Chapter Text
It was early spring. His birthday.
Yuuji didn’t have a birthday party planned. It didn’t exactly feel right.
With Megumi in the hospital after a tussle with a special grade, and Nobara on her honeymoon with her alpha, Maki. Even Okkotsu was abroad. There wasn’t anyone to celebrate with.
So here he sat at his kitchen table with a beer, staring at the Prison Realm.
“Well hey, Gojo. Guess you’re here to celebrate with me.”
A real party.
The box with those awful, beautiful eyes stared at him. They had been staring at him for a very long time now, though it only felt like yesterday he stole it away from the battlefield.
He blinked, and then, after a couple of seconds, the box blinked. It was like a strange echo. And when he stared, it stared back. It was like looking into Gojo’s eyes, staring into his soul. But given Gojo had worn a blindfold for all the time Yuuji had known him, he wasn’t that familiar with them. Yuuji had nearly won a staring contest once.
What a strange little cursed object.
It was a loaded die, technically. Well, that’s how it felt and looked anyway. Every time it rolled, it rolled the unlucky number four, given its characteristics and the fact that it was pronounced shi, otherwise known as death. What a dumb, poetic way of doing things. It was like the makers wanted to make it extra spooky. Like, if they wanted to do it right, it should land on six — you know, for the Six Eyes. But no, they had to pick death. Because it wasn’t just about the Six Eyes; it was about killing and controlling them.
From his original research of the box, after years of studying the object, he learned it was made by the Gojo Clan — an object used to control the Six Eyes in case they ever went rogue. An object that got through the strongest barrier in the universe. It was almost inescapable.
Almost.
There were only three ways to get out: if the person who put you in there let you out; if the back door was opened (it was destroyed in Shibuya); or if the person inside committed suicide. So Gojo was stuck for good. But Yuuji had the box, and he had made it his mission to get him out. Someday.
The piece had almost become a decoration in his house over the years, often sitting on his bedside table or in the dining room. It was odd of him to keep the item for this long. Many had told him to put it back at Jujutsu Tech. He had no use for it. He couldn’t open it. It was a cursed object, doomed to collect more curses and attract them to his house. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
In a lot of ways, during his school days, Gojo had been his best friend.
The others didn’t really get him as well as Gojo did. None of them could quite match his energy. He was just the right amount of silliness Yuuji needed when he was feeling down. Then there were the months in his basement, just getting to know each other.
Yuuji supposed he probably knew Gojo better than most, in some ways.
Sometimes he struggled to see Gojo as a teacher; he was too large for life to be stuck behind a desk. Though he did, in fact, teach, he was much more of a mentor — someone who guided you through the hardships of life, who understood the difficulties of jujutsu more than anyone in a weird kind of way.
It was strange — you’d think that Gojo hadn’t gone through any hardships from the way he acted. He was the strongest, and therefore nothing could hurt him. However, when you looked past that and watched his smile, then compared it to the photos Shoko used to share, you realized that his smiles never reached his eyes.
Yuuji thinks he’s only seen Gojo truly smile once. That was at Nobara’s surprise birthday during the summer. Someone had snuck in some sake, and Gojo and Shoko had a small amount before seeming to reminisce. It was a small but very real smile. He only caught a glance before he was dragged off to play a game with the others.
The other tell was when you could smell it. Though Gojo didn’t smile for real very often, sometimes when he was relaxed and Infinity was down, he let the smallest amount of content omega hormones release. Yuuji mostly smelled it when Gojo had fallen asleep, cozy on the sofa in the basement. That didn’t happen a lot, but clearly, after a long day, he was tired. Down there in the basement, he had found his peace.
Yuuji also had this hypothesis that you could see someone’s soul by looking at their movie collection. He knew that sounded lame, but it was something he could understand, and it never let him down. Like how he knew the omega was a hopeless romantic, just by looking at his awful choice in rom-coms that were addictive to watch. It was promptly backed up by his terrible habit of flirting with Nanami and Utahime.
He had his large collection of horror movies. Normally, Yuuji would associate that with wanting the opportunity to feel something. Though he couldn’t imagine Gojo getting scared of horror movies — not with what they faced day to day.
