Chapter Text
Masamichi’s punishment for Satoru didn't amount to much. – Satoru was called for a mission halfway through his papers and had been all too eager to abandon Masamichi with the rest of the work, just like always. He still filled them out, because if it doesn’t get done, the students are the ones who will suffer when the elders want to punish Satoru.
The order for Midoriya and Sukuna to not be permitted to fight each other came from the higher ups, but they hadn’t picked their words carefully. Really, it was the elders’ fault for not phrasing it differently, but while Masamichi neither approved or disapproved of Satoru’s decision, he had to be seen at least trying to discipline his former student.
Satoru’s called overseas to investigate one thing or the other, Masamichi wasn’t briefed on any details.His former student transfers all teaching responsibilities to him, bidding him a cheery goodbye before he teleports away, conveniently avoiding any protests from Masamichi. Of course, Satoru’s teaching plan is a mess of sticky notes on a single piece of college-ruled paper, so Masamichi has the pleasure of essentially crafting a plan from scratch.
The first day is the hardest, Masamichi’s gone a bit rusty over the years, but things fall into a steady rhythm eventually. He takes this as a chance to learn more about the students and observes how they interact.
The first years are now a class of five, Masamichi can’t remember the last time that number was so high. They’re… eclectic. A mish-mash of personalities from several different walks of life, cooped up together and told to get along.
Fushiguro, Bakugou and Midoriya were the first, they settled into their dynamic within a few days. Calling Itadori unexpected would be a comical understatement, but his easygoing air and willingness to assume the best in people let him slip in somewhat harmlessly. Kugisaki’s the one who made the biggest waves by far, but even those have calmed down into gentle ripples.
Masamichi watches them all do their training out on the field. They’ve gathered in a circle to stretch and warm up. Bakugou and Kugisaki have entered some kind of bickering match. Yuuji keeps trying to break it up, but Fushiguro pipes in every now and again to keep them going. Midoriya’s forgone stretching, being a curse, and pets the divine dogs gathered around his lap.
In truth, Midoriya’s the main reason for Masamichi taking over Satoru’s instruction. The elders were very clear that he had to keep an eye on “Gojo’s pet curse”. Human-level sentience is rare in curses. There hasn’t been a recorded case of one since the heian era. It’s been agreed upon that it takes a specific kind of fear for a natural-born curse to attain sentience, but vengeful cursed spirits are the souls of the departed, warped and twisted into something almost unrecognizable. Just like how natural curses need a specific fear, vengeful curses are formed from a specific type of person. No normal 15 year old can form a curse that’s capable of going against Sukuna and getting out alive. Midoriya is an infant curse, he will only grow stronger, and the elders wouldn't trust Satoru with a confetti popper, much less an impressionable special-grade curse.
The students have moved into actual training during Masamichi’s musings. Bakugou’s off to the outskirts, twirling his kusari and hitting the target laid out for him, Kugisaki’s also doing target practice, one of her nails hits Bakugou’s target and then they’re back to bickering like they were before. Itadori appears to be shadow boxing – Masamichi should give him some pointers, he has power, but his form is sloppy – and Fushiguro’s working on his cursed technique with Midoriya.
Itadori pauses, a considering look crossing his face. It's The first time Masamichi’s seen the boy try to think. Itadori walks up to Midoriya and Fushiguro, Masamichi can’t read lips very well, but he can assume what Itadori asked when Midoriya breaks off from Fushiguro and follows Itadori to the more open end of the field. With a grin, Itadori falls into an opening stance, and Midoriya blurs, coming back into focus right as Itadori blocks one of his punches. Masamichi amends his earlier thought, deciding both of them need work on their forms.
Itadori’s truly taken a shine to Midoriya in the last two weeks. His treatment of the curse could be described as a calmer version of Satoru’s – including him in conversations, but not forcing him into the spotlight. Given Satoru’s recounting of Midoriya’s spar with Sukuna, this budding friendship could be useful in the long run. Midoriya can sense when Sukuna’s in control and is fast enough to get people out of the line of fire. If it came down to it, if the worst case scenario came to be, Midoriya could keep Sukuna busy enough for Satoru to get to the scene and… finish things.
Things like the moral high ground are nothing more than a pipe dream for sorcerers like them, it doesn’t stop Masamichi from feeling like scum when he thinks about putting Itadori down like a rabid dog.
Aside from his own dark thoughts, Satoru’s absence goes well until Masamichi gets a call in the middle of class three days in. A cursed womb has appeared in a detention center, they want all first years aside from Bakugou and Midoriya to go. Masamichi’s sure that if they could, they would send Bakugou, too, but their own regulations stop them. After the disaster of the star plasma vessel mission, it was decided that anyone with a bounty must be accompanied by at least one grade 1 sorcerer while going on missions for as long as three weeks after the bounty is dropped. They all learned things from Fushiguro Toji, and the lessons written in blood tend to be the most poignant.
So Masamichi watches three of the five first years load into the car with Ijichi, an illogical sense of dread clinging to his shoulders. Bakugou and Midoriya stand with him, watching the car pull out and drive away. Bakugou’s brow is set and his lips are turned into a severe scowl, Midoriya fidgets beside him. Masamichi knows a lost cause when he sees it, so he dismisses class for the rest of the day, telling them to do free study or train in the field. Masamichi himself goes back to his office and tries to fill out more paperwork, but an hour passes and he’s only managed to do three pages.
He gets up from his desk and stretches, groaning in relief when his back pops. He stopped fighting curses as often once he became principal, but if a curse doesn’t get him, the cheap chair at his desk will. Satoru keeps offering to buy him one, but Masamichi ‘s a grown man, he’ll get it himself. Eventually. On a whim he grabs his umbrella before he leaves the office, a whim that turns out to be justified when he steps onto the outside paths of Jujutsu Tech and sees stormclouds gathering.
