Chapter Text
There’s a boy with kind, tired eyes who visits your family’s gardens almost regularly.
He walks in timidly, slowly losing his nervousness amidst the blooming flowers and the scent of the surrounding petals. You don’t greet him with anything more than a smile when he meets your eyes—anything else might scare him off, you think. What with the way he shrinks into himself when any attention is placed onto him and flinches at loud noises, you were sure it was the right move.
You’re not blind to the mass of cursed energy that hums around him maliciously, or to the way it snaps to his defense when he gets scared. But you also aren’t blind to the way the boy becomes a mess as it does so, pleading with it to stop. The few times some unsavory folk tried their chances against the boy, the cursed spirit had lashed out harshly while the boy shook in misery. You’d quietly intervened every time, gathering some employees to usher out the troublemakers and giving the boy privacy as he gathered himself afterward.
You don’t allow him to thank you for it. It doesn’t seem right to, not when he seems so miserable already. It’s only the right thing to do, even for a strange, cursed boy who doesn’t seem at all happy with his wretched version of a guardian angel. So, you let him be in the gentle peace of the gardens.
(Your extended family and the servants around the household don’t question you, though you know they desperately want to. They do nothing but stare at the boy, flinching away when you interrupt their gazes. It brings a bitter smile to your lips. At least their aversion was useful for something.)
On a dreary day with an overhang of thick clouds and biting winds, you finally approach him.
He sits in his normal spot, a stone bench that overlooks a field of poppies and roses. When you were little, you always pestered your family about why the bench was as comfortable as it was when it was made out of stone. Your mother had declared that it was enchanted by your ancestors to be that way. While the notion is a silly one—yet one you weren’t unconvinced of to this day—the boy had obviously found comfort in one of your favorite spots in the gardens.
As you walk towards him, you pay no mind to the way your kimono flaps gracelessly with the wind, eyes watering and daffodils safe in hand, waving like they were being shaken in a child’s hold and not in a gentle grasp. Your steps are almost silent against the pavement, the sound of your flowers and bushes covering whatever noise you could have made. As a result, the boy doesn’t notice your approach, wringing his hands in front of him as he watches the flora. You almost feel bad for breaking his bubble.
You tap his shoulder, steeling yourself when he flinches forward, his head whipping around frightfully, eyes wide. You gracefully ignore the way his curse grew restless, its attention on you enough to give you chills. You give him a soft smile as you ask, “Do you mind if I sit here?”
The boy blinks and stutters. “I guess.”
A patient blink is your response, and you tilt your head to the side. He jolts. “I mean—no? As in, I don’t mind. You can sit here!”
You step beside the bench to sit properly next to him as he stammers, pulling the daffodils closer to you to cover them from the wind. You wouldn’t be surprised if sudden rain ruined this meeting, you think. A gift from a dreary day to an equally dreary boy.
Looking over at the boy, you analyze how he wrings his hands nervously and refuses to make eye contact. The cursed energy whips around him in agitation.
“I apologize if I interrupted your time alone. I just noticed how you sit here often, and thought I should introduce myself,” you say politely, tone as low as it would be if you were speaking to a cornered animal. The boy breathes out rather harshly, eyes flickering to and away from yours.
“It’s fine,” he murmurs, and you have to strain your ears to hear him. Awkward silence falls when he says nothing else, your grip on the daffodils tightening.
You abruptly hold out your free hand in front of him, almost cringing when he flinches back. You blurt out your full name, mouth pursed awkwardly as the boy blinks quickly in shock. He hesitantly reaches back, holding your hand in a clammy grip that almost makes you wince from the feeling. It isn’t one familiar to you, not when you’re kept on family grounds all day and the people around you have a habit of politely ignoring your existence.
He introduces himself demurely. “Okkotsu Yuuta.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Okkotsu-san,” you respond politely. “So, what do you think of my family’s gardens?”
“Ah, they’re yours?” he asks, sheepish. “I just thought you worked here…”
You don’t laugh; you still aren’t sure if something like that would drive him off. Instead, you give him another smile. “You aren’t wrong there, I suppose. But, yes, these are my family’s gardens that I help work on. But you didn’t answer my question,” you lightly prod.
