Chapter Text
The first time Yuuji receives praise from his mother, it’s when blood is dripping from his hands, and an ancient demon sneers at him from atop a bloodstained, enamel-built throne. It’s when the dying gurgles of a man he doesn’t know the slightest about spasms below him, sanguine crimson falling from his lips and pooling on the floor.
The second time Yuuji receives praise from his mother, it’s when he chokes down another wax-encrusted finger, salt and resin mixing together to create a delicacy truly fit for the demons of hell. It’s when the sneers of a man grow ever louder, urging him on and creating tiny tears in the fabric of reality before him.
The third time Yuuji receives praise from his mother, it’s when he manages to slice a flying apple, two bisected halves falling to the floor and rolling on their axis, not unlike the heads severed in his dreams. It’s when power begins to spark from his fingertips, cursing his entire being forevermore.
The latest time Yuuji receives praise from his mother, it’s when he casts his final gaze upon the sixsome of eyes widened, as he backtracks and sends one final arc of slice spinning through the air, severing a single bit of silver hair as it falls through, light bouncing off regardless of material. It’s when shocked hands reach for him, but he slaps them aside, because he shouldn’t doesn’t grab their outstretched fingers.
Itadori Yuuji is born in 1989, to Itadori Jin and Itadori Kaori. On the orders of his mother, he attends Jujutsu High alongside Ieiri Shoko, Gojo Satoru, and Geto Suguru.
It’s not a particularly substantial event. It changes nothing; it changes everything.
“Catch, Yuuji.”
Yuuji’s fingers curl around the can deftly, the thumbnail flicking the tab open as the opening’s brought to his mouth, liquid rushing between his lips as the group strolls forward. “Thanks, Suguru,” he calls back, index and middle snapping together to wave a thanks to Suguru. “Appreciate it.”
Suguru just hums in response, shoving one into Satoru’s wheedling hands and tossing one to Shoko’s awaiting claws, keeping the lemon one for himself to wash away the perpetual taste of rot clinging to the roof of his mouth. The fizz of his own dies down with the subsequent flick of metal, and he brings it to his lips, allowing the sour-sweet flavour to drown remnants of curse.
Blissful silence replaces what used to be Satoru’s ramblings, the only sound being their chugging and the consequential banging of metal against metal as Yuuji and Satoru finish at the same time, tossing their drinks in the trash simultaneously. Beside him, Shoko’s enjoying the…peach? With enthusiasm, surely only one of her many sources of caffeine for studying anatomy and whatnot.
Suguru’s happy to welcome the quiet with open arms, enjoying the peace that seems to elude them most days. After Amanai, everything seemed to be painted over with gray and preserved in stone, not unlike a relic of old, but being with the group always struck the monochrome with fresh shades of coral, azure, and hazel.
“How’s exams going, Shoko?” Yuuji’s asking, shaking Suguru out of his thoughts as Satoru slings an arm around Suguru’s shoulders, licking the little droplets of moisture off the lip of his drink. Suguru pushes at him, knocking him on the head jokingly as Shoko tilts her head, considering the question.
“Like how exams normally go,” she sighs, the beginning of violet gathering under her eyes – though her skin is still nice as ever, not that Suguru cares about her looks! – merely an observation. “Tiring, soul-sucking, and making me want to jump off a building and permanently disable Reverse Cursed Technique for myself.”
“Aww, don’t do that,” Satoru whines, blaring into Suguru’s ear like a microphone as he winces away, groaning as he shoves the head of white away. Satoru slumps onto Shoko like a parasite, leaving his old host for the new one as Shoko sags into Yuuji’s arms, passing the leech along like a potato. “Shoko, let’s go to Harajuku after you’re done the millionth exam in a row! I wanna try those new macaroons, and we gotta go with the whole group!”
Shoko pats his head, arm awkwardly bent as Yuuji just grins that bright smile of his, holding the two up easily with what Suguru knows to be muscled arm beneath rippling, dark navy. “I’m honoured you would consider me before desserts, Satoru,” she says solemnly. “This is what we call character development. Yuuji, give him a pat on the back.”
