Chapter Text
Winter, 1996
Utahime is in fourth grade when her mom picks her up early from school, just before winter break, in the shiny imported sedan Hibiki-sama designated for their use, chauffeur included. They go to a fancy department store, where her mother selects a white fur coat for her, along with a frilly, light blue dress, to go with white tights and a pair of patent leather black t-strap shoes. At the register, the store clerks smile bright, big smiles at the sale.
In the dressing room, her mom tells her, while she’s helping her change from her school uniform: “You’re going to meet a very important person today.”
“Who?” Utahime asks, absentmindedly, admiring the soft, yellow light reflecting off her new shoes.
“Hibiki-sama’s son.”
Utahime looks up, sees herself in the mirror, she looks pretty, with her hair in twintails. Then, she looks at her mom’s face. Her beautiful lips are pursed, and her brow is furrowed, as she adjusts her new white tights at the knees.
Eh? Hibiki-sama has never mentioned him to her once.
“What’s his name?”
“Gojo Satoru.”
Utahime hums, trying to imagine the characters that make up his name. Does he go by Toru-kun? Sato-kun? Or do they call him ‘ young master ’?
“Is he nice?” she asks, curious as to why her mother seems so worried.
Hibiki-sama is very nice to them, treats them well. She invited them to live with her in her big, big house ever since her dad had to leave Kyoto this spring to go work for Jujutsu HQ’s Tokyo branch. She even got Utahime into that prestigious private school that’s closer to the house. What’s more, Hibiki-sama always compliments her on how smart and mature she is, and serves them the most delicious snacks when they join her for tea.
Hibiki-sama makes her feel welcomed, like they’re – both Utahime and her mom – her favorites.
Utahime thinks that, although she has never mentioned him, her son will surely be as nice as Hibiki-sama herself, just as Utahime is as good and beautiful as her mom.
Her mom exhales softly; an emotion Utahime can’t name flickering across her face, but then she smooths it into a tired smile. “He is a very special little boy,” is all she tells her. “You have to be good to him, you hear me? You must try to be his friend.”
“Okay,” Utahime says, giving her mom a smile through the mirror, excited to meet this mysterious boy she never heard of until today.
When they arrive at the estate, they don’t go to Hibiki-sama’s quarters like they usually do. Instead, they head to somewhere Utahime has never been: the main residence, beyond the bare wisteria tree she is not allowed to approach. Hand in hand, they traverse the stone pathways, cross over the koi pond, their shoes clacking against the bridge’s wooden surface, the cold breeze biting the skin of her cheeks and ears, and giving her a runny nose.
“Give him this. It’s his birthday today,” her mother says, once they stop by the entrance of the imposing building, handing her a small rectangular box, wrapped in emerald green paper.
Excited by this new piece of information – a party! with loads of food and surely games and hopefully party favors – Utahime shakes Gojo Satoru’s present out of instinct, trying to guess what her mom got him.
“Don’t do that, it’s delicate,” her mom chastises, steadying her hands.
Curious, Utahime asks, blinking up to her mom, “What is it?”
“Glasses. Now, let’s go.”
Huh? That's so boring. He’s going to hate them.
Once they are inside the marginally warmer building, they pad their way through the corridors, guided by a maid wearing a gray woolen dress. The giant house smells like camphor and bitter green tea, and as they move through its rooms, she can see that the walls are decorated with those boring colorless ukiyo paintings depicting mountains, or flowers, or Edo women reading poetry.
“We’re here, Iori-sama. Please go in,” the girl says, as she slides open the shoji door.
And just like that, all hope for a birthday party is snuffed by the howling wind of the sober, borderline funerary mood inside the room.
It’s cold, silent as a grave – except for the breathing sounds, the clearing of throats of the old men who act as if she and her mother are invisible. Totally, completely boring and devoid of the joy she associates with birthdays.
While her mother ushers her to sit on a cushion, Utahime discreetly looks around. There is no sign of the birthday boy nor of Hibiki-sama, just a bunch of old men dressed in black-and-white kimonos. And it dawns on her: the atmosphere reminds her of the yearly Iori clan events she has to attend as their heir. This is no birthday party, this is a bummer of an adult gathering, which in turn makes her feel sad for Gojo Satoru, because no one should spend a birthday this blandly.
Unwittingly, her belly does a funny thing, the thing it did when she saw a documentary about the arctic at school: on the screen, a baby seal lost its mother, and after struggling and wandering around, it ended up being eaten by an orca. That feeling, she has since discovered, is called pity.
After a few minutes – during which Utahime tries to remain still so as not to embarrass her mother in front of these old men, stewing in feelings of pity and sadness for a stranger she’s never met – the shoji doors suddenly slide open. Hibiki-sama stands there, her black hair swept up and secured by a jade hairpin, wearing an ocean-blue kimono adorned with wave motifs. By her side, clad in a black-and-white kimono and haori ensemble, stands the weirdest-looking kid Utahime has ever seen.
His white hair looks soft, as it brushes just past his shoulders, it makes him look like a girl and an old man at the same time. His nose is tiny and slightly upturned, his chubby cheeks are rosy, likely from the wind outside. But his eyes–they are definitely his most striking feature; sky-blue pupils, clear and shiny, as if they’re made of glass, framed by long, white lashes.