He wanders the outside walkways of Jujutsu Tech. Even without the clouds, he could’ve predicted a storm – Masamichi smells the incoming rain, feels it in the breeze and in the way the birds have gone silent.
The first few droplets hit the cobblestone, a soft pitter that heralds a steadier beat. It’s not sheets of rain, but Masamichi would have surely gotten soaked if he didn’t think to bring his umbrella with him. He looks out upon the campus, taking in the dulled colors and how every roof has a thin white spray where the water meets them. Masamichi’s never been a poetic sort of man, but there’s something special about rain – cleansing, almost.
He pauses on his stroll when he passes the main staircase in front of the school. A student sits halfway down the steps, their back turned to Masamichi and their unique hoodie pulled down in a rare display. It sends nostalgia through Masamichi’s chest, not for Midoriya, but for a boy ten years ago. Satoru used to sit out on these steps, too, his infinity letting the water halo him, but never touch him.
Midoriya has no such technique. The undersides of his sleeves have soaked through with water, his hair wet and drooping down, losing its volume and exposing the part of his head that must have made impact with the concrete. He looks up when the rain stops falling on him, spotting Masamichi and the umbrella he’s placed them both under. Midoriya’s hair clings to his face, running light pink in the downpour and framing his eyes.
“You should keep yourself dry,” he tells Masamichi, “I can’t get sick anymore.”
“It would make me feel better if you kept dry, regardless.” Masamichi says. His left shoulder begins to grow damp, but he doesn’t move the umbrella back.
Midoriya smiles, it’s wistful, definitely sad. “Thank you.”
Masamichi’s simply sharing his umbrella, a common courtesy he’s done with several coworkers and students, yet there’s an undoubtedly pleased air in the way Midoriya hides his head after thanking him. Midoriya’s shy by nature, Masamichi hasn’t had much chance to interact with him. Every time he gets close, it seems like Midoriya comes up with one excuse or the other to make himself scarce. In some ways, Masamichi understands. He cuts an intimidating figure with his sheer size and chiseled features. Little children have passed by him and, in all the audacity a six year old (or Satoru) could muster, ask their mother if he was in the yakuza.
This is the first time Midoriya isn’t shying away, and Masamichi would be a fool not to take advantage of it and ask some questions. “How are you liking Jujutsu Tech so far?”
“It’s good.” Midoriya hums. “I’ve never had a teacher like Mr. Gojo before.”
Nobody's had a teacher like Satoru before, it’s one of his charms – and what makes him so uniquely migraine-inducing. Masamichi can tell it’s more than that for Midoriya, however.
“I’ve never had a principal like you, either.” Midoriya continues, “It’s nice. New, but nice.” He looks up, watching the sky with another wistful expression. “My mom always worried about me, I think she'd be happy if she knew I have such great teachers.”
Midoriya Inko, a functionally single mother with a husband who didn’t even fly in to burn his son’s remains. She must be in unbearable pain, but Midoriya doesn’t want her to know – a wish that even Satoru chose to respect. That didn’t stop Satoru from sending someone to check up on her, however. He thinks he’s subtle, but Masamichi’s known Satoru since he was fourteen, there’s very little that boy can actually hide from him. It’s a routine Masamichi himself performed back in the day. Checking in with the next of kin, ensuring they receive compensation for their loss. Masamichi hates that word, “compensation”, like a life can be so easily replaced with zeros in the bank. He remembers how Haibara’s mother threw the check back in his face, snarling past tears that the higher ups could keep their stinking money.
It’s a hopeless profession, being a sorcerer. No matter how many curses you exorcize, given enough time they’ll just come back. A struggle with no end in sight, the only thing to show for it being the pile of your colleague’s corpses. Masamichi became the last living alumni of his year decades ago.
“Why are you out here in the rain?” Masamichi asks. “Are you waiting for your classmates to come back?” If they got to the curse before it developed past the womb stage, they should be back soon. If not, they might arrive late in the evening depending on what the curse developed into. The forecast said it would be raining for the rest of the day, and Masamichi hates the image of Midoriya soaked to the bone, waiting until the skies grew dim for his classmates to return.
Midoriya brings his face down so he can go back to staring ahead of him. “Sort of. I also just wanted to sit in the rain.” He frowns, digging his fingers into his sleeves. “It was starting to rain when I died. I remember feeling the water hit my face – I couldn’t move, I think I broke my neck in the fall.” He catches himself and looks down at his shoes with a rueful set of his mouth. “I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about that.”
Masamichi’s seen worse than Midoriya’s injuries, but hearing about someone’s death from the victim themself is a new facet, a perspective he never got the chance to hear before. It’s far more personal like this, standing on the staircase with the vengeful spirit of a bullied child.Has Midoriya talked to anyone? Masamichi doubts it. “It must have been lonely.”
Midoriya’s silence is weighted, Masamichi feels it drag down his own heart. “... It was.”
They stand there, listening to the rain hit the top of the umbrella. Thunder rumbles from some far off place, Yaga can’t even tell which direction it came from.
“I know Mr. Gojo has some sort of plan for me.” Midoriya eventually admits, apropos of nothing. “He’s so patient – there has to be a reason, right? But I don’t mind,” he smiles, and it haunts Masamichi far more than any curse could, “I’m just glad I can be useful now.”
He said something along the same lines in his entrance exam, Masamichi recalls. He’d love to tell Midoriya that’s not the case, that Satoru cares about him with no ulterior motive, but lying when they both know the truth would be an insult to them both. That ulterior motive is what’s keeping Bakugou alive and Midoriya from being exorcized.
