Chapter Text
“Go on, read another one,” Yuji urged, leaning back against the armrest of the sofa that you lounged in, pointedly smiling as he ignored Satoru’s attempts to pick yet another shitty movie.
You sighed, dangling your signature purple pen between your thumb and pointer, honestly and incredibly sick of the utter rubbish your students had managed to come up with.
It was only funny the first twenty times.
“Look, I understand bullshitting your way through papers; I’ve been through university. I've done my fair share of it,” you said, dropping the pen onto the stack of papers. “But honestly, how the hell do they not laugh out loud during their exams?”
Yuji shrugged, reaching out to pluck a handful of chips from the bowl beside Megumi, who tapped away at his phone, also ignoring Satoru’s now desperate ploy to draw their attention to the screen.
“You all are being terrible guests. The least you could do after coming into my home and eating my snacks is watch the movie I put on.”
You rolled your eyes, not looking at him as you lifted the stack of papers and shook them around as if to say, ‘hey, sorry not sorry, I’m working’ while you continued complaining to Yuji. “Is it me? Is my Japanese that bad that they don't understand what I say and have to make stuff up?”
“Nah, your Japanese is fine. You speak a little formally, but honestly, that's what you should do around students.”
“Lest you wind up with no one taking you seriously, like Gojo,” Megumi added without looking up from his phone, face as deadpan as the day he was born.
Honestly, you wished you could study his face’s musculature so you could find out if his frown was indeed perpetual.
“Hey!” Satoru frowned, pausing the movie. “I’m a better teacher than she is.”
You snorted, before looking into your lap and then back at him, considering.
“Ethically? No. But, when it comes to embarking theory, I might have to agree, because what the heck do you mean–” You picked up the last paper you were grading and pointed at the sentence you’d circled in purple. “‘the ribcage protects emotions’”
Satoru snorted, plucking the paper out of your hands to read it himself. “Lol.”
“Did you just say lol out loud?” Megumi grimaced, finally looking up from his phone as Satoru tossed the paper back to you.
"My students have been teaching me all the new slang. According to them, I’m goated.” Satoru grinned, much to your chagrin. “With the sauce.”
Your face twisted in disgust, and you looked toward the boys to see Yuji trying his best not to burst into peals, and Megumi cringing so hard it seemed his eyes would never open again.
“Satoru, please for the love of all that is holy, don’t.” You said, grimacing.
Before Satoru could call out your ‘rudeness’, his front door opened with a roll, and a cold gale bit at your ankles. You looked up, and barely managed not to startle yourself and upset the pile in your lap.
“Nanami? In my house? Has hell frozen over?” Satoru’s grin was nothing short of smug, as he bowed, sweeping his hand towards the living room in welcome. “Come in, come in. Tea? Soda?”
Nanami stepped inside without a word, the rain clinging to his coat before blooming in dark spots across the corduroy. His hair was damp, water dripping from the bunched strands at the front of his face.
You didn’t stare. You really didn't.
(You were gonna chew your own arm off, you were feral, you were going to scream, Sacred Heart Of Jesus, have mercy on you)
Nanami sighed and held up a manila envelope, before tossing it to Satoru. “Rather than a drink, I’d rather you pick up your missions from the higher ups so they wouldn’t have to send me to your house in the middle of the night.”
“Psh, those old geezers should really learn to use cellphones.” Satoru laughed lazily as he caught the envelope. “Even cursed techniques have started manifesting using technology; you gotta get with the times.”
“Maybe so, but until they do, please note that I am not your errand boy.” Nanami said stiffly, pressing down his coat.
“Yeah, yeah. Make yourself a coffee and come watch a movie. Megumi and Yuji just got done with a mission, and that little leech is always on my couch. Feel free to join.” Satoru offered, tearing off the top of the envelope, which made Nanami’s face twist in disgust.
Throwing off the blanket from your lap and setting your papers down on the kotatsu, you padded into the kitchen.
A moment later, the stove clicked on beneath the kettle.
