Chapter Text
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe .
Blood rushes through the body. Predestined path. Pumped through and out from the heart. Ribcage- lungs, heave with a struggling intake of air- feel the constraints of the body, the flesh. The hissing of muscles and tendons fighting against the closing environment.
Squeeze .
Claws to flesh, to bone. Cut and dismantle. The world is red, and cold.
The dying, rumbling breath of a beast as it crumples into pieces pulls him from his trance. He opens his eyes, grimaces almost at the blinding silver light of a full moon, and watches as chunks of something - a monster, a demon- fizzles out into dust in the wind. He stares at it. Confused. Almost mesmerized. A dream or a nightmare, he couldn't tell.
He rolls his neck, remarks the stiff feeling that lingers between his shoulder blades, where the bones of his spine and ribs most definitely whined from such a tight hold. Rather lucid. For a dream. The pain far too consistent.
He moves a hand out in front of him next. Counts the fingers. Extends and curls until he's satisfied with the sensation. And for curiosity's sake, runs the pad of his thumb over the curve of his pinky claw.
Everything feels too real. Lively, even. Dreams aren't supposed to feel like this. There's no voice pounding into the back of his skull that he's not real- only a figment of his own imagination, haunted maybe by a lingering nightmare, able to void the laws of physics simply because he is the master of his own headscape. Consistency, something dreams lack. Everything is too consistent. The weight of his shoes, the breeze, the monster- his mind does not try to pull his eyes away from it, only to trick him when he looks back and sees the monster change; no, it stays the same, regardless of its disintegration. And the soft pulsing of his heart would be new, too. His body isn't numb, like it's supposed to be when he dreams.
His lips crack apart, cold air sharp against his tongue and throat. He laughs. Stumbles over broken concrete blocks and railing, gripping his face till his claws slice neat, delicate lines down his cheeks. This is real . Whatever this is.
He slams a foot against the already bent rail beside him, grinds his teeth. He can feel the ache of his jaw, the air against his gums. He wants to scream, and he almost does. A sound all but dies on his lips the moment it pushes out from his throat. Someone else is here.
The smell of copper and sweat. Black hair. Messy. Blood running down his face, eyes wide- a deep grey that reminds him of poorly taken pictures of the moon. A child . No.
No. No.
No.
What a joke. He wants to laugh- and so he does. It bubbles out from him and he turns with hands gripping his hair.
His? No. Since when was this body his ?
This was cruel. Unorthodox. The kind of ridiculous bullshit you only really found interesting because it was thrown into a manga with highly decorated art and plain, copy paste characters.
The boy behind him is speaking. Fushiguro, his mind so helpfully offers. It doesn't matter. The words come and go through his ears, and that's about his last straw.
There's no understanding. Isn't that, at the least, supposed to be something that came along with this hellish new reality? To be able to speak and understand the language they were now surrounded by. He guesses, seeing by the fact that the words go unregistered by his brain, that that is in fact, not a rule that whatever God placed him here has decided to abide by.
His body protests. Hand finding its way to his cheeks. Sukuna- the name leaves a vile taste in his mouth, but he clings to it nonetheless, knowing it is his now- shoves back control to Yuji Itadori without more than a gasp from the teenager.
"Give it back-" Yuji tumbles over his words, thrust so violently towards the fictional control network of his mind that he has to do a double take. "Huh?"
Fushiguro blinks, hands clenched and outstretched in front of him. Eyes wide like two plate saucers. His mouth part and Yuji is about to ask what's the matter when he speaks: "You are no longer human. Under Jujutsu regulation, Itadori Yuji, I will exorcize you as a curse!"
His tone is strong, but the tight pinch of his expression told Yuji he was nervous. Apprehensive. Of him?
"I'm just fine!" Yuji squawks under the harsh stare Fushiguro levels him with, his arms thrown up above his head. The sleeves of his sweater slide against the raw skin on his cheeks and he hisses. "More importantly, we're both pretty roughed up. Why don't we go to a hospital?"
The shadows that swirl and bristle around Fushiguro in waves dies suddenly. A new presence making itself known in an instant.
Scary ! So fast! Yuji can't help but to think. And in his mind, Sukuna seems to think much the same. Like a cat to a spray bottle, Yuji feels the hostility rolling around his head- or wherever the other being was.
"Gojo-sensi! What are you doing here?" Fushiguro turns to ask, as surprised as Yuji.