Midoriya’s existence revolves around protecting Katsuki, he'd be okay with just about anything if it helped him further that goal. It’s still a bitter pill to swallow, hearing how this child expects to be used and has made peace with it. Satoru isn’t a saint by any means, none of them are, but he doesn’t just see Midoriya as a tool. Masamichi wishes he could express that to the boy sitting next to him, but it’s not something Midoriya’s prepared to hear.
In an ideal world, children wouldn’t need to feel useful to justify their existence. The jujutsu world wouldn’t be relying on Itadori Yuuji to clean up a centuries old mess left behind by their ancestors. Satoru wouldn’t have to work himself to the bone, then turn around and put on that happy-go-lucky idiot mask in front of the students. Do they even realize how many extra missions Satoru takes, just so they're not sent out against something they can’t handle?
Nothing about this is ideal, such is life, but the least Masamichi can do is stand here with Midoriya, offering a bit of company. His ex-wife always said he had a soft spot for sad children.
His phone rings, it’s almost drowned out by another round of distant thunder, but Yaga just barely manages to pick up in time. “Hello?”
It’s Ijichi.
He doesn’t have good news.
A cursed womb turned special grade, a fight outside the detention center, one student unconscious, another injured, and a body to bring back. It’s easier for Masamichi if he categorizes it like this – detached, clinical. He’s less likely to crush his phone and curse to the heavens. He hangs up and takes off his glasses. The world is dark enough already today.
“Something terrible happened.” Midoriya doesn’t need to ask, the vein pulsing in Yaga’s forehead would give that much away.
He goes still when Masamichi breaks the news. Midoriya typically puts effort into appearing as human as possible, he moves his chest in time with breathing, he remembers to blink and smile and wear a human face well enough to put people at ease. That all falls away, leaving the facade of Midoriya Izuku, but even that is starting to fall apart at the edges.
“I need to go.” Midoriya’s voice tears apart at the end, taking on a static quality. “I won’t go far. I just. It won’t be safe if I stay.”
“Go to the clearing Satoru took you the other day.” Masamichi instructs. He falls into his old teaching persona: firm, but an undercurrent of concern. “Come back when you’re done.” He shouldn’t be sending Midoriya off like this: alone, outside school grounds and right after the death of a classmate; but Satoru isn’t here, and Masamichi would be unable to contain Midoriya should he lose control on campus.
Midoriya nods, disappearing in a flash of light and a burst of electricity.
Masamichi sighs through his nose, letting his shoulders fall as he arranges for another car to pick up the remains. He contacts Shoko and tells her the situation, getting a one word reply. His thumb hovers over Satoru’s contact information, hesitating before he steels himself and presses call.
Satoru picks up on the fourth ring. Wind batters against the microphone, making Yaga pull his head back. Curses don’t show up on electronic devices – that translates to audio as well, they leave a crackling static to the phone call quality.
Satoru’s voice is as breezy as usual, teasing and never taking things seriously. “What’s up? Don’t tell me – Katsuki and Nobara got into a fight. Those two are gonna be like cats and dogs, I can already tell–”
“Kugisaki, Fushiguro, and Itadori went on a mission today.” Keep to the details, Masamichi reminds himself, don’t lose your temper. Even so, the plastic of his phone creaks under his hand. “They were given bad information. Itadori Yuuji has died.”
Silence. “Let me call you back.” Satoru hangs up without waiting for an answer. Masamichi only has to wait one minute before his phone rings again. “What happened.” The playful tone Satoru loves to use is nowhere to be found, leaving behind a cold, calculated calm Masamichi’s only seen a handful of times – the first being when news broke of Geto Suguru’s defection.
“Fushiguro’s giving his statement right now, we’ll know more when they finish.”
“I’m coming back. Now.”
Masamichi doesn’t say anything. Satoru’s already made up his mind, there’s no point trying to change it now. “I’m sorry, Satoru.”
“Don’t be. There’s nothing you could have done.”
And that’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it. Satoru has no issue pinpointing and striking at it with such callousness. The higher ups only dared to send Itadori out on this mission because Satoru wasn't there to stop them. Masamichi’s presence is in no way a deterrent, only Satoru and those haunting blue eyes of his can make them second-guess something. He’s the one who hangs up the call this time, feeling every bit the failure he is as a principal.
Masamichi heads inside, making his way to the dorms. He should break the news to Bakugou now so he doesn’t stick his foot in his mouth and ask where Itadori is when the others get back.
When Bakugou opens the door, he looks up at Masamichi like he grew a second head. “What do you want?”
Masamichi doesn’t scold him for bad manners, instead, he says “Itadori is dead.” He could try and frame it gentler, but his heart is too weary for it.
Bakugou pauses, staring at him. The initial disbelief is expected, but it bleeds away quickly. Masamichi remembers that this isn’t the first time Bakugou has received news of a classmate’s death. Smoke starts to curl from where he still has his hand on the door, Masamichi doesn’t scold him. “The fuck? What happened?”
“Bad information.” He says, “I’m sorry, we don’t know anything else at the moment.”
Bakugou bites his lip, hitting the doorframe with the side of his fist. “Fuck.” He grits out, avoiding Masamichi’s eyes. “Did you tell Midoriya?” He demands.
“He was there when I received the news.”
Bakugou goes quiet again, thinking. “Fushiguro and Kugisaki, are they coming back any time soon?”
Masamichi doesn’t see where this is going, but he still answers. “Kugisaki was injured, she’s already on her way to Ieiri. As for Fushiguro, an hour at the earliest.” It will take time for the car to arrive and pick up Itadori’s body, and Fushiguro still has to fill out his preliminary statement.