Then he had the standard B-films that were truly a spectacle to watch. Yuuji struggled to find meaning in these particular films, but then he realized that a lot of them reflected the omega’s own life — how the characters got into stupid situations they never should have been in in the first place. How the directors create them to have no control. Then some scenes dragged out painfully just to create a subpar ending. Guess that’s how it was reflected in Jujutsu society. People dying for no reason in painful, cruel ways. Some people just needed a way to process that. Gojo found that in movies, he guessed.
But he was gone, and he had been gone for years. Yuuji didn’t know why that would change now.
So here he was, sitting like an idiot on his birthday at the kitchen table, stinking up the room as a sad alpha, with two drinks (one set out for a dead man), staring at the object that held his best friend — the one he had lost.
He finished his drink.
“Goodnight, Gojo.”
-
He fumbled out of the chair, drunk.
Left his drinks on the table.
Climbed the stairs.
Crash.
The sound of two beer bottles hitting the ground and the table knocking over.
He was running before he even realized what had happened.
There he was, on the floor of his kitchen—
Gojo Satoru.
Covered in blood and not a day older than the day he’d been sealed.
—
Itadori was beside him in an instant, using his Reverse Cursed Technique to its fullest extent—something he had learned while fighting Sukuna.
Gojo had taken the only way out. Clearly, he’d grown tired of waiting.
There were clear cuts running across his neck, over old scar tissue one being a rejected bite—a gruesome display. It had been done with an improvised weapon; that much was obvious.
Yuuji felt for a pulse.
There wasn’t one.
He went into autopilot. This wasn’t the first body he had tried to save.
He fell into the motions of CPR, mixing in Reverse Cursed Technique as the cuts on Gojo’s throat healed.
CPR was far more gruesome than TV shows liked to portray. Yuuji broke his ribs, attempting to put pressure on his heart and force it to start beating. Again and again, he felt the bones snap under his fingertips, only to be healed and broken once more—but he didn’t dare stop.
He worried mouth-to-mouth would be useless. He didn’t even know how long Gojo had been dead.
He needed oxygen.
He had always known this might happen—that one day Gojo would turn up, and he would just be dead. That he would have chosen the third option.
But Yuuji Itadori was stubborn.
He kept going. Breathing air into his lungs and pumping his heart.
It went on throughout the night.
Hours passed, but he didn’t stop.
His arms cramped from the repetitive motion. His scars burned and ached.
But he couldn’t give up.
He felt his arms threaten to give out.
Still, he kept going.
Not stopping.
Not until he heard a faint cough.
“Yuu—”
He stopped, letting the man breathe—coughing and spluttering. Gojo even tried to sit up before Yuuji gently pushed him back down.
“You…” he wheezed. “You got taller.”
“Yeah.” Yuuji smiled, tears streaming down his face. “Yeah, I did.”
Yuuji had become a man in the years Gojo had been away. Standing at 6'2", he was probably the same height as the man in front of him now, but he had long since lost the lean teenage frame. Years of being a sorcerer had built muscle onto him. The scars still covered his face and body.
People were scared of him—he could tell. Parents pulled their children closer when he walked past. People stared. When he walked down a busy street, it was like he was the one with Limitless—the bubble he created around himself. Eventually, Yuuji had moved to the countryside outside Tokyo, to the middle of nowhere, just to avoid the judgment.
Gojo hadn’t seen him in years. It probably wasn’t unnatural that the first thing he noticed was his height.
“Knew… knew you would… save me,” Gojo wheezed.
Though he was breathing now, it was clear he didn’t have much energy. After that, his eyes fell closed.
At first, Yuuji panicked—but after listening for the steady, comforting thump of his heart, it was clear he was just asleep.
Holding him close to his chest, Yuuji lifted the surprisingly light man. His muscles had deteriorated; he looked thinner. The cube kept you in stasis—it didn’t let you age or die naturally. It only allowed the person inside to choose death themselves.
Carefully, Yuuji carried him upstairs into the spare room and laid him on the bed. He removed the blood-soaked coat and T-shirt, mindful of the tacky blood sticking the fabric to his skin.
He grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom and gently cleaned the blood from Gojo’s neck and chest. Faint scars shimmered against his pale skin—silvery white in contrast.
