°⌜ 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐏𝐒𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⌟°
°⌜ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈. ⌟°
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Warning: This chapter briefly contains mature/violent content.
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𝐌𝐀𝐘 | 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟓
As feet amble along the sunlit sidewalk, the rhythmic slaps of black sandals blend into the lazy afternoon hum.
With a casual turn, the dark-haired man finds himself slipping into what he dully dubs the Red Lantern Alley, a stretch adorned with twinkling lights dancing along the facades of adjacent buildings.
To him, it's a hidden enclave reminiscent of the cozy little noodle joint in the corner.
The aroma, oh, the aroma!
It's like a siren's call, teasing his senses with promises of spicy delights.
Despite receiving coupons from a cheerful college girl weeks ago, he's never seized the chance to indulge in the shop's offerings, thanks to its clandestine location.
Yet, each time he passes by, the irresistible scent of exotic spices lures him in, painting vivid images of flavours yet to be savoured.
As fate would have it, the girl from before, her shift concluded, rushes back to the shop, only to find the door swinging open.
"Thank you for ordering! Come again!" The cheery farewell accompanies the customer's exit, prompting the girl to step aside.
Her brown eyes meet his irises, and in that fleeting moment, a silent exchange occurs.
She sees him, tall and robust, with a mop of ebony hair cascading over his shoulders. His gaze is a captivating shade of dark blue. But her attention is drawn to the scar near the corner of his lip.
With a courteous gesture, she holds the door open to prevent it from hitting him on his way out. He does exist, though not without a quiet acknowledgment of her presence.
'Tall, handsome,' she muses, a blush tinting her cheeks.
'Short, ugly,' he counters inwardly, his thoughts shrouded in self-deprecation.
Stepping back into the bustling main street, he finds himself enveloped in a cacophony of voices and laughter, the city's vibrant pulse echoing around him.
On the one hand, he cradles a plastic bag containing his culinary, while on the other, his phone buzzes incessantly, a call he's been avoiding for far too long.
As he strolls through the street park, a tranquil tableau unfolds beneath the sheltering embrace of a sprawling tree.
A solitary table beckons him, an oasis amidst the din of urban clamour.
His eyes, lingering, trace the contours of a nearby playground—a haven for the young at heart.
With a deft hand, he splits the chopsticks and unveils his meal, savouring each morsel with a measured pace.
Yet, the tranquillity is disrupted by the jarring chime of his phone—a disruption met with a disgruntled murmur as he reluctantly answers.
"Don't interrupt when I am eating," he grumbles, his irritation palpable as he takes another bite.
"Don't eat when I am calling," retorts his agent, an edge of exasperation in their voice. "Do you do anything besides sleep, eat, and shit?"
With a wry twist of his lips, he skewers a noodle with a raised brow. "I kill here and there. Don't talk like I'm unemployed."
"You'd be without me."
His response is laced with defiance as he continues to toy with his meal. "Then find me something worthwhile."
"A buyer is commissioning you to capture the Death's Pulse Curse."
"Do I look like someone who deals in curses?" he muses, his skepticism evident as he stirs the broth thoughtfully.
A dragged sigh comes through the phone. "It is that cursed boy with the parasitic heart -- worth 10 million."
A familiar name—a boy with a parasitic heart—brings a flicker of recognition.
"Oh, him." The man with a scarred lip remembers slurping on the noddles before gulping them down. "Count me out then."
Yet, even the promise of a hefty sum fails to sway him.
"You are seriously passing this easy money here?"
"It's a matter of principle," he declares with a smirk, a hint of mischief in his tone. "If they want my expertise, they must pay for it. The longer I wait, the more these rich fools will jack up their prices for him."
"If you don't take this deal, the buyer will post it on an anonymous post board in 48 hours, and the boy will be anyone's for the taking."
"Fine by me if a job still costs only 10 million." The man persists.
There is an irritated groan on the other line.
However, the man swirls the noodles with the broth. "But if the buyer wants a proper job done by a professional rather than a bunch of mediocre fools, let them make it worth my services. We should charge them a fee for wasting my time even considering it at that price."
"You don't get to decide--."
"Losing signal now." He ends the call, slipping the phone into his pocket with a sense of finality.
Leaning back, he contemplates his bowl, the weight of his decision heavy in the air.
Can a person's heart indeed be bought and sold?
For Fushiguro Toji, the answer is clear—he sets his price and does not settle for less than he's worth.
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°⌜ 𝐇𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮? ⌟°
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Let's give it another shot.
The cerulean pools of his eyes flutter closed, enveloped by the symphony of cursed energy swirling through the air.
It's a palpable force, humming with attraction and repulsion, orchestrating the dance of existence.
Attraction and repulsion, like duelling maestros, shape the fabric of reality. They're the unseen hands guiding the cosmic ballet, from the tiniest quarks to the grand tapestry of human connection.
On a microscopic scale, Gojo wields the mastery of attraction with his cursed technique, Lapse: Blue.
With a surge of negative energy, he conjures potent fields of attraction, pulling matter toward him with irresistible force. His power is magnetic, tearing through buildings like tissue paper and collapsing bodies with a mere thought.
But amidst the chaos, his childlike wonder turns his abilities into party tricks, blurring the line between magic and science. He moves with a speed that defies comprehension, dazzling and bewildering onlookers.
And yet, amidst the spectacle, thoughts of you linger. Unbidden, they intrude upon his focus, disrupting his concentration like unruly guests crashing a party.
But he mustn't dwell. There's work to be done, mastery to achieve—
Thunk!
A water bottle careens into his face, snapping him back to reality with a sharp jolt of pain.
"Ouch!" he yelps, clutching his forehead as if to shield himself from further assault. "Suguru, what the hell? I was in the middle of manifesting red! I could've killed you!"
His friend, unfazed, settles beside him with an air of nonchalance. "Please, as if your 'dot' could harm a fly. Didn't seem to stop that bottle, though."
Gojo scowls, feeling the frustration bubble up within him.
He clutches his forehead with both hands before his back falls back on the grass, whining in pain. "And how was I supposed to stop it? Grow extra hands?"
"Last I checked, you had two perfect ones," Suguru quips, popping the lid off his drink.
Shoot, did his reflexes feel slower now?
With a groan, Gojo rubs the heels of his palms viciously against his eyeballs and whines pitifully.
He sputters, the word thinning as he turns away, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. "Cut me some slack, will you? My brain's been fried since dawn."
"Still struggling with that red manifestation, huh?"
Six hours of classes have whizzed by, accompanied by a solitary lunch break and four additional hours of gruelling training.
Only now does he discern the subtle shift, a peculiar sensation gnawing at the edges of Gojo's awareness.
During the customary physical drills, the revelation strikes with unwelcome clarity.
As Yaga marshals the first-year students into sparring sessions, Gojo cannot help but notice the accelerated depletion of his physical energy, a weariness more profound than he's ever encountered.
Lately, he's been withdrawing from the confines of his family's estate, preferring the solitary embrace of the school's campus.
But duty calls, tethering him to his clan's ancestral home and demanding his presence even amid the chaotic whirl of his busy schedule.
They relentlessly compel him to hone his skills, subject him to additional schooling, burden him with responsibilities, and coerce him into attending interminable meetings with Higher-ups and other clan leaders, threatening to unravel his sanity.
A familiar ache throbs behind his eyes, a persistent torment exacerbated by the present circumstances.
With an exasperated exhale, Gojo gropes unthinkingly amidst the grass, seeking the misplaced tinted glasses dislodged earlier.
"I don't need you chiming in like my tiresome uncles," he mutters, the weariness in every syllable.