Bakugou steps out, closing the door behind him. He leaves Masamichi in the hallway without so much as a goodbye, heading in the direction of the kitchens. Masamichi watches him go, feeling every bit as helpless as he did ten years ago with the death of Haibara.
The thunder rolls in again, deeper than it had been before, Masamichi feels it in his chest and can’t tell if it’s the storm or Midoriya.
—-
Megumi goes through the events after his fight with Sukuna in a haze. He talks to the manager who took Ijichi’s place after Megumi handed Kugisaki’s unconscious form off – a young woman, a few years older than Tsumiki with blond hair, the brown roots peeking out at the top of her head. She asks for his statement, and Megumi explains everything with a calm he doesn’t feel, watches the manager’s face twist in regret and wishes he could make his face form any other expression than the blank slate he knows it is. The skies are gray, the rain beginning in earnest.
Color has been conspicuously absent since Itadori bled out in the dirt, that godforsaken smile on his face. How dare he look so peaceful when he left Megumi’s heart twisting and ripping itself apart. What was the point in saving Itadori when he just went and died a few weeks after the fact? He already lost White, why did Itadori have to go and die, too?
If only Megumi had been stronger. This whole situation could have been avoided. He’d let himself become complacent with his progress once he started training with Midoriya, content with where he was instead of striving for improvement like he should have been.
Megumi saves who he wants, but what good is that when he can’t keep them alive?
He waits in the car for another vehicle to arrive and pick up the body. He doesn’t say anything to the manager in the driver’s seat, just staring out the window, lacking the heart to even pretend like he’s paying attention to his phone. The manager looks at him, opening her mouth to say something, but she decides against it at the last minute.
The other car arrives. Megumi doesn’t want to see the team of managers lift Itadori’s body – covered in a white sheet, growing damp from the rain and red from diluted blood – into the car, he forces himself anyway. This, Megumi tells himself, is the price of his weakness. He has to watch, just like how he stood vigil over the body before the replacement manager arrived. His blood started to mix with the mud, reaching further and further out until it touched Megumi’s shoes. Megumi hadn’t been able to look away then, either.
“We’ll be heading back first.” The manager tells him in a quiet voice.
The ride goes in complete silence. It’s a complete one-eighty from the ride here. Itadori had been chattering nonstop, asking everyone questions and showing Megumi or Kugisaki whatever made him snort at his phone. The noise is just another thing he took with him to the grave.
The rain gets worse the closer they get to campus. Megumi sees the manager put her hazard lights on before she slows the car down. Sheets of water hit the roof of the car in waves, a consistent rise and fall of background noise. They both jump a little when lightning flashes not even a kilometer away, the thunder instant and sounding like a gunshot. Another strike follows it, closer than random chance should permit.
“There are spare umbrellas in the seat pockets.” The manager tells him once she pulls the car as close as she can to the main building. “They’re small, but they’re better than nothing. I’m sorry.” It doesn’t sound like she’s apologizing for just the umbrellas. Megumi doesn’t reply, but he reaches for the seat pocket.
Principal Yaga is waiting for him at the door. His expression is stony, but Megumi sees how water gathers and drips off his sleeves. He's been waiting for them for a while, enough for the few bits of rain that sneak under the pavilion to soak him. He says nothing, but the line of his mouth gets harder when Megumi hears the second car pull up.
How many times had principal Yaga seen this sight – teenagers bloody, tired and in shock – Megumi wonders. How many bodies has he had to arrange funeral rites for.
Another round of lightning, bolts striking one after the other in a line. The sky goes white for as long as it lasts, and the thunder right after it sounds like a bellow. Megumi notes how Yaga twitches at the sound.
On paper, Megumi’s only been a student for a few months, but he moved into the dorms last year. He used to commute before Tsumiki got cursed. After that, he didn’t have a reason to go back to the house Gojo bought them. What use did Megumi have for it when the person who made it worth living in was in the hospital? For the longest time, the dorm was home to just him, but then classmates started popping up left and right, bringing their own little noises. With Kugisaki in the nurse’s office and Itadori in cold storage there’s no one to bother him, no one to knock on the door and open it before waiting for the answer or demand he settle some childish debate. The dorms have gone quiet once more, and Megumi misses the noise.
But Megumi forgot someone. He and Bakugou are tolerant of each other, the best of their interactions have been shared glances, so it’s a surprise for Megumi to see him in the hall with his arms crossed. The lightning illuminates Bakugou’s face for a second, and Megumi sees him flinch when the thunder hits. “You. Follow me.” He says.
“I’m not in the mood for this, Bakugou.” Megumi says, letting a bit of his exhaustion slip into his tone. “Leave me alone.”
“I made food. Go and get changed or whatever, but if you’re not in the kitchen in twenty minutes I’m dragging your ass.”
Megumi’s appetite is gone, but he knows Bakugou will make good on that threat, so he goes to his room and gets changed. The blood – Itadori’s blood – has mostly dried, it flakes and gets between the hardwood. He leaves the ruined uniform in a pile on the floor and gets into the shower, turning the water as hot as it’ll go. Bits and pieces of crusted blood slip down the drain, Megumi hisses to himself when he lathers his hair with shampoo, but he doesn’t stop scrubbing until he’s certain he’s clean. With his skin tingling from the scalding water, he gets out and changes into a T-shirt and some workout pants.
Bakugou’s at the stove when Megumi arrives to the kitchen, stirring a pot with a ladle. Four bowls sit to the side of him, empty so far as Megumi can see. Bakugou looks over his shoulder and sees him. “Cutting it close, urchin.”