There was an old bite mark on his neck—something Yuuji had never noticed before. Thick ribbons of scar tissue. A claimed bond, ultimately rejected. A name came to mind—one he didn’t want to think about.
Now that he could properly assess him, Gojo appeared physically healthy, if underweight.
But something was wrong.
His cursed energy.
There was barely any.
No wonder he hadn’t healed himself—it barely registered above Grade 4, and even that was concentrated in his eyes. Something must have happened at the moment of death—a disconnect, a drain, as the body stopped needing it. Gojo must have been clever about it, though—coating whatever he used to kill himself in cursed energy to ensure he wouldn’t become a cursed spirit.
Yuuji knew the history of the box, too.
It used the cursed energy of the person inside to maintain its strength. It drained them until the very last drop—until it killed them.
The unofficial fourth way out.
No wonder he had finally taken the only guaranteed exit. He wouldn’t have known what would happen if he lost all his cursed energy.
Yuuji sighed. There was nothing to do now but let the omega recover.
So he made him comfortable.
He gathered blankets from the sofas and the boiler cupboard, stacking them beside the bed for Gojo to arrange when he woke. He removed his shoes and carefully slipped him under the covers. He would change him into something more comfortable later.
After double-checking his breathing and heart rate one more time, Yuuji left the room.
And fell to his knees.
Gojo Satoru was alive.
Out of the Prison Realm.
He was out.
Yuuji had dreamed of this for years.
After years of waiting, he was finally out.
A man he had only truly known for a few months—and yet someone who had changed his life completely. The man who had saved him twice. The man who had protected him in that basement, who had waited until Yuuji was ready to face the world. The man who would do anything for his students.
Alive.
In the other room.
He needed to call Shoko. But he couldn’t move from his spot on the floor. Wave after wave of emotion crashed over him.
The person he had prayed would save him during the depths of the war was finally here.
It took him a while to sober up—mentally and physically. He called Shoko in a robotic state, pressing the buttons one by one until her contact appeared.
“The person you are calling is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone—”
He hung up.
Well. At least he tried.
He couldn’t handle a conversation right now. They would take Gojo away, and at this moment, he didn’t know if he could bear that. Of course, if Gojo asked to see Shoko, he would take him. But for now, he was safe. Within reach.
What was he thinking?
It was the first crack of dawn. Of course she would be asleep.
At least now she couldn’t complain that he hadn’t called her.
-
The first couple of days were spent brushing up on his bedside manners, and Gojo—Gojo slept through most of them.
Yuuji didn’t really know what to do, so he made congee, spoon-feeding him slowly while talking to the man as the omega stared up at the ceiling.
He played music, having learned that sometimes when you’re catatonic, you can still be conscious—just trapped. He put on his favorite movies, brushed his hair, talked about missions and life, about how Megumi and Nobara were doing. He rambled about the details of Maki and Nobara’s wedding. About what Shoko had been up to since she last called. Now that people knew about Jujutsu, they’d been lining up to see her on charity days. She’d been changing lives for a while now.
But today he was quiet. He didn’t know what else to say. The mostly one-sided conversations were starting to wear on him. Gojo wasn’t going to suddenly snap back to himself. He had chosen the last option—clearly he hadn’t been well. He needed time.
Yuuji had no idea how long it had felt for him inside the box. For all he knew, it might have felt like years suspended in stasis.
He shivered at the thought. To be alone for that long—it was horrifying. Just yourself. Your thoughts.
The endless void.
“Are you cold?” Gojo asked, his eyes never leaving the ceiling.
Sometimes Gojo would surface long enough to say a few words. This was the first thing he’d said all day, and evening had already settled in.
“Um… maybe a little?” The answer came out more like a question. Still fumbling those bedside manners.
There was a soft shuffle of sheets. Yuuji watched as Gojo shifted toward the side of the bed and patted the empty space beside him. He didn’t say anything—just waited.
“You sure?”
A small nod.
“Okay.”
Yuuji climbed onto the bed and lay down beside him.
Not touching. Just close enough. Staring up at the ceiling together.
They stayed like that for a while.
It was grounding—the soft blanket beneath his fingers, the familiar ceiling light fixture, the faint cracks in the paint. From here, he could smell the omega’s scent, muted and heavy. Once like freshly fallen snow and sugar—now dampened, like cold rain.