Okkotsu blushes, red like spider lilies dusting his cheeks. “They’re neat—great! I meant great. I like the, uh… flowers.”
Here, you do laugh after his words, unable to hold back at Okkotsu’s floundering. His flush grows worse. “I’m glad you do. It’s my clan’s pride and joy. We work very hard to make sure it stays pretty year-round.”
Okkotsu gives you a shy smile, lighting up his gaunt features in a way that makes you curious to see what he was like at his brightest. “I think your family does an amazing job of it.”
You try to gently pry more information out of him for the rest of the time he spends at the gardens, getting used to the cursed energy that hangs over Okkotsu like a second skin. You learn you two are in the same grade. You learn that he goes to public school whereas you’re homeschooled—jujutsu clans hardly ever send their children to public school. Not when they can be taught about curses in a curse-free environment. At least you’re not alone in that experience.
You learn that, while Okkotsu is surrounded by a protective curse, he’s unaware of any other curses. The smaller ones that are common around the emptier spots of the gardens are invisible to him, making you curious as to how someone so entrenched in cursed energy could be so oblivious to the world around them.
When he leaves, Okkotsu gives you a tentative wave goodbye, your own following his footsteps. You smile to yourself as your foretold rain begins to drizzle around you, motioning for a servant to come near.
“That boy,” you say, even as the servant barely reaches your position. “His name is Okkotsu Yuuta. Any time he comes into the gardens, he will do so as my guest. Treat him kindly.”
You ponder to yourself as the servant bows and murmurs an agreement.
A shy boy who wields a cursed spirit powerful enough to destroy a city and wears it like a protective blanket... likes to visit your gardens. It almost sounds like the beginning of a joke.
You meet with Okkotsu Yuuta a few more times.
Always in the afternoons with a peaceful atmosphere, and never with company. Some days the sun shines so harshly that it paints his haunted features in stark contrast to the greenery around you two. Some days it drizzles and the world blooms with grays that match the highlights of his hair and slate-blue eyes. But the bench where you two sit is always a little bubble of serenity in your family’s gardens, exempt from any chaos the world brings.
One day, Gojo Satoru arrives at your doorstep, bringing a whirlwind of entropy loaded in a bright smile.
You stand with perfect posture as the strongest sorcerer stands tall next to bushes of begonias, reaching out and caressing the flowers gently before you can give a warning not to. “So,” he chirps out, a smile bright enough to match crocuses, “I hear you have a regular visitor!”
“We have many regulars, Gojo-san,” you say airily, “you’ll have to be more specific.”
He hums, amused. “A kid about this tall,” he gestures somewhere at his chest, “with black hair. Looks like he could use a nap? Usually toting around a special-grade curse!”
Inwardly, you freeze, ice spreading at the thought that your new maybe-friend had a special-grade curse around them at all times. Outwardly, you blink slowly. “Would his name happen to be Okkotsu Yuuta?”
Gojo snaps his fingers playfully, crocus smile growing sharp. “Exactly the one! So, tell me all about Yuuta. Leave nothing out!”
You steady yourself, uncertain as to why the strongest sorcerer would come to you for information, and thrown off to learn that the sweet boy who liked your gardens was more dangerous than you could have imagined. “He comes here often,” you start, your voice raspy. “We started talking recently.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Okkotsu-san is a very quiet person. I enjoy his company.”
Gojo leans forward. Though you can’t see his fabled six-eyes, you feel like every single one is stuck right on you. It feels like his bandages hide nothing from him. “And the cursed spirit around him,” he says, almost kindly, “have you noticed that, too?”
“Of course I did,” you retort, wrinkling your nose in offense. “No jujutsu sorcerer could ignore that. I just… didn’t know it was a special-grade, is all.”
“Hmm,” Gojo rocks on his heels. You’re struck with the image of a toddler. You've had years to deal with it, but you still don’t know how to handle the comparison. “And nothing’s happened since you’ve met? No incidents?”
“Well… before, there would be some people who tried to cause problems. His cursed spirit took care of them. Quickly.”