"Hey! I wasn't planning on coming, but I stopped by for some sightseeing. So, did you find it?"
Fushiguro looks at Yuji, and Yuji looks back. "I ate that thing-"
"For real?"
"For real." Yuji and Fushiguro chime in together.
.
.
.
"He doesn't want to come out-" Yuji strains, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to pull Sukuna into the foreground of his consciousness and hand over bodily control. "He- he's really stubborn."
"The King of Curses, not wanting control over his vessel?" Gojo taps his chin, arms folded over his chest. He lets out a small laugh, leaning toward Yuji. Examining with a tilt of his head. "Hmm. How odd."
Yuji jumps, eyes opening a fraction, confusion clouding his vision. " Six ?" He mumbles, and Gojo perks up. "Six! Stop- Stop, I get it! Six!"
"Hm?"
"He- keeps flashing this image in my head," Yuji pulls a face, caught between focusing on the physical and his thoughts. "Six, uh. Eyes? Six eyes! I get it! Stop doing that- I can't focus!"
Gojo paws a hand at the air, grabbing Yuji's attention. He steps back, twirling a finger around as he speaks thoughtfully. "He must be referring to me! How observational, King of Curses.”
Sukuna- ugh , he tries not to think too hard on it; bites his tongue to keep the disgusted snarl trapped between closed lips- awakens in his domain. Feels the control over the body slip through his fingers, numbingly until it’s a distant buzz that he can’t quite remember. Like awakening from a dream. Heart jacket-rabbiting against his rib cage. The thrumming beat loud enough to resound into his throat and choke him.
Hearing is the last thing to go. Muddled words he cannot understand grazing his ears. Young voices.
Bile raises in his throat. His chest is tight. Constrictive. Body too small to house the heavy weight that settles into his stomach and threatens to spill from between his lips. It reminds him too much of stepping into the deep-end of a pool, or better yet- the empty gut feeling that he’d gotten when watching the opening of Finding Nemo for the first time; comfortable safety of a reef giving way to the vast emptiness of the open sea with a sheer cliff. The instincts engraved into the individual strands of DNA that make him up scream at him. Alarms to something wrong. Yells at him to leave.
But where is there to go?
He is in the wrong body. Made up of wrong shapes. Hands, eyes, clothes- none belong to him. Like a printing machine that can only connect to one computer; everything in him fights against the lack of recognition. Skin runs too hot- and yet a thin, cold sweat lays over him.
Are demons supposed to sweat?
(Because that is what he is now, isn’t it? A demon. The demon.
Given the title of King.
That thought only works to squeeze the air from him more.)
Concentrate.
Counts his fingers, bending his thumb to press against each pad until he’s nicked himself with claws. Forces his lungs into taking a breath. Mouth open to take in the air. Squeezes it shut when a stale, metallic taste settles onto his tongue.
Gags.
Red water sloshes against his ankles. No. No, not water. It’s thick and stains the bottom of the white robe he wears. He tries to take it all in stride. Ignore. It doesn’t work. Too warm. Fresh. Ignore.
Hands tremble. He finds himself leaning over polished bones. The off-white color reminiscent of the skeleton diagrams hung up in science classes. Human, and not. Skulls delicately arranged into a pile, like a dragon’s horde. A throne.
His throat stings. Bile again at his throat. Stomach tight. Eyes sting, but no tears.
A scream finds its way out of him. He doesn’t recognize the sound. Finds that it’s the most off putting feeling he’s ever had the misfortune of dealing with.
What is he doing here? Why? What happened to him-
Memory’s that don’t belong to him try to offer comfort.
( The fresh scent of rain. Mountains, thick with an ancient canopy, stretching out for miles.
Untouched and unsullied.
Cold, clear water. Fish. Rocks.
Blue sky. Clouds. A blinding sun. Heat.
Village. People. Mud.
Blood.
Meat.)
A tug. Like a child, threading small fingers into a parent's hand. Demanding attention- trying to guide into a different aisle for toys.
No. No. No, wait.
Stumbles knee-deep into the red blood water. Scratches and claws at the stream bed. Tries desperately to cling to it. Latches onto bones and digs his heels into what ground he has.
Sukuna does not want out. Yuji can keep the body.
Feels the tug become more insistent. Feels, rather than hears, the rumbling of words. Stubborn brat.
He hisses as he finds himself slipping. Pushes against the imaginary door that separates them.