The alpha in him wanted to pull him close, to hold him there until he changed back. But that wasn’t how it worked. It wasn’t something he could fix with warmth alone.
Just out of reach was Satoru.
Satoru, who must know every crack and shadow on this ceiling by now.
Heat radiated softly from his body. The fever hadn’t quite broken. Still, lying this close, Yuuji felt warmer.
Maybe he had been cold.
“Are you real?”
The question was quiet, fragile. Disbelief threaded through every syllable.
“Yeah. Sensei. I’m real.”
A pause.
“Oh. That’s good.”
Yuuji turned his head to look at him. Up close, his eyes were beautiful—clear, distant, and impossibly blue.
Eventually, the omega’s lashes lowered. His breathing evened out, deep and slow. Sleep, at last.
If painted stars appeared on the ceiling the next day, Gojo didn’t mention them.
–
It was a sunny spring afternoon—warm, vibrant, alive with the sound of birdsong and insects. His crops were thriving; he was sure the bamboo shoots and daikon would be ready to harvest soon. He needed to hunt out in the forest again, he was running low on boar and venison. But today was perfect, and he wasn’t leaving Gojo to his own devices just yet. So it was a perfect day to train in the garden.
Yuuji had bundled Satoru in blankets, carried him down from his bed, and sat him in the garden in one of his camping chairs. He was still rather catatonic, and the fresh air and sensory input would be beneficial.
His fists hit the sandbag—not at full force. Today he was just testing his martial arts technique. Yes, he had probably mastered it a couple of years ago, when Maki had finally said he needed to officially learn how to throw a punch, not just a fist. But he hadn’t gone on a mission since Satoru had arrived a couple of weeks ago, and he was getting rusty.
No one would question if he took a break from missions. It happened at least once or twice a year. But he needed time to grieve, time to process. So he would give it another week before they came looking. It probably didn’t help that he’d been dodging people’s calls.
He took a deep breath. It was like rehearsing a dance—one that had been drilled into him for years. A twist of his hips, a tightening of his muscles, and then his foot collided with the bag, sending it swinging. As it swung back, his fist shot forward—
—and the bag fell off its hook for the fifth time that day.
He sighed. Well. He needed to check on his audience.
His eyes wandered back to the garden chair. There the omega sat, bundled in blankets like a grandmother.
A large blue butterfly perched on his nose.
It was like he was some kind of Disney princess. When its wings fluttered, he could see the man crossing his eyes just to watch it.
“You’ve got yourself a friend there.”
“Hummmm.”
Not quite a response, but better than some days.
He kept watching. A few more butterflies had landed in his hair and on his cheeks, too.
It was almost cute.
“Let’s get you some onigiri. It’s lunchtime.”
As he got close, the butterflies scattered leaving the albino to pout. He bundled up the man lifting him in a bridle carry, Gojo rested his head on his shoulder. He walked back off the patio and into the kitchen. There he started prepping the rice.
It was nice cooking with the doors open, sun streaming in, not too hot, not too cold. It was truly perfect.
And Gojo watched. Wide eyes not really focusing on anything but still captivated by the whole process. Like one would watch a lava lamp.
“Yuuji.”
It was soft—so soft it almost felt like the man had lost the ability to speak above a whisper.
“Yeah, Sensei?”
“How long have I been away?”
And Yuuji didn’t know how to answer that.
Well, he knew. It must have been something like fifteen—maybe twenty—years. He hadn’t exactly been counting. The days had mostly merged into one another, like a never-ending dream. Some dragged on forever; others vanished in a flash. He tried to think of the last time he had heard from Megumi. It had been a while.
Of course, the first thing after Gojo was sealed had been Shibuya. The aftermath. The blood to clean from the walls. Then dealing with the Culling Games—and that had sucked so bad. Days of death, blood, and sweat.
Next was killing Sukuna, which sucked even harder without Gojo. But they did it. They even managed to save Megumi in the process, which was a miracle in itself.
In the time Gojo had been sealed, Yuuji had traveled the world at least twice.
He remembered the first trip well—getting lost in the depths of Peru while dealing with illegal loggers and special-grade curses inspired by the Aztecs. The time he got his foot bitten off while surfing in Australia. Nearly getting shot in Texas after trespassing in an old factory to deal with curses there.