His eyelids flutter increasingly, a valiant effort to stave off the encroaching fatigue. Yet, despite his best efforts, concentration eludes him, his thoughts mired in a tangle of exhaustion.
But the sun beats down relentlessly, scorching his cheeks and brow through the fabric of his uniform. It's an oppressive heat, unforgiving in its intensity, unyielding to the plight of his weary frame.
But Gojo soldiers on, overcompensating his discomfort behind a façade of goof.
And no one notices.
Well, no one notices because Gojo doesn't let anyone see. At least Geto was considerate enough to get him water, but he has not been mentally present lately.
Yet, even as he cradles the bottle's coolness against his throbbing forehead, frustration simmers beneath the surface. "I don't understand why I'm struggling!"
Seriously, he is supposed to be the strongest sorcerer of their generation; it's utterly infuriating! The burden of expectation weighs heavily upon him.
"We could consult Shoko once more," suggests Geto, his voice tinged with a subdued optimism.
Yet, Gojo's response is tinged with impatience, his features contorting into a petulant scowl.
"Not again! She speaks gibberish, making her explanations utterly useless. I'm at a loss when she talks about it," he grumbles, the frustration palpable.
It's a sentiment shared by both, a shared impasse that threatens to derail their progress. As they embark on yet another cycle of explanation, Gojo can't help but wonder if Geto's mind is elsewhere, tethered to concerns beyond the confines of their training grounds.
As Gojo sees you strolling past, engaged in conversation with the current auxiliary manager, his attention abruptly swivels to his dark-haired classmate, and his once vibrant blue eyes dim with guilt.
To Geto, your presence is an unwavering enchantment, a magnetic force he repeatedly draws to.
Each time you traverse the training grounds, those deep onyx eyes ensnare your gaze without fail.
There was even a moment when a knife-hand strike was aimed straight at Geto's jaw, courtesy of Haibara!
Did Gojo keel over, clutching his stomach while his shoulders convulsed with laughter? Yeah! He bursts into loud laughter! But then, who wouldn't?! Haibara! Out of everyone to lose in close combat, it had to be Haibara—a mere first-year!
The incident leaves Nanami visibly stunned, but no one is as taken aback as Haibara himself. His hands silence the poor boy's mouth, his expression a mix of horror and fear as he realizes the gravity of hurting his upperclassman, a person you've undoubtedly reminded him to respect.
Meanwhile, Ieiri often shakes her head disapprovingly whenever a second-year boy inquires about your whereabouts or well-being. And when Gojo occasionally entertains the thought of visiting the infirmary while you're there, he's consistently met with the resounding slam of doors in his face.
Geto, on the other hand, doesn't even attempt such overtures. The day you commanded him to 'fuck off,' the intensity of your glare alone was enough to send him scuttling away without further inquiry or explanation.
Though he conceals it beneath a facade of nonchalance, there's a latent fear within him of overstepping boundaries. He frets that any attempt to approach you might only serve to drive you further away—a prospect he's already struggling to reconcile with.
He's been waiting for the day you extend the olive branch—finally allowing him to make amends.
All poor Geto can do is watch until the very last moment you fade from view. His eyes betray a quiet resignation as he reluctantly returns to the task.
Does Gojo feel guilty for straining their relationship? No, yes, or somewhere in between?
He understands the unfortunate circumstance of his friends' estrangement, yet the intricacies of the situation elude even him.
At times, he wishes forming and maintaining friendships were as straightforward as wielding his cursed technique with brute force.
Alas, friendships necessitate the gradual cultivation of trust, effective communication, and mutual respect—endeavours rendered all the more challenging when you avoid them.
Yet, Gojo remains puzzled by your anger.
After all, the risks inherent in missions are well-known—dangerous situations where lives hang in the balance. Moreover, his deception served a purpose: securing your involvement in Ieiri's mission.
It wasn't callousness that drove his actions—it was understanding.
In his pursuit of mastery over his cursed technique, Gojo understands the frustration of unfulfilled potential and the persistent self-doubt accompanying it.
He's driven by results—just like you.
And while he may struggle with verbal encouragement, he sought to buoy your spirits by offering tangible progress, even if it was illusory, believing it would eventually unlock your latent potential.
He only wanted to offer reassurance.
Isn't that what friends do?
But then catastrophe struck unexpectedly, threatening to wrench you from his grasp. And while losing your friendship weighs heavily on him, the prospect of failure truly unnerves him.
Yes, even Gojo, burdened by his clan's legacy and the expectations of the jujutsu world, is not immune to stress.
And now, with the one person who eased his burdens in turmoil, his mind reels with the strain of impending loss.
Enough for today, he decides, turning his thoughts away from you, if only momentarily.
Concentration is fragile for him; it teeters on the edge of slipping away, especially when his mind wanders back to a particular person.
He knows he should push those thoughts aside and force them into the background to salvage what focus he can muster.
Yet, maintaining this mental balance is taxing and draining, as if the sun above had conspired to intensify the brightness of everything around him.
To falter in front of Geto, to reveal the cracks in his composure, would be a blow to his pride.
So, he braces himself, summoning all the strength he can muster, determined to keep pace with the world around him. It's a silent declaration of resilience, a refusal to yield to the weight of his own emotions. He is not weak.
He cannot afford to be.
For Gojo, there's an unspoken expectation that he must always embody strength, that nothing should dare to shake the foundation of his resolve.
Even when stress threatens to gnaw at his edges, he wears a mask of unyielding determination, refusing to let the world see the chinks in his armour.
"Any missions from Yaga-sensei?" Geto's voice cuts through the heavy air, tinged with melancholy.
Gojo scoffs lightly, absently tapping his finger against the calm surface of his bottle. "When am I ever without missions?"
"Give them to me. I'll handle it," Geto offers, his words weighted with a sense of resignation, his struggles evident in the weary lines of his face.
A flicker of surprise dances across Gojo's features mingled with a hint of reproach. "Seriously, are you that desperate for a distraction?"
"It's been a month since [Name] even acknowledged my existence," Geto confesses, his voice heavy with the weight of that silence.
Gojo can't help but feel sympathy for his friend, a shared understanding of the ache of being overlooked.
But he refuses to wallow in despair, not when there's a chance to lift Geto's spirits, to chase away the shadows that threaten to consume them both.
"You've had your month of sulking. Time to shake it off," Gojo declares, determination glinting in his eyes.
A sudden grin breaks across his face, lifting the corners of his mouth as he sits straighter on the grass. "You need a pick-me-up, and I'm in the mood for a prank. Maybe Haibara this time, although Nanami's reactions are always priceless."
Geto can't help but frown in return, memories of their past antics weaving through his mind. "I don't think he liked the last prank."
Geto and Gojo got ahold of all their underclassman's uniform sleeves and pants sewn closed, and Gojo banged on his dorm door -- waking him up earlier than the morning dawn, warning him of an emergency mission of a loose curse on campus.
Since the sewing was done right at the end of the sleeve, they watch Nanami disobediently wake up, sticking his arm and less through but unable to get his hands and feet out.
While Geto pursed his lips to avoid laughing, Gojo only exacerbated the situation by saying that the curse had already reached its first year by melting his sleeves and pants!
Harmless fun, they claimed, but to Nanami, it was anything but.
With a demeanour as sour as a lemon, he regarded their antics with thinly veiled disdain.
Yet, Gojo remained undeterred, his arm wrapping around Geto's shoulder.
"Nanami's just playing hard to get," Gojo declared, his voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. "I overheard Shoko about this strange medical condition that makes it impossible for him to laugh at jokes or even crack a smile! The diagnosis is that he got hit in the head too many times—fighting curses—and now he has no sense of humour."