Suddenly, as if sensing her detailed inspection, he focuses his gaze on her, and his scowl deepens.
Embarrassed, Utahime looks away, at her hands that are holding his lame present, but not before noting how almost looks like a limited edition porcelain angel doll, if not for the sour expression he wears, which is totally unfitting for a birthday boy. Well, and the dark circles under his eyes, those are not very doll-like either.
“Thank you so much for waiting for us,” Hibiki-sama addresses the room once the mother-son duo is seated in front of Utahime and her mother, her silvery voice reaching out like cold fingers, something in her tone feels wrong, unlike her. “It fills me with immense joy and gratitude that you all were able to come here on this special day to join us in celebration.”
“But of course, Hibiki,” a man says in a calm voice. “We wouldn't miss Satoru’s birthday. We all have the young master’s best interests at heart. You too, more than anyone else–”
The shoji doors open once more, to reveal a row of several maids dressed in gray carrying tea paraphernalia and snacks in bamboo trays, their arrival effectively interrupting the man.
“Ah, the tea is here,” Hibiki-sama says, as the maids begin to serve. “Oh my, Utahime-chan, what do you have there?”
At the sound of her name, she looks up from her tea tray. She was trying to discern if the daifuku were filled with mugwort paste (her favorite) or red bean paste (the lesser variation, in her opinion.)
“Eh? Ah,” she swallows, everyone is looking at her, inspecting the little package she holds. “It’s a present. For, um,” she looks at the boy in front of her, searching for the words. He too is looking at her hands. She can’t call him by his name, they are not close, and it would be rude to say ‘ him ’, so she settles for: “the young master.”
“How lovely!” Hibiki-sama smiles, and it’s tight, it kinda scares her. “It’s nice to know someone remembered today is a child’s birthday, therefore presents are expected. That is very thoughtful of you, dear. Thank you.”
Utahime nods, unsure of what to do next, so she casts a questioning glance at her mother.
“You can give it to him after tea,” she says, wearing a tight smile of her own, her eyes don’t crease at the corners, like they usually do when she smiles for real.
After a brittle silence filled only by the clinking of teacups, the rustle of wrappers, and old men swallowing, Hibiki-sama strokes her fingers across her son’s round cheek.
“Satoru, why don’t you go to the study with Utahime-chan and open your present?”
At her touch, he shivers, but then leans into it, burying his face into her palm.
“I want to stay with you,” he murmurs, almost whining.
Hibiki-sama’s perfect expression flickers to give way to something terribly sad, for the briefest second.
“I know. But Mother has to talk to your uncles, and it’s going to be so boring. We’ll have dinner later, just the two of us.”
He sulks for a beat, then acquiesces with a sigh. “Fine.” Then, turning to Utahime with barely a glance, he huffs: “Let’s go, onee-chan.”
The two of them rise from their seats and quietly exit the room. In the corridor, he turns left without a word, leading the way until they stop in front of another set of shoji doors. He slides them open to reveal a Western-style room, its walls lined with overflowing bookcases. A solid-looking desk sits near the center, flanked by two equally sturdy chairs, and a burgundy suede sofa anchors the space. There’s no tatami here–instead, a richly patterned Persian carpet muffles their steps as they enter.
He sits on the sofa, perfectly still, watching her with an expectant look, blinking slowly.
“Um, my name is Iori Utahime,” she says, stepping forward and bowing politely, her new fur coat heavy on her back. “Nice to meet you.”
He doesn’t respond right away, and for a second, she thinks he won’t. But then he says: “Nice to meet you. Can I see my present now?”
“Ah, yes. Um, happy birthday,” she says, offering the small box to him, all the while bracing herself for the disappointment she’s sure is coming.
After tearing the paper, he gets to a midnight blue leather case; inside rests a pair of plain, round, pitch-black glasses. Sunglasses, technically. Not even fun ones. She gets it – some people like them – but still, they’re a terrible gift for a boy. What was her mother thinking?
“Glasses?” he asks, intrigued.
“Yeah…” she mumbles, wishing she could explain that they weren’t her idea. That she’ll save up her allowance and get him a GameBoy next year, so he has to invite her and her mom and uninvite his scary uncles.
But then he slips them on, and grins. “They’re cursed! Cool! Thanks.”
Utahime cannot help but stare. He really is an angel.
A bespectacled messenger of the heavens, which probably explains why he is so special and important and why those uncles of his seem so jealous and mean.
He looks funny in them, so she laughs, and he laughs with her.
Fall, 1999
"Are you going to eat all that?” Utahime asks, wrinkling up her nose, her amber eyes full of judgment. “I think that’s enough.”
Satoru shrugs, mouth stuffed with taiyaki that she brought him (she should have known by now his stomach is bottomless when it comes to sweet treats), already reaching for the next one. “Your mother always says I have to eat a lot if I wanna grow taller than you.”
She scoffs. “She means meat. And rice. And vegetables .”
“Food is food, and I’m hungry now,” he says, biting off the pastry’s tail.