The second trip—he knew he’d left after a big event. He couldn’t quite remember what it was. Maybe Nobara and Maki’s wedding. Yeah. That must have been it.
That time he’d gotten pickpocketed in the depths of the Indian markets. There had been a beautiful town in South Africa where he spent a few weeks getting to know the culture. He’d accidentally met the king in England.
That had been weird.
Time had become so fluid to him that he’d stopped counting years ago.
He sighed. He would have to check the calendar—or maybe his phone—for the exact date.
“I don’t know the exact date,” he said slowly, “but I’m thinking about seventeen years.”
A safe middle number until he found his phone and checked.
“Seventeen years, you say…”
Gojo stared off into space for a long while, as if trying to catch his bearings.
“That is not too bad.”
And Yuuji couldn't help but let his shoulders relax a tad. Yeah 17 years wasn't so bad. But something didn't seem quite right with. How long has it been? He shook his head.
There was little point about thinking about that. He had onigiri to make.
—
It was a couple of days later and the Omega was walking. Not far or for long, but he could just about get down the stairs without help.
Much to Yuuji's horror.
The first time it had happened he nearly fell face first down the steps.
He had also gotten a bit of his spark back. He wasn't back to himself but… Baby steps.
“My my Yuuji, you absolute adorable house wife.” Yuuji internally groaned. Gojo had gotten back to teasing for one even with his soft quiet tone. “Cooking my favourite food for the third time this week. Some would think you are trying to court me.”
Yuuji's face reddened. He was just trying to make the man feel comfortable. He wasn't used to Gojo flirting with him, even if it was a joke, he had always seen it with how he flirts with Nanimin and that one time with Utahime Iori where she had tried to punch him.
He made Gojo honey garlic chicken, which was a favourite of the man's. His has a significant amount more honey than the alphas, but that's how he liked it. It was almost like candied chicken and wasn't that an awful thought. But it had protein, rice and some broccoli and it was a balanced meal that he knew he would eat.
“Hummmm. Sooooo gooood.” yeah that really wasn't helping Yuuji at all. Yuuji wasn't blind, he knew when someone was attractive and Gojo was very attractive. And him MOANING while eating his food wasn't helping how he was feeling. He stared at his food, refusing to make eye contact.
“Huuuuuummmmmm. Yess, that hits the spot.”
Yuuji prayed to disappear into the floor.
–
Yuuji decided that movies were a good choice. No way to tease him or flirt with him. Gojo was clearly getting bored. Weeks of watching either the ceiling or Yuuji training in the garden weren’t keeping his attention anymore—and that was fair. Itadori didn’t think missions or training were a good idea for the omega yet; he wanted him to recover at least some of his original cursed energy first.
He even had the perfect cursed teddy for Gojo. One of Yaga’s that didn’t need input anymore. It was a cursed corpse that transferred cursed energy gently—meant for low grades to acclimate to high-stress or emotional situations, where cursed energy could otherwise spike dangerously for those unprepared.
And Yuuji had some to spare. He had taken in twenty-one different cursed objects. He would be fine sharing some of his strength with the man.
He held the doll up to the omega, just to see his reaction. Gojo’s disgust was palpable.
“That is the ugliest thing I have ever seen in my life.”
It truly was. The ugliest thing either of them had ever seen, and they had dealt with curses. The doll had teeth and realistic eyes with eyelids, flesh-colored skin, long uneven limbs, and a very short torso. Something Yuuji had decided should be burned years ago. The only reason it hadn’t been was its utility. Yaga had admitted he sometimes experimented with cursed corpses’ forms, and this was one he regretted. But again—it had its use.
A chuckle escaped Yuuji’s throat. “Yes, it is. Also, payback.” He tossed the doll into the omega’s lap. Gojo reacted like Yuuji had just thrown a bag of dog poo at him. He looked up with a strong pout, his bright blue eyes silently pleading.
He hadn’t had to wear his blindfold in a while. Apparently, his eyes had gone half dormant—they were still sensitive and excellent at detecting cursed energy, but he had lost his 360-degree vision and his ability to see through the blindfold. Hopefully, this task would help reactivate them.