You sighed, pressing your thumbs into your eye sockets before letting stars dance in the darkness between your eyes. Gosh, your kids were going to kill you with their nonsense; you were sure of it.
The ribcage protects the emotions
They had to be joking, right? Surely you weren't that bad a teacher.
And as if you weren't fried enough from grading thirty ridiculous papers written by students who apparently depended on divine revelations from the Holy Spirit (which He hadn't given them, LOL), Nanami had to show up tonight of all nights.
When you’d washed all your makeup off and your hair was greasy from the desperate need of a wash. The pain, the horror, the unadulterated grievances of girlhood and having a crush.
You sighed to yourself as you picked out the Darjeeling tea from Satoru’s cupboard and shook a few loose leaves into a strainer.
“Pardon.”
You would've liked to say you weren't surprised when Nanami's voice cut through the kitchen. But that would have been a blatant lie.
He was in Satoru's house longer than he had to be; and of his own accord.
Had hell indeed frozen over?
The warm lights caught specks of dust as you cursed your luck and threw the most innocent smile you could over your shoulder.
Your face wasn’t made for seduction; it was a truth you’d realised and come to terms with in secondary school. So you threw yourself into the role of a doe eyed menace with the laugh of a dying dolphin.
So, your preferred method of flirting involved making people laugh and hoping for the best.
Of course, you were yet to crack this stupid, infuriatingly nonchalant gentleman who apparently knew enough about fashion to pull off combinations that should've looked ridiculous.
You bit back a smile at the thought of Nanami reading fashion blogs.
Gosh, you hated it, though. The cheetah print tie and blue shirt combo endlessly made you want to shake him and say ‘Hey, the clashing colours are highkey burning my retinas, dude.’
The worst part is you knew he’d end lives in old money style; polos, linen shirts rolled up to expose those damned forearms–
Most chaste heart of Saint Joseph, I could use the help, please.
“Sorry,” You muttered after standing there rooted to the floor long enough to prove your doe eyes weren't false advertising. (You were quite literally a deer in headlights.)
“I was just trying to process the fact you’re still here. Blink twice if it's against your will.”
“My umbrella upturned and tore right off.” He said plainly, walking around you to grab the French press from where Megumi had left it. “I'm just waiting for the rain to pass.”
“Well, thank you Lord, for the rain.” You hummed noncommittally, plucking the French press out of his hands and setting it down near the stove.
Nanami let you, and you smiled, changing out the filter and grounds.
“Fifteen grams?” You asked, filling a spoon and glancing back at him.
“Eighteen, actually.”
You hummed, weighing it out on the little scale that came with Satoru’s fancy espresso machine (that you didn't know how to operate,) before turning to sneak a little grin at him for letting you make his coffee. There was something a little domestic about it that had hope twisting violently in your chest.
However, your glance revealed that he wasn’t even looking at you, choosing instead to watch rivulets of rain pelt down the kitchen’s glass windows.
Jackass, you thought to yourself, watching him inspect the window as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
“Terrible weather,” You offered, leaning back against the counter as the coffee bloomed.
Nanami simply hummed, and you slouched, slightly annoyed with the fact that you weren’t receiving attention that he didn't even owe you.
Whatever. You were nothing if not persistent.
“It's a little romantic, no?” You murmured, finally turning to tend to your own drink, water steaming as you inhaled the smell of freshly brewed tea.
“The rain?”
“Being stuck somewhere because of it. Forced proximity is a cliche in the world of romance novels.”
“I wouldn’t know.” He said, and you mentally face palmed yourself, deflating almost comically.
“Of course you wouldn't."
You knew he wasn’t dumb enough to miss the obvious insinuation. He was simply adamant enough to ignore it.
But if he wasn’t going to pick up on hints, it was time to start dropping bombs.
“It would’ve been a nice night to take you out to dinner.” You said finally after some consideration, stirring your tea with all the innocence in the world.
Nanami closed his eyes and muttered under his breath.
You smiled before taking a sip, grimacing when you realised you’d forgotten the sugar. You set your mug down, reaching for the jar when Nanami said:
“Too bad you have papers to grade.”