Geto rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it all.
Ieiri has a way of spinning words and weaving tales that coax Gojo into believing in anything.
Despite being the strongest sorcerer, he's oddly susceptible to medical science's latest findings and the looming spectre of diseases.
"Come on, can't we ignore the struggles of our stone-faced first years?" Gojo quips, his grin stretching from ear to ear, the corners of his dimples deepening with mischief.
His eyes dance with exaggerated enthusiasm as he playfully bats his lashes.
Geto's brow furrows, recognizing a diversion when he sees one.
"Nah," the ebony-haired boy retorts, gently nudging Gojo aside as he rises.
But Gojo persists, his joviality aimed more at lifting Geto's spirits than his own. "Oh, come on! Has Nanami's lemon-sour mood infected you, too? This is precisely why we must do this! We must be exemplary seniors, eradicating the contagion of gloominess before it spreads!"
Geto remains silent, prompting Gojo's cheeky grin to falter into a pout.
Well, that was fruitless.
So, Gojo lets it go, sulking as he vigorously rubs his eyes, a telltale sign of discomfort that doesn't escape his friend's notice.
Geto's obsidian gaze flicks towards him, then to the ground, lost in contemplation.
With the shock of white hair, his companion has been toiling harder than usual. He is brushing off Geto's concerns with a dismissive comment about 'old geezers' breathing down his neck to gauge his progress with the reversal technique—not just his clan's elders but also the higher-ups.
Even when Gojo attempts to divert attention from this pressure, there are moments when his frustration with his own limitations bubbles to the surface.
During recent missions, there have been instances where his judgment has been clouded by growing irritability.
Gojo may need this distraction more than Geto does.
Besides, Geto did promise to be there for him as a proper friend. So, he allows Gojo's teasingly sweet jibes to elicit a chuckle, drawing his gaze.
"It would be a travesty to let our first years remain a tightwad forever," the dark-haired youth elaborates, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
Gojo's face lights up, allowing Geto to steady him as he rises unsteadily to his feet, quick to shake off the dizziness. "Exactly! Poor Nanami probably hasn't cracked a smile in ever! It's up to us to change that."
The mischievous realization dawns on Geto. "It's our responsibility, isn't it?"
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°⌜ 𝐈𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧, 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 ⌟°
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Muffle voices could not penetrate the cloudiness of your mind. It's the weekly manager meeting, a ritual of corporate jujutsu obligation, but this one, elongated by the end-of-month flurry, stretches into eternity.
With his meticulous charts and spreadsheets, the auxiliary manager orchestrates the symphony of numbers and projections.
You have long finished your monthly presentation, and now you are adrift in the sea of your thoughts, oblivious to the budgets and schedules unfolding before you.
Pen scratches against the paper, a symphony of monotony broken only by the occasional cough or clarifying question.
Lately, you've found solace in the simplicity of black ink on white paper.
Something is mesmerizing about the contrast.
Your gaze drifts to the page before you, the black lines stark against the white canvas.
Black on white.
His presence materializes in your mind, effortlessly commanding your attention. His image is as clear as the ink staining the page, his features etched into your memory like a work of art.
With each stroke of your pen, you connect to him as though your thoughts are intertwined with his. The ink flows effortlessly from your hand, each line reflecting your emotions—his raven-black hair cascades in your mind's eye, a waterfall of silk that captivates your senses.
But then, the meeting draws to a close, shattering the illusion like glass.
The sound of shuffling chairs pulls you back to reality, the bleeding pen slipping from your grasp.
You rub your temples, trying to dispel the lingering ache of your thoughts.
Leaning heavily on the table, you close your eyes, losing the memory of his presence.
Amidst it all, Ijichi reclines in the ergonomic chair, its curves gently embracing him as he sways slightly to one side.
His fingers dance through the waves of his dark hair, ensuring each strand falls into place just so. He then meticulously adjusts his suit, flicking away imaginary specks of lint or dust before he settles his thick black frames atop his nose with care.
With a sparkle in his eyes, he turns his attention back to your weary figure, a smile playing on his lips. "Renzuko, how are my glasses? No streaks, right?"
You groggily open your eyes, squinting against the sudden intrusion of light, and shake your head in response. "No, why do you ask?"
"It's Thursday," he replies, his fingers fussing with his tie as he speaks.
His eyes are fixed on the door, where the sound of approaching footsteps signals imminent company.
Your brow furrows in confusion, attempting to recall the day's significance. "Yes, I know. But what's special about Thursday—"
Before you can finish, the door swings open, revealing the other managers as they prepare to depart.
Ieiri, leaning casually against the wall with her phone in hand, catches your gaze as she takes a few steps and nods in greetings when the senior managers and the central auxiliary manager notice her.
"Let's go. Dinner's on me today," she declares, causing a blush to creep onto Ijichi's cheeks as he straightens up in response.
"Good afternoon, Ieiri-san," he offers with a polite bow.
Her brown eyes linger on him for a moment and the cigarette shifts from one corner of her lips to the other before she offers a brief nod in acknowledgment. "Oh, hey."
A triumphant grin crosses Ijichi's face at the rare use of two words in her greeting, though he quickly reins in his enthusiasm to avoid appearing too eager.
As you observe his reaction, a realization dawns on you.
Amidst the chaos of work and classes, you've overlooked the blossoming affection in your classmate's expression. Could Ieiri's visits have become regular and timed perfectly with your intersecting schedules?
"[Name]?" Ieiri's voice interrupts your thoughts, drawing your attention back to the present moment.
"Oh, I have plans to meet Nanami, but Ijichi is available," you gesture toward the startled boy, almost causing his glasses to slip down his nose.
'RENZUKO-SAMAAAA! BEST WINGMAN! I shall dedicate my entire life to you, sir!'
Ijichi stammers, momentarily tongue-tied by the unexpected events, before regaining his composure. "Um, yes, I'm free."
Though it's not Ieiri's initial preference, she accepts the arrangement and is keen to keep the dinner opportunity from slipping away — since she could get him to pay instead.
"Alright, I've got these coupons for discounted spicy noodles—they expire today," she announces, brandishing the paper vouchers, much to Ijichi's chagrin.
Realization dawns on you. "Oh no, Ijichi can't handle spicy food—"
Despite his discomfort, he's determined to seize the chance to spend time with the campus's most captivating girl.
"It's fine! I'll manage," the younger boy interjects hastily, inching towards the door, almost knocking on a nearby chair with his foot, stuttering his footing.
"After all, what's a little spice compared to the company?" He nervously chuckles.
Ieiri turns to you quizzically, and you offer a shrug in response.
"Alright, then, [Name]. You owe me dinner next week," she declares before turning her attention to Ijichi. "Ready?"
Ijichi nods eagerly, falling into step beside her, his sweaty palms hidden from view as he anticipates the evening ahead.
You wave a hand, offering a facade of cheer, but beneath the surface, you sit solitarily amidst the quiet expanse of the room, your smile slipping into the abyss of loneliness.
Your gaze flits back and forth across the conference table, where papers lay scattered like fallen leaves.
With meticulous care, you gather them, arranging each one with precision.
As you rise to return them to their designated folders, your back turns towards the door, your fingers deftly unlocking the cabinet in search of the rightful place.
Once complete, you straighten chairs and dust surfaces until the room gleams with order.
"Ready, [Name]?"
The sound of the voice startles you, a jolt to your senses.
"Suguru--?" you begin, hopeful anticipation lacing your tone.
But the room answers with silence, a void where Geto never stood.
Reality crashes down upon you like a tidal wave. He last came there a month ago, not since your last argument.