Megumi doesn’t see a reason to reply to that. He takes a chair, the legs graining against the tile. If Bakugou has a sound, Megumi decides, it’s muffled curses through the wall and clinking around in the kitchen. Nothing overly personal, but still the sounds you would hear from a lived-in place.
“What did you make?”
“Hot ‘n sour soup.” Bakugou scoops some broth up in the ladle, grabbing one of the bowls and pouring it in. He does this for another bowl and comes over to shove one under Megumi’s nose. “You don’t gotta eat much,” Bakugou tells him, looking him dead in the eye, “but like hell you’re eating nothing.”
It occurs to Megumi that this is probably how Bakugou shows he cares. It’s strange to see, but perhaps not too strange, no one can be a short-tempered ass all the time. Megumi considers the soup in front of him, taking in the warm orange of the broth and the savory aroma that wafts from it. He’s always gotten a whiff of Bakugou’s cooking in the dorm halls, but this is the first time he’s gotten the chance to see it. “Where’s Midoriya?”
Two cracks of thunder follow one after the other, almost like an answer. Bakugou looks up to the ceiling with an indecipherable look on his face. “That’s probably him.”
Megumi thinks back to the sparring match two weeks ago – god, it really was only two weeks ago. He already had an idea of how powerful Midoriya was, not just anyone can take down a special grade all by themself, but seeing him against Sukuna had been something else entirely. The nervousness he had grown so used to seeing in Midoriya bled out, replaced by short words and terrifyingly precise lighting strikes. It hadn’t been an all-out fight, but Megumi could tell that Midoriya could at least trip Sukuna up somewhat – no small feat.
Megumi could look at him, with his hair aglow and his eyes blank, and see just how he was ranked as a special grade.
If he had just been there , maybe things would have turned out differently today. Far better than they did, that’s for certain.
Bakugou grabs his own bowl and sits down across from him, snatching a container of what Megumi assumes to be spice from the counter as he does so. “None of you motherfuckers know how to handle real food.” He declares, adding a ludicrous amount of pepper flakes to his own bowl. Considering this is the teen who added ghost peppers to his curry, Megumi doesn’t think he has a good grasp of normal levels of spice.
“Itadori had to drink milk after–” Bakugou catches himself, killing his voice before he can go any further.
The two of them sit there, letting the heat from their bowls warm their hands. There Are no windows in the kitchen, but every so often thunder rumbles to remind them it’s there.
Megumi caves and takes the first mouthful of soup. He lets out a grunt of surprise when the flavor spreads across his tongue, igniting the appetite he thought would never come back. He threw up somewhere in the middle of his fight with Sukuna, between Orochi being destroyed and getting kicked through a building, he didn’t realize how weak it made him feel until he had his first taste of real food.
Soon, their bowls are empty and Bakugou goes to give him seconds. “I don’t know what the hell is going through your head, but if you’re blaming yourself then you’re dumber than I thought.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I wasn’t.” Bakugou agrees, “but I’ve got a question for you. Whatever Itadori did – did you tell him to do it?”
Megumi pauses. “What?”
“I know you’re not deaf.” Bakugou scowls, “did you tell him or not?”
“No. But–”
“There’s no ‘but’s about it. You didn’t tell him to. Whatever he did, it was probably stupid as hell, but he did it on his own.”
“He only did it because I was there.” Megumi snaps, the final strings of his composure too worn down to deal with Bakugou’s attitude. “I was there, but there was nothing I could do. I wasn’t strong enough, I couldn’t do anything.”
Bakugou’s bark of laughter is sharp, caustic, burning with things Megumi can’t even begin to list. “Welcome to the fucking club. But you aren’t responsible for what Itadori did, his death isn’t on your hands.” He cocks his head, a considering look entering his eye. “Did he die from something with cursed energy?”
Megumi doesn’t want to remember it, but the images flash in his mind anyways. “No. He didn’t.”
“Then he would’ve come back as a curse by now if he really blamed you.” Bakugou looks down at his bowl, fiddling with his spoon as he mutters, “I’m probably the fuckin expert for shit like that.”
It’s not often Megumi puts his foot in his mouth like this, but it’s not like he can say anything that would make it better. Bakugou sees his expression and huffs.
“Don’t bother. I don’t want any fucking apologies.”
Well, Megumi can say Bakugou’s always refreshing with his candor.
The door to the kitchen swings open, revealing an exhausted looking Kugisaki. The worst of her injuries have been healed, but Megumi spots bandages peeking out from the baggy T-shirt she’s wearing. It’s such a change from the carefully selected outfits she wears, Megumi has to take a subtle double take when he sees her. “Principal Yaga told me there was food.” She sniffs the air, “hot and sour soup?”
Bakugou never misses a chance to antagonize her, he should have jumped on the chance to insult her wardrobe, but he just gets up from his seat and wordlessly walks to the pot still on the stove. He grabs another of the empty bowls, leaving one left. Megumi has an idea of who it’s for.
Kugisaki takes a seat one seat away from Megumi. While Bakugou’s up filling a bowl for her she speaks. “Oi, Bakugou.”
Bakugou doesn’t even look back at her. “What, mophead?”
For once, Kugisaki lets the insult slide. Megumi’s grateful, he doesn’t want to be in the middle of one of their yelling matches. She stares at her bowl, Megumi can see a few bandages under her collar. They’re all exhausted in their own ways, it’s the only explanation for what she says next. “How do you deal with a classmate dying?”
The ladle splashes into the pot. Bakugou finally looks back at her, a tired look in his eye mixing with the annoyance. “Why the fuck would I know that?”
“‘Cause Midoriya. I dunno,” she waves a hand, “you were so against him fighting Sukuna, I thought you were friends.” Well, Kugisaki seems to be running a close second for saying the wrong thing.