Your jaw dropped, and you turned around in disbelief, your tea sloshing around and hitting your thumb. You hissed, immediately bringing the burnt area to your mouth.
“Are you saying you’d have agreed if I didn’t?” You asked with your mouth full of thumb, a little dumbstruck, smiling incredulously.
Nanami’s face twisted in annoyance and your smile grew as he rolled his eyes.
“No.”
You pouted, turning around to pour out his coffee into a mug, handing it to him while you sipped from your own. “Killjoy.”
Nanami shrugged, before taking a long sip and walking out the kitchen. “I was saying instead fantasising, why not finish your work?”
“Because my kids are hell bent on ragebaiting me with their answers. I’ve been making Yuji translate a second time for me just so I know I’m not reading it wrong.” You grumble, dropping onto the floor instead of the sofa, folding your legs into the kotatsu and sighing as the warmth seeped through your socks.
You take a test and look through it, squinting and sighing at what you saw. You passed it to Nanami. “Okay look at this. They were supposed to write what DNA is.”
Yuji looked at them from where Satoru had him wrangled into a headlock. “Please read it aloud. It's prime entertainment. At least compared to Gojo’s movies.”
“You little brat.”
Nanami frowned at the paper before reading aloud. “DNA makes you…you. Thats it. That’s his whole answer.”
“Ragebait,” You groaned, letting your head hang in your hands.
“He’s not wrong though,” Yuji offered,trying to wrestle out of Gojo’s grip.
“Of course you’d think that was an acceptable answer.” Megumi rolled his eyes at Yuji, before turning back to his phone.
What was he even doing on it?
“Ugh, I’m gonna go home and finish the rest of this.” You groaned, plucking the papers from Nanami’s hands and righting the stack to be slightly neater.
“What?” Satoru's head whipped around, and he let go of Yuji, whose momentum from trying to escape had both of them tumbling. Satoru shook his head, righting his sunglasses before leaning back into a stretch. “Why not stay over?”
“My car’s at home and I was supposed to go out to the education board after school. I have a little paperwork with my Japanese language certification left. You’d think they’d trust me after being here for a year and a half.”
“You said last year that you told an entire classroom that emotions detoxify the body.” Megumi said, and your head snapped towards him. You tossed a pen towards him and glowered.
“Its not my fault kanzō and kanjō sound the same.” You glower, which causes Satoru to snort. "And I told you that to make you laugh, not to use against me."
Satoru laughed, before waving over your attention.
"I’ll drop you off in the morning and come pick you up with your car after. I wanted to go into town too, I’ll run my errands while you’re with the board.” He says, finally giving you all relief from the gory sounds of the horror movie he’d chosen and switching off the tv.
You paused, considering whether you had the patience to take a train home.
Then decided you didn't.
You’d probably fall asleep standing up and your clothes would be wet in the blasting air conditioning and no thank you, Jesus.
“Sure,” you told him, grabbing your papers and pen. “I have a churidar here, I think. Be a dear Satoru; find and iron it for me? I’ll finish the rest of these papers on the balcony.”
“Firstly, I am not doing your laundry. Secondly, you’re going to get yourself sick if you sit out there in this weather.” Satoru scolded as you trotted up the stairs.
“I grew up with monsoons that lasted half the year, this isn't anything.” You called out while opening the door. “Churidar is in the cupboard. The whole set should be on the same hanger. Bye boys, get home safe.”
You winked at Nanami from the top landing before ducking into the balcony, the cold biting at your face as you fumbled for the light.
You could still hear the boys faintly.
“Why does she get to stay over?” Yuji huffed and you smiled. dropping into a chair and tucking your feet under your thighs.
“Firstly, she’s my cousin. This is basically her first home in Tokyo. Secondly, I never said you guys couldn’t. You two can camp out here, and Kento can take the gues-”
“Just give me an umbrella so I can go home.”
You chuckled, the sound losing itself in din of the receding storm.
And as the rain misted across the sky, you watched it catch the golden glow of the lamp light. You observed it all, enthralled by something as simple as Tyndall and tracked it down to the driveway.