The ache in your heart intensifies, a raw reminder of his absence and longing.
Memories of shared moments flood your mind, mingling with the pain of separation. This bittersweet concoction threatens to consume you, leaving nothing but hollow echoes in its wake.
The familiarity of emotions, once a source of joy, now twists into torture.
Love, once blossoming, now wilts under the weight of solitude. It's a visceral ache, clawing at your insides with relentless enthusiasm.
But you refuse to succumb. You did not want to think about him right now.
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°⌜ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐭 '𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 ⌟°
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You find solace in the library, where the scent of old books thrives. It's your haven away from the chaos, where you can immerse yourself in the pursuit of understanding the Death Pulse Curse.
Among the worn paperbacks and hardcovers lies a glimmer of hope, a faint whisper of a connecting detail that could unlock the mystery shrouding your fate.
After your encounter with Death Pulse, you quickly drew sketches, trying to capture every detail of his visage. This is etched into your memory as you strive to learn the secrets of this cursed technique.
Nanami sits opposite you at the shared table. His eyes flit across the pages of his research book.
Other than Gojo—Ieiri, Nanami, and Ijichi are the ones who have helped you—be there to talk comfortably about your execution situation. Ieiri is quick to put in the work, as her excuse is that you should not leave her with two crazy, strong idiots.
Ijichi had access to external resources through his father, so he also did his best.
But it's Nanami's unexpected presence lingers in your thoughts, a serendipitous discovery born of chance.
Though tinged with guilt, his initial eavesdropping blossoms into a steadfast commitment to aid you in your plight.
One piece of literature beckons with an irresistible pull.
As you pore over the texts, discard irrelevance in favour of newfound clarity.
Then you pass the paperback book to Nanami; his hazel eyes flicker with curiosity.
He is drawn to the printed painting adorning inside—a figure seated on a lotus throne, exuding an aura of serene contemplation.
"Buddha?" Nanami muses, tracing the lines of the depiction with his gaze.
"Yeah," you confirm. "I have focused on finding any connection in this 'Death is a rule' thing. Ancient teachings have fostered the philosophical concept that Death is considered a rule, making life an exception."
Nanami delves into the notes spread before him with a thoughtful nod, his fingers skimming over the surface as he absorbs the intricate web of information you've meticulously assembled.
"The late Yayoi period," he murmurs, "was a time of profound suffering before the dawn of enlightenment and the moral foundation of Jujutsu."
"There is a record of extreme suffering, including physical pain, mental anguish, and existential dissatisfaction, wherein curse manifestation became overwhelming," you continue, pointing to a cluster of sticky notes adorned with your handwritten musings.
"The teachings of Buddhism helped decrease negative emotions, but the fear of Death still loomed large over the hearts of humans.
Even shifting the perspective of Death as part of a cycle of reincarnation still forces everyone to accept the inevitability of their current life and all of their attachments to it."
"Attachments?" Nanami repeats for more clarification.
"Worldly dependencies and cravings—such as people, possessions, ideas, or experiences." You explain.
While listening, his fingers flipped through the other pages, intrigued by your add-on comments on the wad of sticky notes, which included so many scribbles and circling of certain words.
The mess almost looked organized. He is impressed at the extreme effort you have dedicated to it, but why wouldn't you, when your entire life depended on understanding Death Pulse and finding a way to unlock the cursed technique?
However, he paused at an extra piece of paper. He pulled it out, studying the sketch of Death Pulse with a furrowed brow. "He looks like a human child," he said.
"He cries like one, too," you remarked, remembering the eerie encounter vividly.
"A curse — crying?" His blonde brows furrow in trying to understand. "Why?"
"He wanted to trade the cursed technique and immortality for my heart," you explain, the memory still sending shivers down your spine. "But the curse went haywire when I refused, insisting that what is his should be given. It couldn't forcibly take my heart."
Nanami's brow furrows as he ponders. "Hold on. You mentioned a previous user of the Death Pulse 1000 years ago. Do you have any leads on who that might be?"
Shaking your head, you reply, "Not that I know of. It's just a footnote in the history of dealing with the King of Curses."
"Interesting. This curse has more human-like features than any I've encountered before," Nanami notes, studying the sketch intently.
"Could the curse I encountered be the first user?" you speculate.
"It's a possibility," Nanami muses, conceding after a moment's thought. "But even if this curse had human origins, it doesn't explain why it singled out your heart. Why yours specifically?"
'Your heart beats so purely deliciously... How could I not take it as mine to eat?' The curse's words echo in your mind, yet they feel distant and indistinct. 'You shall fatten your heart! Fill your life generously, overwhelmingly—so I crave it! Your heart is mine to consume!'
Your thoughts whirl as you try to decipher the memory. "What makes me so purely delicious...?"
Nanami hesitates, sensing the awkwardness in his thoughts. "Is that a rhetorical question?"
"Not if you've got an actual answer," you insist innocently, but Nanami merely averts his gaze, unsure how to respond to such an odd inquiry.
"I mean, you did consume the curse, giving it an advantage in accessing you," the first-year boy offers. "So, why not you?"
You realize the futility of asking your question.
'Your kind human heart has placed you in great danger! And now you have come to ask for help from the heartless curse that desires to exploit you...' That curse's words ring throughout your memory once more.
"If this curse originated from a human, maybe that explains why it craves a heart, believing itself to be heartless?" you ponder aloud, tapping your finger on the table.
Nanami strokes his chin in contemplation. "Considering that theory, having a human heart seems synonymous with humanity. Reaching a state of 'godhood' requires shedding that humanity. You can't be humane and divine; it's one or the other."
Suddenly, it clicks in you: "If humanity is stuck in a cycle of rebirth, then it must discard its human form. Death is a rule. Humans must die to transcend into something beyond."
After your speculative ramblings leave Nanami baffled, you snatch the book from his grasp and skim through it, landing on the section about the cycle of Death and rebirth.
"The Death Pulse breaks this cycle by stripping away humanity. The curse devours the heart and replaces it with a cursed one, granting the person a second chance at life," you explain, piecing together the puzzle slowly.
Furrowing his brow, Nanami interjects, "But why does it target your heart specifically?"
"It may require an equal exchange. Everyone desires a second chance at life, but something in my heart must have drawn his attention to me... Though I'm clueless about why he wants it," you admit.
"Okay, I get what you'd gain from it, but what about the curse? Would it regain its humanity?" Nanami asks, his brow still furrowed in thought.
"Assuming that consuming a human heart signifies a separation from godhood, the curse would be passed on to me along with its immortality and the cursed abilities.
The previous user of Death Pulse would regain humanity and mortality, returning to the cycle of reincarnation — brought back to the struggles of human hardship and reality—but since he is beyond his human lifespan, I think he would cease to exist..." you muse, trying to make sense of it all.
You don't know the full extent of how the previous user obtained the Death Pulse initially, but he must have done something that restricted him from obliterating this curse. It feels like he is trapped by it, and his soul is imprisoned. How? Where did his original body go?
You chuckle weakly at the complexity of it all, prompting Nanami to ask, "What's so funny?"
"After all this research, I'm still stuck at square one," you confess, feeling overwhelmed.
Nanami eases his furrowed brow.
"I had no chance to survive from the start...If I want to use or unlock this cursed technique, I must die and allow the curse to eat at my heart. And if I don't, I will still die, if not now, then in my third year during my execution..." You say, letting the book close.
"[Name], you've made progress. It's just one encounter with Death Pulse, and you've already developed a theory. Don't be too hard on yourself," he reassures you in a gentle voice.
"It doesn't feel like progress," you admit, pushing the book away with a sigh.