You grimace at the memory of a black and white curse with monstrous teeth, screams that you still haven’t managed to forget ringing throughout your skull. Quickly was an understatement.
“But nothing’s ever happened to me. I’ve never been in danger around Okkotsu-san.”
Gojo pets the begonias around him with a contemplative air. It’s a sight you didn’t expect to see when you woke up that morning. “Thank you very much for this information. It’s going to help a lot!”
His words make you frown. “With what?”
He clicks his tongue, waving a hand around nonchalantly. “Making sure young Okkotsu doesn’t get executed, of course.”
“What?”
“Nothing to worry yourself about,” he coos, and you clench your hands into fists. “Say, do you ever think about joining Jujutsu High?”
You carefully breathe out of your nose, your teeth grinding together. Gojo Satoru had audacity, but it wasn’t unwarranted, you remind yourself.
“Thank you for the offer, Gojo-san, but my clan and I are content with my homeschool training.”
“Oh, but that’s so boring,” he whines. “What about friends? A life? Don’t you want to see the world?”
“While I’m sure the world of countryside Tokyo is very large,” you deadpan, “I think I’ll be fine with my clan. Thank you for your offer.”
And the twenty others, you think to yourself, reminded of the numerous times he’s tried to bug your parents into sending you to Jujutsu High. One day he’ll drag you to Tokyo by sheer annoyance.
It’s not that you dislike Jujutsu High. At least, not entirely. You’re just more comfortable in the clan compound you grew up in, surrounded by familiars. Were you sheltered? Most definitely; but you couldn’t find much reason to leave.
“I’ll get you to Tokyo someday,” Gojo sighs. “Maybe I’ll bribe you with Yuuta, hm?”
You roll your eyes before hesitating. “Can you make sure he doesn’t get…” the rest of the words don’t come out. You swallow, then try again. “I’m sure he doesn’t deserve that sort of punishment. Please.”
The only thing you hear for a moment is the whistling of petals and branches on the breeze.
“I’ll try my best,” Gojo promises softly, reaching over to pat your head. Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to scowl and bat him away like normal.
You watch as he leaves, hoping the scent of sage that follows him doesn’t lead you wrong.
Over a week later, you hold yourself firmly composed when Gojo comes to visit again, smile tulip-bright.
You haven’t heard anything from Yuuta since his visit before Gojo's. The news of his maybe-execution hasn’t let you sleep at night. You’re not sure what you would do without seeing sweet, tired eyes in your periphery.
It’s with an alarmingly loud call of your name that Gojo speeds towards you, long limbs moving so quickly it reminds you of old, exaggerated animations. The emotion the scene evokes is similar to that of what you imagine would be felt when a raging bear races towards you: pure fear and misery.
“Please leave,” you say when he reaches you. “You always make my day worse. I just want to relax.”
He releases a playful huff, grasping behind him for a form hidden by his lankiness. You wince in sympathy for the poor soul. Gojo places them in front of him, letting you see them fully. You only catch a glimpse of a large, white jacket before your gaze is stuck on slate-blue irises, as wide and confused as your own.
Gojo proceeds to do jazz hands right next to Okkotsu’s shoulders. “Tada!”
You can only blink in shock, your hands that were carrying a quaint watering can begin to shake. You breathe out, “Okkotsu-san?”
“We’re here to meet you?”
You furrow your brows.
“N-not that that’s a bad thing—I just meant that I didn’t expect to see you of all people-“ Okkotsu stammers, and at the same time Gojo brightly interrupts him.
“Of course we are! We couldn’t let our bright sunshine suffer without seeing you. I’m not a cruel person.”
You roll your eyes. “If you could explain, Gojo-san, instead of blabbering.”
Okkotsu gapes at you in shock. You realize that talking back to the strongest sorcerer of all time is generally frowned upon as rude. It’s simply difficult not to do so when you’ve known him as a child and he’s never not acted half his age.
Gojo sighs at you before leaning closer to Okkotsu, faux whispering, “Remember how I mentioned a mutual friend wanted you alive?”