Bakugou turns back around, picking the ladle out of the soup. “Well you thought wrong.” There’s a hard line to his shoulders, and Megumi can tell he’s keeping his voice even by sheer force of will. “We weren’t friends. We still aren’t. Fuck, after half the shit I did, I’m lucky he didn’t leave me as a stain on the pavement. Woulda deserved it, too.“ Megumi suspects they weren’t supposed to hear that last part.
A voice comes from behind Megumi, soft, but firm at the same time. “Please don’t say that.”
Midoriya stands at the entrance to the kitchen, his hand on the frame as he stares in. Water drips from his hoodie onto the floor, a steady tap, tap, tap to fill the ambiance. The light in front of him sputters, going out for a second before flickering back on. It’s in that brief darkness Megumi realizes Midoriya’s hair is glowing, not enough to be obvious in the kitchen lighting, but it’s glowing. The shadows under his cheekbones look deeper than they should, and the tear tracks flowing down his cheeks look fresh.
“Whatever.” Bakugou sets aside Kugisaki’s serving and grabs the last bowl, filling it, “you done throwing a hissy fit outside?”
Midoriya looks away. He’s fuzzy around the edges, not glitching, but somehow out of focus. “S-sorry. I…”
Megumi takes mercy, “just take a seat.”
He does, choosing the chair right between Bakugou and Megumi, coincidentally, Megumi’s sure. Midoriya’s control over his cursed energy feels barely-there, like he’s hanging on by the sheerest thread Megumi’s seen in his life. Midoriya’s leg starts to bounce, and even when Bakugou puts a bowl down in front of him he doesn’t move to eat it.
Megumi feels a tug on his shadow, watching Black emerge from the dark to press his nose into Midoriya’s thigh with a whine. They’re not supposed to come out without the hand sign, this hasn’t happened since Megumi was very little. Gojo explained it as his subconscious wanting them there, except there won’t be a “them” anymore, it will just be Black.
“Hi,” Midoriya says to the shikigami, cupping its head with both hands to scratch at its ears. Megumi sees a curse’s hands on his shikigami’s neck and has to stomp on the urge to recall Black into the safety of the shade. “Where’s your buddy?”
“We didn’t just lose Itadori.” And it’s foolish, comparing a shikigami being destroyed to the death of an actual human, but the tightness in Megumi’s chest can’t be anything but grief.
“Oh.” Black whines again, cueing Midoriya to murmur comfort as he continues to pet the shikigami. “I had just come up with names.”
Megumi closes his eyes. It takes more effort than he expects to keep his voice even. “What were they?”
“Keshi and Yogore.” He takes his notebook out from inside his jacket, scribbling down the kanji for them. Eraser and Smudge. Megumi has to smother a wet snort. It’s odd, but it fits them.
“But I have an idea.” Midoriya writes it out, combining the first and last characters of their separate names. His voice goes up a pitch – he’s talking directly to Black. “How do you feel about Yoshi?”
Now Megumi feels really stupid, getting so choked up over a name, but it’s not just that. It’s a way for White to be remembered. A normal sorcerer would hear about its destruction and shake their head, calling it a shame but never thinking much beyond that. They were just tools after all. Yet Megumi looks over to Midoriya, seeing him with his face buried in Black’s – Yoshi’s – scruff. Tools don’t whine and try to get closer, begging for more contact, and dangerous curses don’t give in and climb down to the floor so they can wrap a shikigami in a full-body hug.
Megumi catches Kugisaki staring at Yoshi and Midoriya, her face unreadable but not disgusted. He’s been in her shoes, it takes a while to process Midoriya. The curse only gets up to grab his bowl, choosing to eat on the floor with Yoshi
None of them leave the kitchen for a good long while, long enough for the rain outside to slow to a drizzle. The thunder has roamed away, taking longer and longer to reach them. Megumi doesn’t dismiss Yoshi for the rest of the night, letting the shikigami clamber up onto bed with him and curl up, slotting perfectly into the groove of Megumi’s lower back. They did this a lot when he was a kid, during wintertime when the electricity went out and Tsumiki needed the extra blankets to stay warm. Back when he still had names for them.
Sleep finds Megumi slowly but surely, taking him away from those bittersweet, but mostly bitter, memories.
—-
Those decrepit windbags have sure gotten bold over the last few months. They’ve always been annoying, buzzing in Satoru’s ears about stupid shit like tradition and respecting elders . Maybe they should do something worthy of respect instead of ending his kids on a suicide mission. Even with Yuuji resurrected, Satoru can feel the aftershocks of his own anger in the way his heart still beats a bit too fast, how he has to check his strength before he crushes door handles
Yuuji only came back because of a binding vow with Sukuna, Satoru’s certain of it. If Megumi or Kugisaki had died, they would’ve stayed dead. If that had happened…
Well. Satoru’s sure it would’ve been bloodier than all those idle daydreams he’s entertained. Shoko would probably say he needs therapy, and Suguru– Satoru shakes his head. There’s no point thinking about what Suguru would do.
Yuuji should be on his second movie by now, hard at work trying to control his cursed energy. Satoru has a task of his own, it’s why he’s wandering the school grounds so late at night. Curses don’t need sleep, and Satoru has a decent grip on what makes Izu-chan tick by now.