"... don't give up," Nanami urges, not knowing what else to say to stop you from worrying.
You're slightly taken aback—did you worry him? That wasn't your intention.
You offer him a grateful smile. "You're right. It's just one theory. I shouldn't dwell on it too much. Thank you for helping."
Suddenly, a chill races up his arm, raising goosebumps. Nanami's eyes fixate on the door, and his heart leaps.
"You're jumpy all of a sudden," you observe, noticing his reaction.
"That usually means Geto and Gojo are nearby," he replies.
It's like Nanami's gut feeling is giving him a heads-up.
"Na-na-mi~!"
His prediction is spot on.
"I think it is another prank," he deduces.
You recall Haibara mentioning this ongoing one-side prank rivalry during your last lunch with him and Ijichi.
"They think they're hilarious when they're being annoying," the blond boy grumbles.
You purse your lip, remembering how some of their pranks did make you chuckle. The recent one with the sewn-in clothes reminded you of your older brother's antics. But Nanami doesn't share the sentiment, which hints at something else...
He must be an only child.
Panic courses through his tense body. Each repetition of "Na-na-mi~! Na-na-mi~!" feels like a slap against the back of his head.
Nanami recognizes that irritating voice and the purposeful chant, signalling trouble ahead.
"Just stick close to me. You'll be okay," you reassure him.
"But won't that cause you trouble since you're not talking to them?" he worries, concerned about inconveniencing you.
"Please, just stay," you implore, your gaze pleading with him silently.
He strangely feels his hand tense.
As his hazel eyes meet yours, he notices your grip tightening over his hand—perhaps a reflex to prevent him from darting off to hide among the bookshelves like last time.
For a moment, the blond-haired boy remains silent, the weight of the silence hanging heavy. He knows he's your excuse to be near Geto again and share the same space. Unfortunately, wherever Gojo is, Geto is sure to be close behind.
Since your fight with Geto, you've been feeling the weight of this forced distance more keenly.
Even though Geto is just across campus or in his dorm, he doesn't even attempt to say hi, flash a sad smile, or make eye contact. You don't blame him—after all, you did tell him off pretty harshly.
But it's been a whole month!
You'd think he'd at least try to reach out, maybe because he misses you too much and can't hold out any longer—imagine him showing up at your door, begging for forgiveness on his knees!
After an exchange of apologies, it could lead to hugs, kisses, and maybe more—you daydream about it, but lately, you're too down to fantasize.
'Ah! You got me pent up, damn you, Suguru!' You mentally grumble, frustrated by this ongoing emotional tug-of-war.
You've even considered taking up smoking to deal with the tension. But no matter how hard you try, you always stray against it.
You keep replaying the memories of your laughter-filled conversations and stolen glances, unable to shake off thoughts of him and the urge to seek him out.
Your heart wants to give in first, but your mind warns against it!
Sometimes, you deliberately seek out the auxiliary manager for an excuse to chat. It allows him to talk endlessly but also leads you past the training field, where Geto practices with Haibara under the watchful judgement of Yaga, Gojo, Ieiri, and Nanami. You do it to catch a glimpse of him.
So, would Geto consider dropping by the library if Gojo is looking for Nanami?
You hope so!
Your heart races at the thought of seeing him, especially now that you've been apart for so long. It's getting harder to keep your distance when all you want to do is run into his arms and forget everything.
It's pathetic how much it's getting to you!
But this struggle feels more like punishment for you than for him, knowing how quick you are to forgive. Your kindness feels like a curse, so you have to stay strong. Maybe you deserve this.
Lost in your thoughts, Gojo's boisterous voice snaps you back to reality as his unruly white hair comes into view.
"Found you, Na-na-mi—" Gojo begins, plucking off his sunglasses, but his words trail off when he sees you in the room with the first-year.
Before he can warn his friend, Geto slips in, freezing in the doorway with surprise written all over his face.
'Oh, shit!' Gojo's mind races with anxiety, 'Abort mission! Abort!'
At first, there's nothing but silence between you and Geto, but the air crackles with tension, thick and suffocating, making it hard to breathe.
Nanami feels a pang of guilt as awkwardness settles over the room like a heavy fog.
With a frustrated huff, he prepares to step forward and diffuse the situation.
But before he can move, his steps come to an abrupt halt. The first-year blinks, puzzled, as his hand remains linked with yours.
You squeeze his hand tighter, trying to steady your nerves while keeping your gaze locked on Geto.
But dark eyes are fixed on the connecting hands with an underlying surprise and alarm that only causes his brow to twitch.
Nanami wants to pull away, but your grip is surprisingly firm, holding him in place.
Your tongue feels heavy. "Suguru--."
"Nanami, don't forget to check the wedding register," Geto interjects, avoiding eye contact. His words are calm, but there's a tension beneath the surface. "Let's not be careless with the gifts."
Nanami's heart races in his chest, drowning out all other sounds. Geto's calm demeanour is unsettling calm. How did he know about the extra toaster in Nanami's closet, intended as a gift?
Oh, right, they raided his closet for a prank.
"Sorry to intrude. We'll leave you," Geto says, his voice tight.
As Geto turns away, his indifference falters, revealing a hint of turmoil beneath the surface.
But you think differently. Was holding Nanami's hand not enough to provoke him for a reaction?
Even Gojo, usually calm, seems surprised by Geto's unusual calmness.
You were trying to provoke him.
The minutes drag on agonizingly, feeling like an eternity. Despite the discomfort, Nanami remains sitting, feeling indebted to you for dealing with these troublemakers.
But this is different from the fights between Gojo and Geto. With Gojo, he is usually quick to anger and prefers physical confrontation. Yet, in front of you, he's oddly composed and restrained.
You blink, and when your eyes reopen, Geto is gone. Gojo too.
Shock courses through you like a lightning bolt. What just happened? Sure, you and Geto fought once, but why is he acting so casual after all this time apart?
He should be begging for forgiveness, not walking away like nothing happened!
Geto's been hanging out too much with Gojo lately, and you're starting to wonder if some of Gojo's cockiness is rubbing off on him. Or maybe Geto's just too used to you always giving in and apologizing first?
Your lips press together tightly as a wave of sadness washes over your face.
Why'd you have to go and do that? It's not like you. It's so simple. He was all calm and collected, and it got under your skin, so you decided to stir things up. Geto never really fights back like this with Gojo.
Why won't he stand up for himself like he does against Gojo? Is your argument not worth it to him?
But there's no satisfaction in this fight. It feels empty and pointless; you're already itching to apologize and move on.
Does he even care anymore?
You release Nanami's hand, forgetting it was still clasped in yours and that he hadn't made any move to let go.
Meanwhile, your underclassman falls silent, his hazel eyes drifting toward the pile of books nearby. He starts arranging them neatly, returning them to their places on the shelf. You follow suit.
After a few moments, Nanami breaks the silence. "Renzuko-senpai... You know—"
"Yeah, I don't need a lecture," you cut in flatly.
"You don't even know what I was going to say," Nanami points out, watching as you put away the books.
"I know it's dumb, picking a fight, especially with the wedding coming up..." you reluctantly admit, your eyes skimming the pages of one of the half-opened books instead of meeting Nanami's gaze.
"I'm sorry I dragged you into it. I won't do it again. I might as well forgive them now. I am over the lying and almost-getting-killed drama. Plus, I should keep things friendly, especially for the wedding, and not ruin the mood for the big day—"
"I wasn't going to scold you for being upset. You shouldn't feel obligated to forgive them just because of the wedding or to keep the peace, especially when they were clearly in the wrong," Nanami interrupts.