Okkotsu looks like if anyone else dropped more news he would faint. You merely cock a brow. “Did you, now? I didn’t think I would be so involved in contributing to his—hopefully suspended—execution.”
Gojo taps you on the shoulder condescendingly. “You weren’t.”
You sigh harshly.
“I’m sorry, I don’t-“ Okkotsu interjects, “you’re a sorcerer?”
“Yes. One of many in my clan. Our history of sorcery goes back very far.”
“Can you-“ he stops, chewing on his lip. You hold yourself back from reprimanding the habit; it was nowhere near your place to do that. “Can you see Rika-chan?”
You hum, having no clue who this Rika is. When you look at Gojo, he just tilts his head behind Yuuta, a small gesture. His uncharacteristic seriousness allows you to connect the dots.
“If you’re talking about your cursed spirit, then, yes, I can see… Rika. It would be hard not to.”
Okkotsu shakes his head in disbelief. “But if you could see her, why would you…”
Oh.
It comes to mind that, after years of being outcast from society and feared because of a cursed spirit he couldn't control, Okkotsu would obviously have low confidence. Especially concerning himself and his relationships with others. The thought makes your stomach clench with sympathy, your throat suspiciously close to burning.
You don’t understand why anyone would look at him and write him off as dangerous or, in the case of his bullies, pathetic enough to go after. All you can see is a coriander waiting for the right circumstances to bloom.
“You seemed lonely,” you whisper, meeting his eyes as much as you can, “in a way that no one should be.”
For a few breaths the moment is held, razor-sharp and space-quiet. Still, you’re grateful when Gojo breaks the strange atmosphere with a clap of his hands. Comforting people has never been your strong suit.
“While this is all really and truly touching,” you don’t think you could glare harder at someone, “we’re not here for simple conversation. We’re here for something completely different.”
You tilt your head at him, a sign to continue. Okkotsu’s confusion tells you that he also wasn’t aware of the reason for their being at your gardens.
“You, dear little sunshine,” Gojo points for emphasis, “will be teaching Yuuta all he needs to know about the jujutsu world before his first year starts in April.”
The only thing you can hear is the bustling of the crowds in your gardens and subtle shaking of leaves and petals through a small breeze.
“Excuse me.” It’s not a question. It’s an order.
“Well,” the annoying toddler of a man scratches his hair, “I can’t really be around a bit. Being a special grade gets you a lot of responsibility, y’know?”
You wouldn’t know. You are nowhere near knowing.
“But I can’t just leave Yuuta clueless about jujutsu!”
He totally could. You wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if Gojo ever dropped a clueless first year off at Jujutsu Tech just for kicks.
“Since you two already know each other so well-“ you don’t even have the time to say that you and Okkotsu were merely acquaintances, “-you should teach him about jujutsu while I go about with my jobs and exorcisms and boring adult life. Doesn’t that sound great?”
It sounds about as good as walking up to a special grade curse and offering peace instead of running away. As you go to tell him this, your eye catches Okkotsu’s.
He looks… hopeful. As if he’s genuinely excited to be taught jujutsu by someone going into the same grade as him for—you mentally count the days. It was the beginning of December, now. You would be teaching him the basics and history of jujutsu for four months. How in the world do you teach that to someone in four months?
It’s impossible, is your answer. But, seeing how hopeful Okkotsu looks…
“I,” you worry at your lips, surprised at yourself, “I guess so?”
Gojo claps you on the back, surprising you with how quickly he moves and the force he puts into it. “I knew you’d agree! Now, get each others’ numbers and do whatever else you have to; the Elders want Yuuta back quickly to keep an eye on him.” The words ‘keep an eye on him’ are said with finger quotes, Gojo frowning all the while. “You know how those creeps are.”
You aren’t given a moment after exchanging numbers with Yuuta before Gojo jerks him away, shouting, “He’ll be back tomorrow!” before teleporting in the blink of an eye.
You feel like you just put yourself into a situation best left out of.
Teaching Okkotsu isn’t easy.
You’re a clan child, born and raised in the world of jujutsu and spoonfed knowledge of everything around you. Yuuta is a civilian who carried around a curse and was thrust into your own world.