If he focuses enough, there’s someone else there- outside. No longer just Itadori and Fushiguro. A presence far more imposing. Ah. He’d forgotten that Gojo would inevitably show in this.
Another tug and Sukuna howls, a foot giving out and causing him to topple forward. Skulls providing a falsehood of a cushioned fall. He kicks and thrashes, lets the suffocation building in him escape in a scream only barely muffled by his palms. It echoes, tauntingly, back at him, through bones and ribs, singing; the confusing feeling of pity that wafts between the gaps of shared headspace between him and Itadori only work to rile him further.
Embarrassment. It prickles at him like an all too familiar, and all too unwelcome friend.
At the incomprehensible mumbling of words that reaches him, he bristles. The tugging is less persistent, though. If only because now it feels like Itadori is attempting to coax him out- like a timid animal that’s managed to trap itself somewhere it’s not supposed to be in. He grits his teeth. Pushes against the aforementioned imaginary door harshly.
He knows what his release means. A fight with Satoru Gojo is not something he wants. He knows how it will end- and he’d rather avoid that. Not now, least of all when his mind is still reeling.
He doesn’t know how to share his displeasure without words- he doesn’t know Japanese. The lingering memories from early lick at his thoughts, but it’s not a language that matches perfectly to its modern counterpart. The idea that this body retained the thoughts of a life he didn’t live is something he chooses not to think of at the moment. Ignorance is bliss, and he is desperate to cling to what little he can get his claws on.
When he thinks on it, he realizes that perhaps it's easier than he made it out to seem. Yuji already seems to at least vaguely register the emotions seeping out of him- or, at least he guesses he can- and he isn’t exactly putting in the most effort to conceal the waves of . He can’t imagine another reason as to why there’s an ever present weight of pity embracing his soul otherwise. With the understanding of the power imbalance currently at play- what with him being newly awakened- he does the next best thing to words to explain himself.
He opens his mind to Itadori. Hopes his blind screaming into the void does its work for him. Pictures blue eyes, bright sapphires that are blinding and yet hollow. Six of them, stacked like spider-eyes. Tries to think on how to share the concept of infinity with Yuji, someone who's only just been thrust into the world of sorcery, and decides against it quickly. The idea of an infinity symbol is simple enough, but he doesn’t even know if the kid will understand what he’s trying to share now.
Hears the grumbling confusion and frustration from the kid, feels it rattle through him for a second, and lets himself fall back into his domain once he’s certain the message has been understood. Kicks and locks the door behind him for good.
There’s a moment of respite as he realizes what’s just happened. Pulled out of his emotional turmoil and now returned to isolation. Brings a thumb to his lips as he paces to bite. The ache against his claw and in his teeth satisfying and grounding enough for the moment. Not enough to forget that he’s wading through a liquid he’d rather not think too heavily about, though, and so he finds himself scampering up the pile of skulls- the only dry land aside from the massive rib cage that looms over him, obscured by the rippling reflections of the lake below.
(Sukuna thinks how odd it is that there’s even light in here for reflections. The atmosphere similar to what he’d imagine the belly of some giant beast would be like.)
He manages up onto the top of the pile, shuddering with disgust as the wet fabric of his robe clings around his legs. He doesn’t think to peel it off. Knows the sensation would only throw him for a loop. Doesn’t need to be reminded of how corporeal all this is. Instead, he finds a way to arrange himself upon the bones. Finds that they offer shit support compared to the soft cushioning of a mattress or couch cushion. Even the chairs in the waiting rooms of health clinics were more preferable to this. At least they had structure .
He pulls a leg up, resting his foot on the crown of a skull with protruding horns that curl forward at an odd angle, and wraps his arms around it as he leans into it. It’s the most he can do in terms of finding comfort. And finally, it gives him a chance to close his eyes.
There’s silence. But despite it all, that is not something he finds he dislikes in the moment. Nerves fried after his previous breakdown, he can’t find it within himself to be disturbed. It’s easy to slip somewhere between mediation and sleep from there. The only sensation keeping him from fully succumbing into sleep being the coldness that weeps from the bone below his feet.
The rumbling of speech outside the body- in the physical world, which he wishes to keep beyond an arms length away for however long as possible- eventually drums into his mind. Dull but gentle as the conversation seems to die off.
And then the body, Yuji Itadori. Shuts off. Unconscious.