You know you're torn between your emotions and logical thinking.
And Nanami sees it, too.
A weary sigh escapes you as you make a faint noise in the back of your throat, your eyes closing momentarily in exhaustion. "What do you think I should do then?"
Nanami shrugs, knowing that relationships aren't his forte. He'd probably cut ties and move on if he were in your shoes. But he realizes that you've known Geto and Gojo longer than he has, and with your kind-hearted nature, a cold-hearted approach might not be the best way for you to deal with this emotionally.
Plus, you are also dealing with a more significant stress at hand—Death Pulse.
So he offers his advice as best as he can, knowing it's the only time he'll ever defend those two annoying second-years, not because they deserve it, but to help you find closure.
"Forgiving them without addressing the real issue won't mean much," he says, taking the book from your hands and helping you restack it. "So, figure out what's truly bothering you so much that it's hard to forgive them wholeheartedly."
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
°⌜ 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⌟°
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The chill of the night seeps into every corner of your dorm room, sending shivers down your spine. It's been a month since you slept here, but the place still feels foreign, like it belongs entirely to someone else.
Restlessness tugs at you, making sleep seem like a distant dream.
Frustrated, you surrender to the insomnia, sitting up in bed with a sigh. Your arms dangle over your knees, and you stare blankly at the wall, exhaustion weighing heavy on your shoulders.
"Was Suguru's room ever this cold?" you mumble to yourself, memories of him flooding your mind.
You recall the nights spent in his warm embrace. His presence was like a cozy blanket, wrapping you up and chasing away the chill.
Even when he was away, his room offered solace, a haven where you could escape the cold of your thoughts.
Memories of him start resurfacing about late-night talks, where you would listen to him describe his day on a mission or expedition. He would tell you the sights, the curses he ate, and even the places he wanted to go with you.
Then, as he talks, his fingers caress your spine up and down, helping you puddle against his chest sleepily. He'll lay here for as long as it takes until sleep or unconsciousness steals away the thoughts, though silenced by the soft strokes of his hands against your skin.
You recall humming in active listening while rubbing the strands of his dark hair between your thumb and index finger.
Ah. Now you remember.
His room was always warm, so you would sleep in his dorm every night rather than in yours. Even when he was on overnight trips, you would still sleep in his bed because it was more comfortable.
The reminiscence comforts you, easing the tension in your muscles. Slowly, your eyelids grow heavy, and the darkness of sleep beckons you.
But as you drift away, a sudden fear grips you, pulling you back to reality. The memories of the Death Pulse Curse flood your mind, a reminder of the darkness lurking just beyond the surface.
𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄
You remember the words echoing in your mind, the heavy weight of their meaning pressing down on you.
With a shudder, you push the thoughts away.
Chills race down your spine as you force yourself to sit up, letting out a frustrated sigh that echoes in the quiet room.
With widened eyes, you throw the blanket off, needing to shake off the weight of that haunting memory. Anxiously, you give yourself a moment, rubbing your temples and breathing in the antiseptic scent of the room.
It feels like problems are piling up one after the other.
When you're awake, you worry about Geto; when you're asleep, you worry about Death Pulse.
Your brain feels like it's about to explode from all the thoughts, and your heart clenches with each beat. Everything is just so overwhelming.
What's bothering you so much that forgiveness feels impossible?
Nanami's words from earlier come rushing back. You know they didn't mean any harm, but they thought lying was the only way to keep you from pushing yourself too hard, from falling into despair.
Sure, it sucks; Geto and Gojo lied about you unlocking cursed energy and nearly got you killed.
But if they hadn't lied, you'd probably still be stuck in that endless cycle of self-doubt while they risked their lives on missions for the greater good.
Their lie gave you a chance, a mission. With your strength, you saved lives and finally unlocked your cursed technique.
So, did the lie help you? Did it bring you closer to understanding your cursed energy?
Unfortunately, it did, and it's all thanks to Gojo convincing Geto to go along with it...
But beyond that, knowing that your best friend, the person you trusted most, chose to believe someone else over you stings.
That thought cuts deep—it's hard to understand why.
Geto 'needed' to trust Gojo instead of you. And the fact that Gojo was right only made Geto trust him more.
Maybe you're angry because Geto chose Gojo over you.
No, that's not it. That theory doesn't capture the depth of your feelings.
Ugh, the frustration is real. Not just because they almost put your life on the line but because you can't shake off this strange feeling in your heart like it's trying to defend them. They lied for a reason, right? And that reason was to shield you from that overwhelming anxiety about Death Pulse.
You try to keep your distance from Geto, but deep down, you know this isn't a permanent "get lost" situation; it's more like a "give me some space" vibe. It would be best if you had time to cool off after that heated argument.
But this "time apart" has been dragging on for a solid month now, each day feeling longer and lonelier. It stings to realize that he's not reaching out like maybe you don't matter to him.
Are you feeling like you're nothing? Yeah, that's a whole new level of hurt.
Now, doubt is creeping in, taking over your mind.
Did you overreact?
You and Geto haven't exchanged a single word since you told him to fuck off, and it's not fixing a darn thing. It's like you're stuck in this weird limbo, and you're so over it. You're tired of fighting for an apology that never comes.
Your heart clenches uncomfortably, and you bury your face into the pillow, arms wrapped tight around it.
Shoot, you miss Geto.
You want him back.
Maybe that's why you're finally dragging yourself out of bed.
You roll over, the blankets tangling around your legs before slipping off the bed and pooling on the hardwood floor.
As you step out of your dorm, the stillness of the second-year corridor envelops you.
Moonlight spills through the windows, casting a soft glow over the hallway. Your footsteps echo softly against the floor as you go to Geto's dorm, conveniently adjacent to yours.
You know he's inside; you heard the click of his door and the muffled sounds of getting into bed filtering through the wall.
You are standing before his door and a surge of nerves courses through you.
Memories of your encounter at the library earlier today replay in your mind, leaving you unsure and hesitant. It's unlikely you will provoke a reaction deliberately, especially from someone like Geto, who has always respected your boundaries—perhaps a bit too much. The thought frustrates you, stirring a mix of emotions.
"He's so annoyingly considerate," you mutter, a wry twist to your lips.
After composing yourself, you muster the courage to knock on the door, your palms slightly clammy with nerves.
But there's yet to be a response.
It's late, and Geto is probably asleep already. Yet, the need to see and talk to him gnaws at your heart, making the distance between you unbearable.
With a deep breath, you contemplate your next move.
Your fingers hover over the cold metal of the doorknob, hesitating.
Outside, the moon casts its silvery glow, painting the room in eerie shadows.
"Suguru..." Your voice barely registers above a whisper, lost in the stillness of the night.
A slight movement in the bed catches your attention, and you hold your breath, hoping for a response. But there's only silence, heavy and suffocating.
"Suguru..." You try again, a hint of urgency in your tone.
As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you step inside. You could flick on the light but decide against it, not wanting to disturb his slumber.
Shit. You didn't come here to talk. You came for something else entirely.
Ignoring the scattered blankets on the floor, you go to the bed, your heart pounding. You reach out, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips.
Shirtless, he lies with his back to you.
Your mind races, thoughts swirling in the darkness. Why are you here again? Oh, right. It doesn't matter anymore. Not now.
Your fingers trace the contours of his spine, a familiar touch that sends shivers down your spine. You know it would be best if you woke him. He would want to see you, hear your voice, and feel your touch.
But instead, you slip under the covers beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist as he continues to dream.
The quiet room is filled with the rhythmic melody of his gentle snoring, which usually lulls you into a swift slumber when you're nestled in his embrace.
