It looks like Yuji's day isn't going much better than yours. It was Gojo's idea, Yuji had said, albeit pitifully. Nobara had not been moved. With an edge to her voice and a tense set to her jaw, she'd told Yuji to stay in the corner of the room with a black memorial frame until she said otherwise. You have no idea where Nobara's procured it, but you aren't about to ask her. Her tears and her grief have dried up and given way to anger, but you've learned that her moods change as rapidly as the weather, and for the most part, you find it's easier if you go along with them.
"Now, now. You've all heard his explanation. Cut him some slack." Panda says equably.
Yuji splutters, as though he's coming up for air. "The panda talked!"
"Salmon, salmon." Inumaki nods.
Yuji's brow is pleated in confusion. Something familiar closes over you. You're reminded of the early days, when you'd struggled to understand Inumaki, had been forced at every turn to ask Panda to translate. And you'd learned. Writing every meaning down into the Notes app on your phone, until you'd been able to understand. "What?"
"It's his Cursed Technique." You say scratchily, with a cold cloth pressed to your puffy eyes, leeching the heat away from your skin. It feels nice. "He uses Cursed Speech. It amplifies whatever he says. So he limits his vocabulary to keep others safe."
A sweet, sharp ache in your chest reminds you of how kind Inumaki really is. A hand of friendship extended your way, comfort and reassurance offered without expecting anything in return. And you realize now, all at once, that you want to know him more. That you've begun to see his blue eyes and gold spun silk of his hair as the signs of a friend, and have for a while now.
Thoroughly enthused, Yuji exclaims, "So if he told someone to go die, they'd actually die? He's strong!"
"It's nothing that convenient." Panda disagrees. "It's all case by case, depending on their difference in strength. If he uses powerful words, he's hit with massive feedback. Limiting his vocabulary is a way for Toge to protect himself, as well."
"More importantly, Yuji – Give me back Slaughter Demon." Deeming that she's had enough of Yuji's oohing and aahing, Maki steps forward with her hand outstretched. "You borrowed it from Satoru, right?"
Yuji makes a sound like a garbled washing machine. "Gojo-Sensei . . . Has it."
Didn't you break it?
"Ugh, that blindfolded moron!" Maki clicks her tongue in disgust. She looks as though she's about to storm off and hunt for Gojo, but she presses her fingers to her temple and presses away what must be a building headache. "So, what's the plan? The group battle format is what we expected, but we have an added member now. Do we change strategies? There's not much time."
"Actually," You say, speaking up and letting your words take shape, pushing them out into the air. Brave, brave, brave. Your voice sounds odd to your own ears. Everyone is looking at you expectantly. Your heart pulses in your throat, and it's difficult to breathe. You look at Inumaki, imagining that you're speaking to him, and him alone, and your breath flows a little easier with that image in mind. "Actually, I have an idea."
Moments later, after your plan has been stamped with an all-around seal of approval, you're spreading out your first-aid kit all over the floor of the outer porch, checking and double-checking your equipment: a needle, ethyl alcohol, bandages, scissors, gauze, thread, throat medicine, lozenges, tweezers, plasters, and alcohol wipes.
You look up as Yuji pads his way over, his footfalls quiet against the polished wood. The two of you sit cross-legged on the floor. As though you're children at a lesson, waiting for your teachers to make sense of the world.
"Inumaki-Senpai said that I should come and talk to you."
Instinctively, you twist in your seat, your eyes already seeking him out. Inside the small, low building, Inumaki flashes you a thumbs up, before turning away. Maki, Nobara, Panda and Megumi are all deep in conversation – but you're unsure if they're actually discussing strategy, or if they're simply trying to give you what little privacy they can.
You focus your attention on Yuji. Up close, it's easy for you to tell that he's changed, filled out and has an aura of sureness. There's a feeling of quiet substance about him. The past month, you're suddenly aware, experiences of which you know nothing, have claimed him.
"He spoke to you?"
"He kept pointing at you."
You nod silently, absorbing the information as you turn bandages over in your hands. You can feel that familiar Cursed Energy, almost as if it's haunting you at every turn, taunting you and your inability to confront its owner – lingering on the bodies in the morgue, clinging to Nanami, and now, the faintest threads of it are entwined with Yuji's own Cursed Energy.
Other Shamans took care of it, Ieiri had said. Names and details she was so reluctant to give.
The pieces fall into place.
Yuji had been so close, and yet so far.
You have to struggle to control your emotions, knowing that your fear lies open on your face. "Something happened, didn't it?"
His silence is more than telling. Yuji lets out a long, pained exhale, and tears his gaze away. He suddenly looks much older than sixteen. He looks like a man who has seen too much of the world.
Pained, you close your eyes. A vine twists itself around your gut. I wasn't there. Again. "Come out, please."
Yuji twists in his seat, looking over his shoulder, thinking that you're addressing someone else, and his mouth gapes open in shock when a kaleidoscope of butterflies erupts, floating over your heads, whirling in the sky. It feels like stepping into a familiar dream. Everything around you turns soft and light and comforting.
"Woah!"
"You got hurt, didn't you?"
Again, silence.
You think of torn muscle fibres, swollen and blotchy. You think of gaping cuts. You think of skin mottled black and blue. You think of fixing it. Damage being undone. A body returned to its former state of perfection.
"It's such a gentle and kind power." Yuji's eyes are wide. He regards the butterfly landing on his shoulder with such tender wonder, causing a tremor of deep emotion inside you. You press your lips together. "[ LAST NAME ]. Sorry for making you cry. Sorry for making you worry."
The vines are back, wrapping themselves around your chest and stomach so tightly you're sure that they'll kill you. Still, you manage to shake your head. "Don't apologise. It's – It's been hard for you, too."
You don't tell him about the bodies in the infirmary. You can't tell him. As much as the words claw at your throat, you can't share your burden. Yuji protects you in his way, and you protect him in yours.
"How did you come back?" You hesitate, focusing on a pill in the wood. If you look at Yuji, you're sure he'll see your secrets laid bare. "Did – Did Sukuna –"
Terrible contortions of Sukuna run on an unending loop in your brain. Yuji's face, but marked with tendrils of black, a terrible, inhuman smile stretching across his face. Panic makes your heart race and your palms sweat.
I can't just leave you to deal with him on your own, you'd told Megumi, a tremor in your voice and a quiver in your legs betraying just how scared you were.
You have to go, Megumi had replied, already shoving you out of the way.
And so you'd ran.
Escaping like a cornered rat.
Selfish, selfish, selfish.
You still don't know what had driven you to return. Fear? Loyalty? But you had. And it had been too late. Or so you'd thought.
Yuji's breathing stretches longer for a few beats. When he next speaks, his voice is frail, almost uncertain. "I can't remember."
"Well, thank him for me." You try to keep your voice light, trying to inject some humour into the rapidly darkening situation, but your smile feels brittle. "He might have his own agenda, but still."
He looks away from you. His silence hangs heavy for a long moment. "He – He said he doesn't need your thanks." Yuji inhales sharply. Something hard flickers across the angles of his face. "And – you shouldn't have ran. With your power, you shouldn't have ran."
What power? You want to probe Yuji for more answers, but his face has paled to the colour of chalk, and all your questions die on your lips.