You watched as Nanami shook open an umbrella and stepped into the spray, looking up to the sky for a moment before walking down the stretch of the driveway, and into a car.
You blinked.
Huh.
He’d driven here?
✠ ───── ✠
You and Satoru had spent the whole ride to your school arguing over the aux and almost dying from his lack of freaking clutch control.
How had you ever agreed to being driven by someone who was chauffeured everywhere?
When he’d dropped you off, he’d told you your white and red beaded churidar made you look like your grandmother and had driven off before you could impale him with your umbrella.
Useless.
You unlocked your classroom door and waltzed in, setting your bag of (finally) graded papers on your desk before flopping into your chair and sighing.
The windows stretched almost the entire length of one wall, casting the class in a miserable grey, the usual vibrant red and blue of your anatomy models unsaturated. You sighed, fumbling for your thermos and pouring yourself a cup of tea. You inhaled deeply as the steam from your mug curled into little ribbons in the air.
You loved the school like this. Before anyone got there, it was just you (and the kind yōmuin who never questioned your ungodly earliness) and silence.
You sipped at your tea, and closed your eyes, feeling the bite of cold in your damp fingers recede.
Then, you felt a tug; a nauseating prickle spread along your sternum and settled into your stomach.
It was only after you’d felt the stench of cursed energy in your throat that you heard the buzzing.
You opened your eyes to see a flyhead hover near the ceiling fan.
The curse drifted lazily through a shaft of pale sunlight, its malformed body casting a distorted shadow across the ceiling tiles as its wings vibrated with an irritating mechanical whine.
You watched it, and felt an ache settle between your eyes, because of course, you couldn’t catch a goddamned break.
The flyhead watched nothing because it was a flyhead and therefore intellectually comparable to wet cardboard.
But still; a problem was a problem, a curse was a curse. And so, you set your tea down carefully, and tilted your head as the curse drifted lower.
The thing about curses was that they were profoundly irritating from a biological perspective.
When it came to a human, you could look at a body and understand exactly why it functioned because every organ, vessel, nerve and cell possessed a purpose. And you knew that purpose. You knew what every cell did and what it could do in the right circumstances; how you could manipulate them to behave as if they were in said circumstance.
Curses, meanwhile, seemed determined to offend every principle of anatomy ever discovered. Your gaze followed the flyhead as it buzzed past the windows, noting that there were structures resembling muscle fibres running through its thorax, which would have been anatomically correct, except they connected to absolutely nothing useful.
The abdomen should have been too small to support the rest of its mass, the wings generated more lift than their surface area reasonably allowed and the several clusters of tissue it had appeared entirely decorative.
Honestly, the whole creature looked as though someone had been asked to describe an insect after sustaining a concussion and the sketch artist who drew it was as blind as a bat.
You sighed and steepled your fingers.
Stupid curses; their lack of proper anatomy always made your technique more expensive than it needed to be.
With a human, the process was simple; You could touch, feel the movement of matter and cells, and just bend them to your will. Manipulate them to stretch or die, or speed up their processes.
Expand, coagulate, clot.
Cells understood what they were, knew their functions and followed their rules. And you knew their rules enough to change them; either for better or worse, depending on the situation.
Curses possessed only vague approximations of biological structures, cursed energy masquerading as tissue where tissue should have been, malformed substitutes standing in for systems they couldn’t develop properly.
Which meant instead of instructing cells, you had to force cursed energy itself to behave as though cells existed, which was messy and inefficient. Because you had to find and associate some point of anatomical similarity so you knew what your result should be.
The flyhead drifted lower, and you continued to study it. And sure enough, there beneath the imitated tissue, near the centre mass, a knot of cursed energy pulsed, a substitute for several physiological systems.
You frowned. Actually, the more you looked at it, the less certain you became that the thing possessed anything resembling an internal organisation whatsoever, which was intriguing and exhausting at the same time.
Between one moment and the next, you’d leapt onto your desk and thrown your hand out, grabbing hold of the little shit and curling your fingers into the sludgy centre mass.