A chill prompts him to shift, allowing you to nuzzle your cold cheek against his warmth.
You decide it's time to rouse him from his peaceful repose.
"Suguru, wake up," you whisper, your voice soft and dreamy. Then you plant a tender kiss on his shoulder.
His skin feels warmer than usual, but you chalk it up to the impending summer heat.
He stirs slightly, emitting a sleepy hum. "Huh?" he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep. "[Name]...? Why are...you here?"
This exchange is a familiar dance between you two, though Geto's affectionate gestures usually gently awaken you. Being on the giving end feels both natural and nerve-wracking.
"I'm sorry for putting distance between us," you admit quietly, your words coaxing him back to consciousness. "I miss you. Please forgive me."
Friendships have their ups and downs, but you've always been quick to forgive. You know your tender heart is often taken advantage of, but Geto differs. He holds a special place in your heart, and you're willing to make an exception for him.
After spending countless nights apart, the longing to reconcile with him and satisfy those pent-up desires hits you hard and fast.
Your lips trail from his shoulder blade to the side of his neck, gently stirring him from his slumber.
"Wake up, Suguru," you murmur, your breath warm against his skin. You are starved for his touch.
His attention sluggishly returns. "...what?"
His nose brushes your cheek, guiding you to his lips.
With a gentle tug, you coax him onto his back as you straddle him. Pressing your bodies together, you revel in the sensation of his smooth skin under your fingertips.
A gasp escapes him, but you dampen it with a kiss.
With your other hand, you let your thumb rub against the bulb of his throat, sensing him gulp back a breath.
His lips feel sloppy, but it does not stop sparking a warmth within you, igniting every nerve ending as the heat courses through your body. You feel his muscles tense beneath you. Finally, he's awake.
Stimulation happened quicker than usual, perhaps due to the prolonged separation.
Undeterred, your hands explore his chest, tracing the contours of his muscles.
With a tight tug, you begin to loosen the drawstrings of his sweatpants, awaiting his response. His pulse quickens beneath your touch.
"Do you want me to make it up to you?" you whisper between pecks, your breath warm against his lips.
His heartbeat races in response.
Your fingers itch towards his sweatpants, letting the tips lift under the fabric and caress the skin. "Let me make it up to you, okay—?"
But as you attempt to slip your hand inside entirely, he jerks forward, accidentally striking your nose with his forehead.
You recoil from the unexpected impact, losing your balance and tumbling off the bed with a resounding thud, colliding with the nightstand.
Clutching your shoulder in pain, you groan, "Ow! You could've just said no!"
Gritting your teeth, you rise unsteadily, fumbling to switch on the lamp. "Geez, Suguru! At least I'm trying to make up for—"
The room floods with light.
But the words die at your lips.
Your gaze lands on a familiar sight—a mess of white hair peeking from under a blanket on the bed. Your heart clenches at the sight of red ears against his pale skin, a stark contrast that speaks volumes.
A wave of emptiness washes over you, chilling you to the core.
You stand frozen, unable to form coherent words, while Gojo's trembling hand reaches out to tug the blanket further over himself, completely concealing his form.
Silence settles around you like a heavy blanket, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves outside.
It takes a moment to register Gojo's presence, his figure blending into the room's shadows. When you finally do, disbelief etches lines into your brow and tightens your lips.
But then it hits you like a ton of bricks, and you exhale sharply, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
Beneath the covers, Gojo flinches at the sound of approaching footsteps, his fear palpable.
You reach out to pull back the blankets, but he quickly wraps himself up tighter, making it impossible to uncover him. Yet, his flushed face and embarrassed gaze speak volumes, confirming the reality of the situation.
'This can't be happening, it can't be happening, it can't be happening—' you think, your heart skipping as you struggle to process what you see.
"Where's Suguru?" Your voice comes out terrifyingly controlled.
Gojo's shaken blue eyes meet your icy glare, and he stammers, "He's on a mission—"
"Why are you in his bed?" Anger thickens your throat, making it hard to speak.
"Well, I didn't want to sleep on the floor—"
The excuse only fuels your frustration. This was your and Geto's bed, a space reserved for the two of you. Why would Geto allow Gojo to intrude on the space that belongs to you? Especially when Gojo could quickly teleport back to his estate?
Your fists clench at your sides, and your face contorts with mixed emotions.
Was this Geto's way of punishing you for the fight you had?
He was an exception that was forgiven easily. You could ignore the lying. You could forgive almost dying from it --
But a strange sensation twists in your chest, unsettling and disturbing. It races through your heart, beating too forcefully, too intensely.
Ah, there it is... the real reason forgiving Geto feels impossible.
You can't forgive him for putting his faith in someone the world sees as the strongest over you—someone who is supposed to mean everything to him. This digs deeper into the wound of reality you've been desperately trying to avoid, destroying the last bit of faith in yourself.
Now you know.
Now, you will acknowledge the truth as it is becoming a reality in front of you.
You're not strong enough to break free from the Death Pulse Curse. Not strong enough to admit your overwhelming fear of losing not just your future with him but any future at all!
Should you apologize for leaning on Geto and hoping he'd have faith in your strength when you've lost it?! Did your weakness drive him to trust Gojo more than you? Does he feel safer with Gojo now?!
A dark, coiling anger tightens in your chest, suffocating against your ribs. That must be it. It feels like jealous anger. Thick and suffocating, like heavy vapour.
And then everything speeds up.
You grip the blanket tightly.
Gojo blinks, panic flashing in his eyes before you swing the blanket cocoon, flipping him through the air.
His world spins, and suddenly, he's crashing onto the ground with a loud thud. He gasps, startled, as you loom over him, pressing your forearm firmly against his chest.
As the blanket loosens, Gojo tries to push you away, but you instinctively grasp his wrist, pinning him down.
"Look at that," you say, your voice dripping with satisfaction. "Aren't you supposed to be strong? Stronger than me, at least? Yet here you are, easily handled."
Gojo coughs, winded. Your weight presses down on him, firm and heavy, leaving him unable to move.
"Time out!" he spits, his voice edged with irritation.
"Fuck your stupid time-out!" you retort, the words slipping out like venom through clenched teeth. Your eyebrows knit together in a mix of anger and hurt.
"Just because I haven't talked to either of you in a while doesn't mean you can forget about me!" Accusations fly from your lips rapidly, your chest tight with emotion as you fight the urge to lash out physically. "I still exist! I am still alive!"
A tremor runs through the boy's body, his white hair fluttering slightly.
His brows furrow as he recognizes the hurt in your expression.
He feels compelled to clear up the misunderstanding he believes exists between you.
"Hey, I didn't do anything wrong! We left you alone as you asked–" he starts to say, his breath catching in his throat.
Those blue eyes lock onto your raised fist.
You don't remember second-guessing how much to pull a punch, at least not for this one. You wanted to put in all of the unrestricted, unrestrained brutality.
"Satoru — I thought you, of all people, would get it...!"
"What am I supposed to understand when you always give me the cold shoulder and shoot daggers at me? I'm not a mind reader. You have to tell me!" He retorts,
His lungs feel thin, constricted by your weight pressing down on him.
The swirling thought fills every nook and cranny of your brain, roaring with intensity. You're on the verge of leaving, cutting off this impending fight because facing this realization seems too daunting. Jealousy isn't your thing, especially not over Geto. You've always believed in a future with him—
𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄
Your fingers twitch, the ringing in your head growing louder, pushing you towards violence. You're fed up with this constant reminder!
Deep down, you've always known the harsh reality.
You're aware of your impending Death and lack the strength to escape it. You're not strong enough to live, love, or secure Geto's future.