You’re used to keeping a tight grasp on your emotions to properly channel all of your cursed energy. Yuuta barely had the luxury of feeling scared before Rika came to his defense—you doubt he even really knew how to make himself get angry without also feeling guilty about it.
You’re used to speaking bluntly or cunningly, all products of your upbringing. Sometimes, Yuuta could barely meet your eyes while speaking—if he was lucky to not clam up from nervousness, of course.
The days where you spoke softly to him on that simple stone bench felt so much easier than this. Then, at least, your goal had been to make him comfortable—not teaching him the basics of jujutsu. Still, somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to want to go back to those days. Not when you were finally starting to see Yuuta bloom into his potential.
It was worth it for the moment when he started to see curses fully, wide-eyed and shaky, yet somehow relieved to realize that he could actually see them. The times when he remembered the little factoids from your history overviews, when a spark entered his eye and he grew that little bit more self assured. The moments when he gained more control over his cursed energy, containing it instead of letting it flow like a raging waterfall.
(And hadn’t that been a surprise for you. Sensing the cursed energy around you was second nature for someone of your clan, as simple as breathing. But Okkotsu—Okkotsu drowns you. You don’t know if it was Rika or himself, but he never stopped in his flow of cursed energy. It’s more energy than even Gojo has—and if that wasn’t foreboding, then you don’t know what is.)
In the time you spend teaching him, you see more and more of the coriander you saw in him. You saw why Gojo had been so adamant on letting him live. You saw glimpses of someone you would have adored to have met in normal circumstances and had the chance to have befriended.
Teaching Yuuta isn’t easy. It is, however, very, very rewarding.
“Are you really not going to Jujutsu Tech?”
You look up from where you’re tending to some andromeda, grimacing from faint February rain. It’s not enough to warrant an umbrella, but it’s to the point of being extremely annoying to look anywhere other than down. “Why do you ask?” you inquire softly, paying more attention to your flowers. You’ve learned that it’s sometimes the right move with Yuuta; he feels more confident when people don’t look at him directly.
“You always talk about it like it’s… distant. I thought the whole thing with you denying Gojo’s offers was maybe a joke, but you never change your answer. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
You stop in place, hands half-raised to your flowers. “Did you,” you start, feeling off balanced, “did you want me to go to Jujutsu Tech?”
You don’t see his reaction, still turned to your plants, but you can hear his flustered movements. “Well—I just thought that, since I was going and jujutsu sorcerers go—I mean-“
“Are you disappointed?”
Yuuta doesn’t answer for a few moments, the only thing you can hear being the soft pittering of rain on leaves. “Just a little,” he replies, and you have to strain your ears to hear him. “I thought it would’ve been… easier, I guess, to have you with me. I would’ve liked being with you at Jujutsu Tech.”
Something in your stomach flutters at the words.
You are a product of your clan. You were raised among sorcerers who gave you the best security and the best education. You were raised with expectations that you never failed to meet, if not exceed. You were raised only in the company of your clan and the people who visit your gardens.
You were raised to be lonely.
Hearing Yuuta say that all he wants is your presence at his future school means the world to you. More than you think he will ever be able to understand.
You finally turn to Yuuta, a smile pulling at your lips. “I don’t know if it’s any consolation, Okkotsu-san, but I think you’ll do wonderful in Jujutsu High without me.”
Yuuta purses his lips before blurting out, “Yuuta.”
You blink. He turns red.
“I mean, call me Yuuta. Please. We’ve known each other for months after all. We’re… friends?”
You hate the way he looks nervous, the way he questions his importance to you.
“Yes. Friends,” you agree, sincerity shining through your tone. “Of course I’ll use your name, Yuuta.”
The way he brightens reminds you of hibiscus. He makes you feel like the sun.
“Now come on,” you sniff, rising to your full height. “We can’t waste all day when we have clan techniques to talk about.”
…
“Hey, hey,” Gojo pesters that day when he comes to pick up Yuuta. You sigh in exasperation. “Think about joining Jujutsu High yet?”
“I have.”
“And?”