Immediately, the false anatomy unfolded beneath your technique, layers of malformed tissue and unstable cursed energy exposing themselves like pages within an open textbook, and it burst, purple residue splashing across your hand, and sloshing over like rancid oil as a piece flew into your mouth.
You were gonna hurl.
You cringed and pinched together your thumb and index finger, drawing them apart to see the sticky fluid stretch a fine line between them.
Disgusting.
✠ ───── ✠
By the final ten minutes of class, you had become increasingly convinced that ingesting curse residue should count as a workplace injury, because every swallow brought with it a fresh wave of phantom disgust, accompanied by the unpleasant sensation of bile crawling up the back of your throat.
Your lesson itself had gone reasonably well (you’d gaslit yourself through it), which unfortunately meant your students had become comfortable enough to start asking questions. And they all seemed to get stupider by the minute, God help you.
You remained firmly committed to avoiding the clock mounted above your desk, because years of teaching had taught you that directly observing the final ten minutes of a lesson somehow caused time itself to become endless and relative.
For teachers as well, looking at the clock transformed minutes into hours, and so instead you wandered between desks, checking worksheets and answering questions while deluding yourself into taking one minute at a time.
The faint sensation of cursed energy brushed against your senses again, dragging a shudder down your spine, and causing a metallic tang to spread across your tongue.
It wasn’t enough to alarm you, but just enough to register somewhere in the background of your awareness before you realised it was just the residue.
And while residue didn’t usually stay around this long, you hadn’t ever really eaten any before, so it was anyone’s best bet. You would’ve texted Shoko about it, but that would mean you’d have to admit that you swallowed–
Ugh, you were gonna vomit if you thought about it again.
You stopped at Takahashi’s desk, and squinted down at his worksheet. What should’ve been a paragraph or two at least stared back at you in twelve measly words.
“Takahashi…what is that?”
“My answer, sensei.”
Sacred Heart, give me strength.
“Takahashi,” You began, pointing at his worksheet. “I expect a little bit more than that.”
“But that's all I need to answer the question.” He shot back, his frown curling defiantly. You were gonna write a mean note to this boy's mother because throwing chalk at him would just get you in trouble.
“Takahashi, do you believe I crossed an ocean and learnt a language that is in a completely different alphabet to read this?” You were smiling, but there was a bite of ire in the words you choked out.
Partly because of the results your students were producing, and partly due to the ringing that the cursed energy was now causing between your eyes, like heavy machinery parts grating against each other.
Takahashi, bless his soul, had the decency to look a little guilty as you tapped your finger twice against his answer.
You rounded another row of desks while the afternoon light filtered through rain streaked windows, casting pale silver across worksheets and uniforms and pencil cases. The room buzzed with the familiar sounds of a class approaching freedom, chairs creaking as students shifted restlessly, whispered conversations and pencils scratching against paper whenever somebody remembered they were technically still in school.
You glanced around the room, frowning as you did.
Because Aiko wasn't writing.
The observation struck you almost immediately, not because she'd stopped entirely, but because Aiko generally approached coursework with a sort of frightening diligence. She sat near the windows, with a pack of pastel highlighters, always writing away furiously as you’d speak, her handwriting immaculate.
At present, however, she'd been staring at the same line for several minutes; her pencil remained poised above the page, unmoving.
“Aiko.” You called, smiling apologetically as she started and looked at you. You walked over to hear and leaned in. “Are you alright?”
For a moment, she simply stared at you, mouth open, something in her expression making the daze at the back of your mind dissipate and sharpen.
Because she didn’t look tired or embarrassed; she looked disturbed.
Slowly, she glanced away from you and toward the front of the class, making you frown.
“Aiko, dear.” You prodded, softly now. “What’s wrong?”
And when Aiko’s lip wobbled and her eyes began to water, you felt a knot tighten in your chest as you followed her gaze and sucked in a breath as your student whispered.
“What is that, sensei?”
You turned, and horror gripped at your throat, dragging nails across your neck as you took in the terrifyingly humanoid curse that wasn’t staring at you, but at Aiko.
Who was staring right back.