You are not strong like Gojo, so you doubt your ability to be everything for Geto's sake.
"How could you do this to me? Couldn't you have waited until I was gone to spare me from this pain? You didn't have to let go of Suguru on my own! Why did you have to do this to me?!" you burst out.
His blue eyes widen in surprise.
It's hard to imagine anyone Gojo fears. Why would he?
Born with rare traits and techniques, those with the Six Eyes typically meet early ends. They're targeted by other clans, sorcerers, and even curses due to their perceived threat.
Despite being the strongest sorcerer, Gojo must ensure his safety, appearing untouchable to discourage any attempts on his life. This facade of coldness and aloofness is necessary to prevent being hunted down.
But in your presence, a single thought crosses his mind.
'He hates me,' Gojo thinks, feeling everything spinning out of control, 'he seriously hates me now.'
You're furious with him. At least, it feels that way.
His head throbs with pain, but it's the crack in his heart caused by your disappointment and hurt that burns the most.
But there is this crack in his heart at your tone of disappointment in him—and the utter hurt on your face at his unintentional action. He was looking for a place to sleep away from his home for one night when Geto was out covering one of his overnight missions.
Feeling the anger bubbling inside you, you know you can't hold it in any longer.
"Go on," Gojo urges, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. "Let it out. Yell, hit me if you have to. Just get it out of your system."
Will letting out your frustration make things better between you two?
Can you go back to being friends after this? Will you stop hating him now?
"I'm too tired to deal with this," He mutters, exhaustion lacing his words.
And then, silence falls like a heavy curtain.
"I'm just so tired," he repeats softly.
You look at him, slowly lowering your clenched fist. "Satoru—"
"I'm exhausted, okay! Just do us both a favour and hit me already!"
He shuts his eyes tightly, seeking solace in the darkness behind his eyelids, a brief escape from his headache.
But then, a rush of air fills his lungs, easing the tension within him. It's like a refreshing wave washing over him, bringing relief.
Opening his eyes, he finds you watching him.
Unlike the harsh glares you've been giving him all night, there's a softer expression on your face now—concern, maybe even worry if he dares to hope for it.
"Your nose is bleeding," you point out gently.
You let go of his wrist, watching him reach up to touch his nose. His hand trembles as he sees the crimson stain on his fingertips.
"...shit," he murmurs, taken aback by the sudden numbness.
And then, without warning, he lashes out, kicking you in the stomach.
You gasp in surprise, stumbling backwards until you hit the edge of the bed.
"What the hell—" you start, but he's already bolting out of the room.
Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, bleeds by nothing more than a stare.
Shame and embarrassment mingle with the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Pathetic.
He can't keep up any longer. All his efforts to remain strong, especially in front of you, unravel with each drop of blood that stains his fingers.
If you see him bleed, will you still trust him to protect you? Will you still believe in his strength, which sets him apart from everyone else?
He's supposed to be the strongest, feared by all.
But if you see him bleed, he's just like anyone else.
His mind races, overwhelmed by thoughts of your shocked gaze.
And now, on top of everything else, he's burdened by the fear of losing you.
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°⌜ 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧' 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 ⌟°
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐘
The morning sun peeks through the window, casting a warm glow that nudges Nanami awake. He rolls out of bed with a straining stretch, his limbs protesting the early hour. He yawns and rubs his eyes, blinking away the remnants of sleep.
As Nanami shuffles toward his closet, he bypasses the neatly folded uniform and opts for one he'd prepared the night before. His fingers graze over the fabric as he pulls it out, the familiar texture comforting.
Balancing his toiletries in one hand, Nanami heads for the door, ready to start his day with a refreshing shower. But as he swings the door open, his momentum falters, and he halts in surprise.
Standing before him is Geto, his dark-haired senior, blocking the entrance with his imposing presence.
"Morning, Nanami," he greets, a small smile on his lips.
Nanami returns the greeting, his eyes flicking to the folder clutched in Geto's hand. "What's that?"
"I swung by Yaga's office earlier. He had some missions and asked me to pass one along to you," Geto explains, offering the folder.
Nanami reaches for it, but the grip tightens, holding it just out of reach. "Hmm," he hums thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on Nanami's hand.
Nanami arches an eyebrow, puzzled by Geto's scrutiny. "Is something wrong?"
Geto shakes his head, a faint smirk dancing on his lips. "No, just admiring your hands, Nanami. They're quite nice."
Nanami glances down at his hand, unsure what to make of Geto's comment. Before he can respond, a shadowy rage passes over those onyx eyes, a glint of something darker lurking within.
"Take good care of them," Geto says cryptically, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It would be a shame if something happened to them."
Nanami's stomach churns uneasily at the ominous warning. "Um, thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
With a forced smile, Geto releases his grip on the folder and steps aside, allowing Nanami to pass. As Nanami hurries out of the room, he can't shake the feeling of foreboding that lingers in the air.
"Good luck on the mission," Geto calls after him, his words carrying an unsettling edge.
━━━━━━ °⌜ 𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗗𝗜𝗧𝗦 ⌟° ━━━━━━
[Name] read out the que card : Okay, for today's end credits activity is to demostrate how you would react to a stranger fliritng with me...Go.
Gojo shrugs: Wait, why would they will flirt with you when i am literally standing there?
[Name]: THIS AIN'T ABOUT YOU!
Geto crosses his arms: I will knock them out. As if I would give them two seconds to look your way.
[Name]: Please don't.
Ieiri: If they flirt with my husband -- I would divorce you for cheating.
[Name] blushes: We're married now?!
Nanami: If they ask for your number -- give them mine.
[Name] chuckle: A decent response!
Haibara smiles: My senpai likes guys with lovely smiles and hard abs -- What made them think they got a chance?
[Name] gives a thumbs up: Atta boy!
Toji: Flirt back--distract them so I can steal their wallet.
[Name]: Are you that broke, man?
───── ❝ 𝗔𝗱𝗱𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗗𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘀 ≫≫ ᴛʀɪᴠɪᴀ ❞ ─────
Mako designated Renzuko as his best man, but Yue triumphed in a game of rock-paper-scissors, securing Renzuko's presence at her bachelorette party. He had the opportunity to bring Ieiri along, but they were unprepared for the sight of male performers dancing. They found each other having to cover their eyes. But Renzuko peeked...and Ieiri too.
Geto and Gojo have pulled five pranks on Nanami, their favourite being the recently sewn-in clothes prank.
During his separation from Geto, Renzuko has lunch with either Ieiri or Ijichi, Haibara, and Nanami. He enjoyed dining with others and only opted to eat alone if it was in front of a TV screen.
Before the start of chapter 6, you accompanied Ieiri to search for her formal dress for the wedding. She settled on a dark blue one. You decided to pair it with a matching colored tie.
Gojo had never experienced a nosebleed himself -- he honestly thought he was incapable of ever sustaining an injury from a glare.
By the end of Chapter 6, Renzuko was left conflicted. Now that he was reflecting with a clearer head, he realized that his actions, accusations, and overthinking had made him act recklessly toward Gojo. However, another part still wished he had just landed one punch.
Geto hated it when you hung out with Nanami specifically. He heard that Yaga had assigned you to be the manager who handled the first-years' missions, and he found you already rushing to see him. It annoyed him, and maybe that was why he had been pulling pranks on Nanami—doing so alleviated that annoyance.
Geto permitted Gojo to sleep in his room solely because Geto disliked sleeping there himself. He would often embark on overnight missions to evade the constant reminder of not coming back to find you not sleeping there. Additionally, it provided Gojo with a safe haven where he could rest without the need to be constantly stimulated or subjected to the pressures of his clan.
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