Normally, you would say no without hesitation. Normally, you would cite your clan as reasons for not going. Normally, you would brush everything off for the safety of your stable, boring life.
Instead, you think of Yuuta’s words. Instead, you think of how he was disappointed to learn you wouldn’t be joining him at school. Instead, you think of how he made you feel wanted, in a way nobody has in… too long.
You hesitate, and it’s enough to catch Gojo's immediate attention. “I’ll have to say no for now, Gojo-san.”
Gojo matches your abnormal response with one of his own, chuckling as he pats at your shoulder. His laugh sounds uncomfortably knowing for a reason you can’t place. “We’ll get you at Jujutsu Tech someday.”
Normally, you would think nothing of those words. Instead, you look longingly at the grounds past your clan’s boundaries.
Someday.
In early March, as spring rushes in and the earth wakes up from its winter slumber, you relax your teachings on Yuuta, content that he knows as much as he could learn about jujutsu that could be crammed in three months. You have confidence that he could match the first years, at least. Anything he didn’t know would be taught by Gojo. The only thing you don’t teach him is how to fight.
He notices this, and inevitably asks. You’re impressed he lasted until a few weeks before the start of school.
You try to think of the right words to say as you both sit on your stone bench, the smell of roses and poppies surrounding you. “Teaching someone the basics of jujutsu is one thing. How to fight with it is another; a skill I just don’t have.”
“Can you fight?” It’s asked with innocent curiosity.
“I’m well adept with a katana,” you reply curtly, “as well as my family’s hereditary technique.” You smile when Yuuta squints, obviously internally questioning if it would be appropriate to ask about your technique. Leaning towards him, you place your hands out as if you were cupping water.
Yuuta follows your lead, slouching to look closer. His gasp of awe when your cursed energy manifests itself as a blooming amaryllis flower delights you. You pick it up by its stem, twirling it around playfully before throwing it to your gardens, watching the cursed energy dissolve into nothingness as the flower disintegrates.
“My clan’s technique is the manipulation of plants. We use our cursed energy to manipulate them, encourage them to grow, direct their movements, and more. If there aren’t any plants around, we can create our own. As you saw, though, it’s not true creation—that would be extremely draining. The plants we make disappear without our constant channeling of cursed energy.”
Yuuta hums, and you’re warmed by the fact that you can see his excitement in his movements. You don’t use your technique often, only for growing flowers, really. Using your technique around him was also something you avoided—it just isn’t safe when you don’t know how Rika would react to focused cursed energy being used so close to Yuuta. You’re pleasantly surprised that he’s so in awe of your technique.
“Now I get why your clan has the gardens.”
A laugh bursts out of you. “I’m surprised it took you so long to notice, to be honest. It’s not a big secret.”
Yuuta laughs. It’s a small thing, but you cherish the sound anyway. His laugh always manages to chase away some of the shadows from his eyes and the gauntness of his features, so you try your best to spark any reason for them to appear. He settles down quickly, looking at the view almost mournfully. “Do you think I have an innate technique?”
You’re silent as you think.
In the months that Yuuta has been in the Elders’—and your—care, it’s still unclear why Rika cursed him, or how she could be attached to him at all. You don’t know if Yuuta’s cursed energy comes from him or her, or even if he would’ve had the ability to see curses at all without her.
(You don’t know a lot about Rika. Any time you tread close to the topic of how Yuuta was cursed, he clams up, and his words are almost thoroughly dried out for the day. You dread to think about the circumstances that could lead someone so sweet to be cursed by someone you presume was so close to them.)
“I’m sure you do,” you say confidently, and it’s only half a lie. If Yuuta had been born unable to see cursed spirits, then the chances of any cursed techniques being engraved into him is close to impossible. Taking into account that innate techniques are rare even with those who can see curses from birth, his chances just get even lower. Still, you have hope for him. “Although it’s rare for people to have an innate technique, I’m sure you’ll have your own. I think you’ll figure it out at Jujutsu Tech.”
Yuuta hums. You can feel his cursed energy fritz anxiously. You shoulder him lightly, aiming to give him a soothing smile when he looks over at you. “You still nervous?”