Yuuji lay on the sofa next to Satoru, guiding the doll’s hands into the omega’s. He took the feet in his own hands. Gojo seemed even more offended, if possible, by actually holding it.
“We’re going to watch a movie,” Yuuji said. “And you’re going to get used to having more cursed energy. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Okay. I’m going to start the process.”
He fed his energy through the doll. Technically, cursed energy could be shared by touch, but that was dangerous and painful. Reckless on the giver’s part. Give too much, and it could kill you. The receiver would struggle too—it was like giving B- blood to an A+ patient: not always compatible. The doll acted like a fuse and transformer, changing the frequency so anyone could handle it while preventing overload. Too much, and it would explode.
Gojo seemed to melt the moment the cursed energy reached him, sighing and sinking into the pillows. His eyes half-glazed, he stared at the movie menu. Yuuji… well, Yuuji had to stop watching.
He grabbed the remote and pressed play on Human Earthworm 10—the best one in the series. A reboot, actually. The movies went that far back. Why it needed a reboot was beyond him. He stared at the screen, letting his cursed energy flow.
Throughout the movie, he felt small shifts on the sofa. Satoru adjusted himself on the pillows. Yuuji didn’t know what to do when the omega decided his thighs were better pillows than the one behind him. Still holding the cursed doll, he watched Gojo begin to drift toward sleep, his fluffy hair right there.
He couldn’t help but slowly run his fingers through it, scratching gently behind his ears. Gojo, honest to the gods, purred. Yuuji’s face turned bright red.
Yuuji wasn’t a child anymore. He hadn’t been for decades. This wasn’t a crush on his teacher—it was something primal, real. The feeling in the pit of his stomach made itself known.
Gojo, this was supposed to be a training session for you, Yuuji thought desperately. Not for me.
He forced himself to relax. An omega on his lap, PURRING, his favourite movie, a warm sofa—he was in heaven.
The smell of sugar and fresh snow on a winter day permeated the air, blending with the oak fire and caramel scent in a cozy combination. He felt drunk on it.
It was perfect. So perfect it hurt. He savoured the moment. He fell asleep, of course—wrapped in warmth and human contact.
When he woke in the morning, he couldn’t bring himself to move. Gojo must have made it his personal mission to use him as a heated blanket. The omega’s face was buried in his chest, a small drool puddle on his T-shirt. Their legs were tangled together.
It became a habit. Every night, Yuuji would sit next to him to chat. Gojo would snatch him before he left for his den, cuddle and hold him until Yuuji gave up and fell asleep in his arms. Yuuji didn’t fight much anymore.
—
Gojo danced around the kitchen to J-rock from the old speakers. They rattled and distorted slightly when it got too loud but the omega claimed it just added to the music. He wasn't amazing at dancing but Yuuji believed it was for the sake of adding to his amusement, less so for perfecting the art. He also sings the course completely out of tune. Yuuji was sure that was on purpose.
“WaNNa sCreAM!” It was torture.
“WaNNa screAM LIKE a bANshEE.” Painful torture that you could only laugh to.
“TRY to be GOod but we TOO dAMn NASTY!!!” Satoru might as well be yelling, voice cracking half way through, using a spatula as a microphone instead of frying the veggies as “it doesn't matter if they burn no one likes them anyway.” He was leaning in a way that he could only describe as a jojo pose.
“OK,” Yuuji called over the music. “ Ok.. No more singing. Please, I'm trying to concentrate.”
“Boooooo!” Yuuji heard the music go down and he felt himself relax a little. A pair of arms slung over his shoulders, Satoru's face resting on his neck. Yuuji raised his eyebrows, gave him a glance and went back to the task of cutting the carrots.
“You are getting really good at using dismantle. You aren't even touching them before they are cut. And they are perfect little cubes.” Yuuji nearly preened. He had time to perfect his technique. He had figured out after a lot of trial and error that Sukuna's technique was just a divine kitchen. Cutting and chopping and then cooking. And, well, Yuuji was damn good at cooking. It was a way of training without having to train on curses and it made it something of his own without affiliation without killing.
It was nice to use his technique to serve people in a different way.
“Thanks Gojo” he smiled and, with the additional dead weight moved to the stove to give the half charred veggies a toss.