Utahime rolls her eyes, and after acting all disinterested for a beat, she launches her stupidly long-limbed, taller-than-his body over the table where they were reading ‘ Simple Domain: Lessons on turning your weakness into strength ’, and grabs the bag still half full of taiyaki.
“Give them back! They are red bean filled, you don’t even like red bean paste–”
“I don’t want to eat them, dummy,” she says, standing up and stretching her arm over her head. “I’ll give them back to you after dinner.”
To his utter annoyance, he feels his face scrunching into a pout, but there's nothing he can do to stop it now.
“Mean,” he accuses.
“Pfft. Come on, let’s go eat real food.” she says, already walking off.
Blegh .
After his father suddenly left three years ago, a lot of things changed.
He stopped spending so much time studying and training jujutsu, and started being around his mother more. He even moved into her quarters, where Utahime and her mother also live, instead of staying alone in the cold, moth-smelling house.
On his birthday that year, he also got a very cool pair of cursed glasses that help his eyes make a little more sense of everything they see; a present from the annoying, know-it-all, always-right, never-wrong big sister he somehow got too. They got along really well from the beginning, used to play hide and seek a lot, before they got bored. Now, they read manga, prank the staff (well, he does, she apologizes on his behalf, despite laughing too), play video games and have fun.
She even acts all big-sister-like, sometimes. Just recently, at a gathering, she beat up some Zenin boys who called him a girl because of his long hair. Oh! That’s also new: he gets to go outside the estate now, which is something he never did before turning seven. That, for some reason, doesn't stop feeling new, even after three years.
All in all, even if Utahime is a snack thief and bosses him around all the time, it still feels like a fair trade. Her only flaw is school, he thinks.
She’s gone for hours , and sometimes comes home too tired from her classes or whatever it is she does there to even hang out. Hasn’t it occurred to her to stay in like he does? She could just study with his tutor, and then they could train jujutsu together, like usual. That way, they’d get to play together all day. Although, if she did, there’d be no more taiyaki for him.
That’s why, he really cannot wait for them to attend Kyoto Jujutsu Tech together in a couple of years–they’re gonna have so much fun.
As they make their way downstairs, they can hear his mother and Auntie Aoi talking in calm, soft voices, discussing the next day’s schedule in the living room.
“You have a fitting in Takashimaya at ten, then lunch with the ladies of the Orchid Society in Tagoto–”
“What a bore,” his mother sighs. “You’re coming too, aren’t you?”
“No, I have to pick up the new Hiroshi Senju painting you bought. And Utahime’s kimono is ready for the Iori gathering next month, I have to get that too.”
His mother clicks her tongue, a disapproving sound. “How cruel of you, Aoi-chan, to leave me at the mercy of those old hags.”
“You’re a big girl, Hibiki. I’m sure you’ll survive. Now come on, let’s eat.”
Just then, Utahime and Satoru reach the bottom of the stairs, as their mothers emerge from the living room.
“Oh, there you are,” Auntie Aoi says. “I was going to go get you. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“What are we having tonight?” Satoru asks, belly still full of taiyaki, but interested nonetheless.
“It’s Friday, so ya-ki-ni-ku ,” his mother enunciates, patting head as they start walking. “And melon for dessert, because you both have been such good children this week.”
After dinner, they head back upstairs to wash up. Satoru goes first, like always, and makes sure to clean his ears just the way his mother taught him. Then he brushes his teeth with the bubblegum-flavored toothpaste he insists on using, before changing into his Detective Conan pajamas.
Back in his room, he does what he always does on Friday nights: starts browsing his movie collection, trying to pick something to watch with Utahime.
That’s when he sees it.
Past his glasses, past the walls, past the molecules and atoms—something flickers. A sudden shift in her energy. Warm and steady, always—but now, laced with something sharp, a coppery hue tainting the gold.
And then he hears it. A blood-curdling scream coming from the bathroom.
“Mom!” Utahime screams, her voice barely distinguishable from where he stands, but the desperation in her soul resonates with his own.
She is terrified.
So he runs, as fast as his legs allow him to, and as he moves through the corridors, he can see that both Autie Aoi and his mother are already with her.
Just as he’s about to step into the bathroom to see what the fuss is about, the door opens and his mother emerges, a wave of steam and the sweet scent of Utahime’s floral shampoo spilling out behind her.
He cannot see inside with regular eyes, and only can hear Utahime sniffling and her mother’s soothing voice comforting her, so he focuses on the state of their souls: Utahime's still in distress, sad even, but their mothers’ is strangely calm–did she slip and fall down or something? Did she break an arm?
“Utahime–” he calls, but his mother shakes her head and grabs his shoulder.
“Not now, Satoru,” she whispers, stepping out and closing the door behind her, effectively separating him from Utahime.
Anxiety creeps in. Why is she so scared? Why can’t I go in?
“Is she okay?”
“Utahime needs some time alone.”
“Why?”
His mother hesitates for a moment, then quickly recovers. “Well,” she says, looping an arm around his shoulders, leading him away from the bathroom. “I suppose now’s the right time to talk about this. Do you have any idea of how babies are made?”