Sure enough, he spots electricity on the training field. The older practice dummies are more scrap than actual dummies, too worn down by Katsuki’s kusari and Nobara’s nails. They’re lined up in random positions across the field. Izu-chan stands away from them all, tiny bolts of electricity scatter around him like he’s a live wire. A larger bolt shoots out from him, hitting the closest dummy and lighting it on fire. The lightning doesn’t stop there, it bounces off, finding the next target, then the next. It deliberately avoids some dummies while hitting others dead-on. There’s nothing that distinguishes the scrap dummies from each other, but Satoru imagines Izu-chan’s deemed the dummies he’s avoided “allies” for this exercise. It’s the kind of fine control Satoru wouldn’t even expect from his third years, Izu-chan’s been pushing himself harder than Satoru thought.
The dummies hit by electricity fall off their posts, smoldering and still ablaze in some places. Izu-chan hurries to snuff the embers under his shoe. Satoru’s close enough to hear him talking to himself, but not close enough to pick out details. He takes one step closer and Izu-chan straightens up, those ears on his hoodie pricking in interest. When he turns around, his eyes are bright enough to rival Satoru’s, burning in that pitch dark. They both stand there, staring at each other.
“Mr. Gojo.” Izu-chan’s voice sinks in the air between them, going low and bordering on threatening. “Why do you have Itadori’s residuals on you?”
As a curse, Izu-chan’s the only other sorcerer who’s good enough to pick up even faint residuals. Which is why Satoru had to do this when everyone was asleep, or at least in their rooms. “It's an interesting story,” Satoru says, leaning back on his heels and maintaining a careless aura. This isn’t the cute Izu-chan who gets flustered when Satoru calls on him to answer questions, this is Izu-chan the special grade curse. An unmatched predator aside from Satoru.
The tension breaks when Izu-chan’s shoulders drop, making his posture look worn out and vulnerable. “Please don’t joke about something like this.” Izu-chan pleads, genuine hurt bleeding into his voice.
Satoru sobers up, standing straight. “It’s not a joke.” He says, “I don’t joke about this sort of stuff.” When has he ever given Izu-chan the impression he would? “Itadori’s alive. Sukuna brought him back.” He’s the only one who could.
Satoru sees relief flash across Izu-chan’s face, replaced by consideration. “You want to keep it a secret.” Izu-chan concludes, “but I can see residuals better than a normal sorcerer. You wouldn’t have told me if I couldn’t.”
So smart, putting the pieces together like that. “Yuuji needs time to catch up on his cursed energy skills. The higher ups wouldn’t give him the chance if they knew he was still kicking.” Sure, they wouldn’t be able to do anything when Satoru’s there, but he knows those old coots, they’ll find any excuse to send him overseas and try again. “The less people in the know, the better.”
Izu-chan still isn’t convinced. “Itadori’s not like me, Mr. Gojo, he has people who miss him already.”
Satoru could argue with that, but even he knows bringing up Midoriya Inko right now would not be good for the local geography. They just got the field redone this year, Yaga would kill Satoru if he got it messed up again “It won’t be forever.” Even when he says it, he knows it won’t be enough. “Do you want to see him for yourself?” Satoru asks.
There’s a moment where Izu-chan tries to tell if Satoru’s kidding. Which kind of hurts, surprisingly. Satoru’s withholding information from the other first years, but it’s not like he’s outright lying. He doesn’t play mind games with his students like that, it’s much funnier to take unflattering photos and send them to the others.
Izu-chan makes his decision, blurring and reappearing at Satoru’s side. Satoru feels the fine hair on his arms raise from static electricity in the air. He’s sure if the hair on his head wasn’t already up it would be on end, too. Izu-chan makes eye contact, keeping his stare level. It’s the first time he’s shown any sort of confidence, standing up to Satoru like this, but the edges of disappointment in his face blunt Satoru’s satisfaction. “Yes.”
Satoru's meetings with the higher ups were more comfortable than the walk back to his house on campus. Izu-chan’s whole body language points away from him, still trying hard to look human but failing every now and again. Satoru can’t help but feel some kind of loss, seeing how Izu-chan’s treating him now. It was nice having someone take his word as gospel, someone who trusted him to tell the truth. Even so, this is the best way to keep all of his students safe. He can accept Izu-chan being upset with him if it means the first years won’t have to attend a real funeral.
Satoru unlocks the front door and holds it open. Izu-chan steps in and freezes, seeing more of Yuuji’s residuals trailing around the living room and leading to the basement steps. Izu chan waits for Satoru to finish re-locking the door before going down the stairs, his feet creaking on the wooden steps like a classic haunted house. If Izu-chan’s dead, and Yuuji’s dead on paper, doesn’t that make his house actually haunted? He’ll ask Shoko, or Nanami, he hasn’t bothered Nanami in a while.
Yuuji’s gotten comfortable on the couch, leaning back in his seat. Some of the snacks Satoru left him have been broken into, the aluminum wrapping catching the light from the screen in an obnoxious way. Satoru left him right when he started some b-list horror movie, now he’s watching something even worse: the live-action adaptation of Avatar: The Last Airbender. Man, Satoru dragged Suguru and Shoko to go watch it in theaters when it came out just so they could talk trash about it and throw popcorn at the screen.
“Yuuji~ You have a visitor.” Satoru declares.
Yuuji looks up from the couch in surprise, his eyes widening when he spots Izu-chan beside Satoru. “Midoriya?” He says, sounding like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
Izu-chan’s knees give out, hitting the hardwood with a very real sounding thump. He grasps wildly for the rim of his hoodie, tearing it off to stare openly at Yuuji, like he needed to see it with his own eyes, not past the shadow of his hood. "You're alive." The first teardrop hits the floor, followed quickly by others. "I thought… I thought–" his voice gives out into radio static, whining at a high enough pitch to mimic tinnitus.