For a while it was quiet. Satoru was clearly deep in thought. The music was still blasting and the sound of sizzling was loud. But that left it to be a small intimate moment between friends. Yuuji had been alone for so long it felt good to be in such a domestic situation. Cooking was a love language of his.
Gojo found refuge on the counter removing his arms from the alpha. He let his legs swing and observe the room. He watched a dance he didn't seem to get bored of. Yuuji moved around the kitchen with his own kind of grace. Prepping meat, getting the sauce ready, making rice; it was all his own dance. And Yuuji had seamlessly incorporated his technique into his day to day. It was something that most sorcerers didn't get to do. It wasn't like Satoru used infinity to do the laundry, not that he could use infinity at the moment.
“It's unfair I have all this potential and strength and I can’t use my ability in day-to-day life other than an emergency umbrella and you can use your technique in the kitchen." He made his thoughts known with an amused tint.
Yuuji gave him an amused smirk. “I can't use all my technique in the kitchen.”
Gojo tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“Well I don't think you want my blood in all the food.”
Gojo stopped swinging his feet, his eyes narrowed and he got off the counter. He moved so close into Yuuji that if it wasn't for the fact they sleep next to each other they would ask for personal space. He felt like he was being x-rayed. With the 6 eyes working on power saver mode he guessed that's his best chance to see the technique.
“I see it now. The kamo technique. It's strong, unusually for someone who doesn't have a direct blood line. How did you end up with that?” They were eye to eye now. Satoru mustn't be conscious of how close he was to him. Aaannnd Yuuji was turning red.
“Wellll,” he anxiously scratched his hair, turning away, clearly this wasn’t a pleasant topic for him . “I ate 6 of my brothers so that's probably what did it.”
“What?”
“Oh… did I never mention it?” He gave out a half hearted chuckle with an edge of pain. Gojo felt the conversation go off kilter. “I am related to the death paintings and Kenjaku? Oh Yeah, please never ask me to do a family tree. Like my uncle is Sukuna? How funny is that?”
That didn't sound very funny if you asked Gojo.
“What?”
Gojo's mind was moving 100 km per second. To be so tangled up in this plot by just being born. He always thought that there was something odd about yuuji. His strength, his looks that held resemblance to the curse. The fact he could control sukuna in the first place. He thought it was a heavenly restriction. A technique like the star plasma vessel. Something that had arisen over the passage of time. Why would he think there would be any more to it?
But, by his very own declaration, it suggests Yuuji was designed. Created into the vessel. Of course only someone of Sukuna's blood could control Sukuna. To be related to a death painting, implies Yuuji was part curse. Or some kind of perfected version of it.
This did not disgust Gojo, no this intrigued him.
Megumi reported on that dreaded day when the boy first entered his life that the boy only left the echo of sukuna. The reminisce of the box. What if that wasn't the case. What if Yuuji was made with Sukuna's soul impression in his body without the cursed energy. And Kenjuku, the thing that stole his best friend, that monster created this perfect man in front of him.
The alpha now looked at him with a pinched face and tears in his eyes.
“You figured it out.”
Gojo didn't waste a moment to gather the other in his arms in a tight hug. The kind that reached the soul. The kind that you gave your favourite teddy during a storm when you are young. The kind that speaks comfort and whispers warms the body.
“I’m a monster.” The words are muffled by sobs.
“No.” A soft kiss to the forehead. “You are not a monster… I would know I've seen. Your soul is brighter and everything I've ever needed.”
–
Gojo was going to die.
Not a sentence he thought about often. Being a god amongst men and for a long time being virtually untouchable he had only really thought he was going to die a few times.
1. When he accidentally scratched his dads very expensive car when he was 12.
2. When he was 13, first learned to use infinity and forgot to include oxygen in the things allowed through the barrier.
3. When Toji Fushiguru put a knife through his head at age 16.
4. When Geto left, age 17.
And finally right now.
5. With Yuuji just about throwing him across his large luscious garden.
“Training” he thinks. Say that to his bruised ribs. When he got infinity back he was going to murder the man.
There were upsides to this other than the bruises that yuuji will heal for him by the end of the day. Yuuji was topless and shiny with sweat. Those muscles were on display and his lean but built muscles meant business. Yeah, Satoru often asked after a training day to sleep by himself, he would claim it as punishment for bullying him all day, but in reality he just needed privacy to deal with being pent up all day.