Yuuta breathes out, more an anxious sigh than a laugh. “Yeah. It’s one thing being with you and Gojo. I’m used to you. I don’t have to worry about Rika attacking you. But what about the others? What if they don’t accept me? What if Rika lashes out? What if I can’t figure out how to break Rika’s curse?” He clutches his hands into fists, looking away from you so you can’t see his expression. He whispers, “I don’t want to be a danger to anyone else. I just want…”
Watching him despair, you struggle to find the right words to comfort him. You grew up around adults, mostly those who always had their struggles figured out before you could learn about them or refused to let a child have their ignorance of the world stained. You don’t know how to comfort Yuuta, even with the months you’ve spent together.
But you can’t just not make an effort, right?
“I… don’t know how things will turn out at Jujutsu High,” you rasp, the words getting stuck in your throat. It worsens when Yuuta turns back to you. You clear your throat and try again. “I’m not adept with others. I can’t pretend to understand your future classmates. I can’t pretend to know everything about your situation. What I can do, however…”
You take an awkward pause to stand from your bench and reach out towards the field of poppies. You take a moment before—there. You find a poppy seed, cradling it to your chest as you return to your spot next to Yuuta.
You hold your hands out in a mirror of what you did minutes before. Only, this time, your plant isn't a construct of your cursed energy. This time, it grows the way it’s supposed to. This time, you tweak your energy through the flower, making sure it will never wilt.
You offer Yuuta the flower, never looking away from his slate-blue eyes.
“I can say that, no matter what, I’ll be with you. Call for me anytime, Yuuta. I’ll always try to be there.”
It feels uncomfortably close to a binding vow. It sounds uncomfortably close to a curse. Still, as Yuuta delicately takes your offering, you can’t find it in yourself to regret it.
April first marks the first day of school for Yuuta. At least, it usually would. He’s supposed to go in a week later so that his classmates can get used to each other before he’s roughly thrown into their dynamic. The school can’t have students that distrust each other, after all.
You’re fully aware of who Yuuta’s classmates are. The cursed speaker Inumaki Toge, the Heavenly Restricted Zen’in Maki, and the peculiar cursed corpse Panda. Gojo wouldn’t stop yammering about them as a way to convince you to go to school. Something about having a small, but close, group of friends.
(It almost worked.)
You try not to be worried for Yuuta. What was the worst that could happen? If, for some reason, the others didn’t like Yuuta—which you doubt as Gojo made it extremely clear that they didn’t seem the type to bully him—he had Rika to make sure that he was safe. The others had Gojo to protect them. You aren’t needed.
No, you do not need to go to Jujutsu High.
It’s what you tell yourself as you grip your phone tightly on April eighth, anxiously convincing yourself of Yuuta’s safety.
On April ninth, Gojo shows up on your doorstep, a smile full of mischief and a tiny sliver of sheepishness.
“Rika manifested yesterday.”
“Is that so?”
“Mhmm!”
“I’m assuming nobody was hurt?”
He laughs, and despite yourself, you feel yourself relax. Gojo has an air about him, even when he’s being annoying. Trust me, it says. I’ll make sure you’re safe.
You’ve known Gojo since you were little and you’ve never felt unsafe in his presence.
“So,” he smiles, and you can imagine him cocking a brow under his bandages, “what do you think about joining Jujutsu Tech?”
You think of yourself in early November, lonely over your field of flowers and watching someone who matched you. You think of yourself in December, stumbling through the dark of an unexpected situation, dragging Yuuta behind you. You think of yourself in your training clothes in March, determined to get stronger so you could be fit to help your friend. You think of yourself yesterday, clutching at your phone like a lifeline, determined to help Yuuta should he need it.
“I think, Gojo-san, that my clan would be delighted to hear that I would be getting the highest education under the strongest sorcerer.”
You smile at Gojo’s cheer, politely bowing and turning around to begin making plans with the rest of your clan. A twist of excitement strikes you at the thought of leaving for Tokyo. You can’t spend the rest of the school year at your home, of course.
It feels like a new chapter of your life. You can’t bring yourself to fear it. Not when you have the thought of your friend to keep you going forward.