the ground as he waits for the man to step up beside him.
“But if it does happen, ‘cause I probably am going to die,” his voice shrinks and Yuuji feels every inch of the child Nanami insists he is, “could you…?”
“Yes, nothing would stop me. I’d hold your hand if you asked me to too, there is no shame in such a request.”
He didn’t need to say anything, of course, because Nanami already knows. He doesn’t have to ask, because Nanami already confirmed he’d be there. He wouldn’t let Yuuji die alone.
Yuuji thought this conversation had already gutted him multiple times over but that, that, that wrecks him.
“I’m so-sorry,” he stutters, tears clawing their way down his cheeks, “I di-didn’t think that—”
“Yuuji, it’s okay.” Nanami assures softly, one hand falling to bicep and the other rising it’s way up to wipe away the tears before Yuuji can get there first.
“I thought…” he stops, refusing to let his words be cut with sobs, and tries his best to recollect himself before he ends up even more of a mess.
Nanami stands in front of him, drawing all of his attention. Thumbs brush under his eyes, “this is good. Crying is more than expected considering the subject matter.”
Yuuji senses a tug that pulls at his lips blink on his face at the awkward statement.
Once the minimal tears are scrubbed away, and Nanami begins to pull back, Yuuji flings his fingers up to catch the man’s sleeve cuff.
“Thanks,” he works up an honest grin, “it means a lot to me.”
A barely-there smile smatters across Nanami’s face as he tips his head forward.
“I apologize for keeping you up late when you have class in the morning.”
“S’okay,” he shrugs, trying to restitch himself while still feeling raw and unsettled, “are we still on for Friday?”
“Of course,” the man announces, placing a palm on his shoulder again and squeezing lightly.
It’s warm and solid. Nanami—in a nutshell, Yuuji thinks.