Was it weird him getting hard over one of his old students? Definitely. Did his dick know that? NO.
But Yuuji wasn't a teen anymore. Though he didn't look a day over 21, his scars gave him away. He even said that he was in the cube for about 17 years. So he must be 32, at least. Hell, he was technically older than him. Not that fucker looked it, must be good genetics.
His time in the box felt like a weird distant memory. The box was designed with the 6 eyes in mind of course and the inside held what he must imagine what outsiders feel in his domain. Infinite information every moment of every second. It felt like trying not to drown, holding an air pocket that was running out of oxygen. So time slipped and stretched like taffy and then after what felt like a million years he died and he fell out onto yuuji’s dining room floor.
But looking back it felt like a blink in time. Megumi was so grumpy but also loyal and protective of the ones he so deeply cared for. Nobara would pout and demand his credit card to go shopping which he would oblige and she would bring back sweets for them to share when she claimed to be having a cheat day, Yuuji was just a teen who wanted to live, just moments ago. A Teen with such a big smile it hurt to look at because he knew his line of work. It was sad to say but at one point he had hoped he wouldn't be around to see it go out. And now he held a weight he was very familiar with. That smile is not quite completely gone but now more of an echo of who he used to be.
Something was bothering him though. It was a strange thing that he noticed through his time living with Yuuji. He didn't own any clocks, no calendar. Not even a working phone or TV. It was like he was completely detached from reality. And that was fine but he missed knowing the day.
Unfortunately that wasn't the only thing he was missing.
A fist collided with his shoulder as he moved to take the bunt. A punch with that power was criminal. He fell to his knees clutching the new bruise.
“You are distracted.”
“Yeah,” he sighed tiredly. “I know.”
They had been doing this for 2 months now at least and now the depth of the summer.
“If you want to join me for the purification ritual then you need to focus,”
When did the student become the teacher? Satoru sighed. It wasn't that he had gotten rusty, well not that rusty. But Yuuji was now a beast in his own right when it came to hand to hand. Gojo hadn't had to use it too much since destroying the back rope. There wasn't anything that could hurt him anymore so he focused back on using cursed energy.
And now with a lack of energy he had never felt more vulnerable. The only reason his internal omega hasn't thrown an absolute fit at the vulnerability was because of Yuuji allowing him to make a nest out of his house. But he wanted to get out of the house, see his other students, see shoko, and yuuji had done him a deal that if he trained to a place he was happy with, and could kill a grade 2 with only a cursed tool, he could join him out into the world.
So he trained.
“Focus.” Yuuji called, interrupting his thoughts.
Right focus.
It was like a dance.
Left foot forward.
Right hook.
Dodge.
Turn.
Round house.
Duck.
A dance he almost forgot.
Upper cut.
Miss.
Step back.
Dodge.
Dodge again.
Left cut.
His arm is grabbed and a kick knocks his legs off balance.
His back hits the soft spring grass. His hands are held tight above his head. A pair of legs are around his torso. They both were breathing deeply in deep huffs.
Yuuji's very kissable face is centimetres from his.
Hit.
Yuuji's eyes were pure deep honey. His hair soo fluffy and such a sweet pink. And the scars. The scars that crossed from his right eyebrow over his nose to his left cheek. The scar on the right of his mouth was so kissable it hurt. The little scars that scatter his chin and cheeks like freckles.
All he could smell was the scent of oak fire and caramel. It was intoxicating. It felt thick in his throat like breathing thick steam. The sweat on Yuuji's forehead dripped onto Satoru's cheek and it took a lot from him not to try and lick it. Wow he was a perve, but damn. It's been a very long time since he's been under someone.
And this wasn't helping his ongoing crush of the man in front of him.
Yuuji seemed to fully realise their position, their eyes widening as they made contact with his own. Then in a quick stubble he detached himself from the other standing.
Gojo let his eyes flutter shut and body tremble. Yuuji was going to trigger his heat if he wasn't careful.
“Sorry about that.” An imprint of his hand to help him entered his closed eyes vision. He sighed and took it. Yuuji lifted him and in a moment, he was standing opposite the other.
“You still ok, for more sparring or do you want to do more endurance?”
Gojo was going to die.