Yuuji’s up and out of his seat the instant Izu-chan hits the floor. "H-hey! It's alright, see? I'm okay!" He grabs Izu-chan's left hand, the one that keeps glitching into its true, clawed form, and presses it to his own cheek. The glitching stops the instant Izu-chan makes contact with Yuuji, but not because he's calmed down. Satoru can see Izu-chan forcing himself to stay human, to stay soft and blunt and safe for others to be around. It must feel agonizing, squeezing himself into such a small form, but he does it anyway.
"I promised." Izu-chan sobs, "I promised, and you still died."
Did he? It's the first time Satoru's hearing anything of it. But it must be true, because Yuuji's breath hitches.
"Yeah. I died." He says it dully, like seeing someone have the proper reaction to his death let it sink in for real. Soon enough Yuuji’s crying, too. His whole face twists like he's in pain, and Satoru decides he doesn't like this expression. Yuuji's upbeat and happy like Satoru, but the key difference is that he's 100% genuine. Seeing him breaking down, ducking his head into Izu-chan's shoulder as he hugs the curse close, is so far from the Yuuji Satoru's grown to expect that he's left speechless for once.
The cursed doll Yuuji had been holding leaps up, ready to clock him, but Satoru catches it before it can. Training Is important but this, he thinks, staring at a curse and a vessel crying on the floor, can be the exception.
Satoru’s never known what to do when people cry. With his blunt nature and tendency to say things as they are, he’s usually the cause, but he heard somewhere that crying things out can help, so he decides to let them do just that. He heads upstairs, going for the pantry, he has a few extra packets of sour patch watermelon he’s been meaning to give Izu-chan. It’ll be a peace offering, something that’ll hopefully convince Izu-chan to be a little less upset with him. They’ve made so much progress, it’d be a pain if Izu-chan went back to shocking him at every touch. Satoru spends a little extra time goofing off on his phone to give Izu-chan and Yuuji a chance to talk. When he takes the steps, sour patch in hand, he makes sure to keep as quiet as he can.
Izu-chan’s joined Yuuji on the couch, leaning against each other as Yuuji explains the principle of his training. One of the soda cans is missing from the table, Satoru assumes it’s in Izu-chan’s hand. His cursed energy doesn't look like it's strangling itself anymore, a huge improvement from the celtic knot it was a few minutes ago. Yet the most surprising part of this whole scene is that Izu-chan hasn’t pulled his hood back up, letting the ears dangle off the back of the couch. He’s been so adamant about keeping his injuries hidden, especially his eye. He must be more upset than Satoru thought if he forgot.
Satoru turns the cursed bear off and puts it on a table near the back. He’ll get Yuuji back on track, just after this movie. For now, he’ll let them be kids. “Ooh, this is my favorite part!” He sits himself down on the edge of the couch, choosing Yuuji’s side of the couch to give Izu-chan some space. He still tosses the packet of sweets at him, enjoying the eep he gets when it hits Izu-chan’s chest. He watches the scene, remembering just where they are in the movie, “admiral Zhao’s totally going to–”
“Spoilers!” Yuuji chucks a potato chip at him. Satoru lets it hit. Izu-chan watches this with wide eyes, and then the impossible happens.
He laughs.
“S--sorry.” He struggles to say while Yuuji and Satoru both look at him. “It’s just– the chip’s in your hair.”
Huh, Satoru had assumed it bounced off and landed on the floor. He plucks the chip, inspecting it before popping it into his mouth and crunching down.
“Aw, sensei, that’s gross!” Yuuji sticks his tongue out. “If you wanted chips you shoulda asked.”
“And waste food? For shame, Yuuji.”
They all settle down to watch the last arc of the movie, throwing comments at the screen and laughing at the bad acting. Izu-chan points out how useless firebending is if they need a fire source, and Staoru has to defend his favorite American cartoon from slander. He logs onto his netflix out of spite and makes them sit through half of season 1 before Yuuji nods off, his head rolling to the side in an uncomfortable looking position.
Izu-chan gets up, gently guiding Yuuji to lay down. Satoru never gave much thought to how much kids grow in the year between middle and upper school, but he sees how small Izu-chan’s hands are compared to Yuuji’s and he can’t not think about. How much bigger would Izu-chan have gotten? Would he have stayed small or would he have shot up like a weed? No one will know now.
Izu-chan readjusts the blanket, watching Yuuji snuffle and pull it over himself. He looks to Satoru, the light from the TV hitting the back of his head and casting the rest of him in shadow. “Thank you. For telling me.”
Satoru leans his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s like you said. You would’ve figured it out anyway, this was damage control.”
“You didn’t have to pause Itadori’s training.” Izu-chan persists, “You didn’t have to get me my favorite snack, or sit with us and watch TV.” He softens his voice, “I… I still don’t like lying to Kacchan and the others, but I understand why we have to.”
Satoru raises his eyebrows, still staring at the ceiling. “We?”
“You’re right, Itadori needs time.” Izu-chan’s voice goes low, a dark murmur as he stands there doing who knows what, Staoru can’t be bothered to look. “This isn’t going to happen again.”
Well, they can agree on that. Satoru grunts, getting up from the couch. He grabs the remote and turns the TV off, leaving the moonlight from upstairs the only source of ambient light. Izu-chan really looks like a ghost in this setting, far too small, with his hair dancing in a nonexistent breeze, he just looks… sad. His whole existence is too depressing. A curse so lonely he would call Satoru, the biggest threat to him, kind.
“Let’s go upstairs.” Satoru suggests. He doesn’t need much sleep, and Izu-chan doesn't sleep at all. If they stay here they’ll inevitably wake Yuuji up. “We should talk about some stuff.” Like refining that attack he was working on in the training field. Or getting him a phone. Wandering around looking for him is gonna get old fast.
Izu-chan follows him upstairs