“Already on it, Sarge,” Yuuji nods along, thumping Satoru on the back. It doesn’t collide with a rippling shield of warped space, something Suguru personally considers character development, considering his behaviour with Yuuji at the start of their first year. “One pat on the back, coming up, Satoru!”
Satoru writhes jokingly under Yuuji’s oppressive hand, flopping and wriggling about dramatically like a worm in soil, buried under muscled arm. “Nooo!” he whines, circular, tinted sunglasses falling to the edge of his nose, creating a precarious balancing act. “Suguru! Yuuji’s killing me! Strangler! Defiler of the bloodline!”
Suguru rolls his eyes fondly, wiggling an arm in between Satoru’s neck and Yuuji’s wrist and pushing outward, acting as a limblike crowbar to pry the pair apart. Shoko dangles from Yuuji’s other arm, watching the drama with amusement sparkling in her eyes. “What bloodline, Satoru?” asks Suguru dryly. “All I see is a little worm, shrivelling in the sunlight.”
A loud gasp spills from Satoru’s teeth, trembling in the air like a dainty little maiden, twirling with light, silky skirts of betrayal. “How could you,” he breathes, pressing a splayed hand to his chest as achromatric lashes flutter, once again defying basic aerodynamics to give Satoru perhaps the most obnoxiously “pretty” look known to mankind. “I’ll have you know dozens of ladies line up to meet me on the daily, Suguru.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Yuuji chastises them, like the responsible one he is, though a smile tugs at the corners of his lips, now taking upon Suguru’s prior role of separating the two. “I think Yaga-sensei wanted to see us, and we’re well over the deadline. Let’s go, get up, Shoko.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Shoko waves him off, hazel glimmering with delight as her feet click on the ground, heel touching stone. “Let’s go before you get your hands in a twist. Suguru, Satoru, I’m not reporting you guys to Yaga-sensei if you show up bald or with mustaches drawn on your cheeks, so lock in, ‘kay?”
“Got it, Shoko,” the two of them drone in sync, casting perturbed eyes at each other as their elbows connect, fighting for dominance over the other as Yuuji claps whenever either of them score a hit on the other’s torso all the while to the classroom. Hallways pass them by on the way there, and Yuuji opens the door with a neat flourish and bow.
Eventually, their silent tussle of arms and pointed elbows peters out under Yaga’s watchful, quite clearly annoyed gaze, and they turn away from the other, rolling their eyes in equal mocking dislike for the other.
“It’s nice to see you’ve not changed from your first year,” Yaga cuts in drolly, sighing heavily with the exhaustion only a man used to such shenanigans can embody. “You four. There’s a new mission with your names stamped on it with a fat, red sticker, so listen – Satoru, no Red in the classroom!”
Satoru slams his head on the desk, grumbling as a pencil falls from his fingertips, clattering to the floor. “You’re such a drag, Yaga,” he laments, remnants of ruby and sapphire still dancing around the pads of his fingers, sparking with power as they repel and attract, shifting like poles in a magnet. “How am I supposed to practice, then? What’s the fun?”
Yaga pinches the bridge of his nose tightly, rubbing the skin up and down as he pulls it outwards, tilting his head back as two other fingers dart to his temples. “Practice in the training fields,” he stresses, joints popping tightly, “When it’s training time. Not in the classroom, when it’s learning time.”
“Fine, fine,” moans Satoru once more, voice warbling with mock offence at Yaga’s strained tone – not even two minutes in, thinks Suguru dryly, and Satoru’s already driven Yaga to the point of gray hairs surely sprouting from brown on their teacher’s head. “What’s the mission, teach? Hit us!”
A slap thumps on the table in front, and Suguru can see the muscles in Yuuji’s shoulders tense at the impact. Shoko just turns, phlegmatic as ever, and Suguru turns with attention piqued at the evidently thicker folder than usual resting on the oak surface.
“All you four,” Yaga begins, pointing at Shoko when her lips part, already nodding his head to her unspoken question, “And yes, even you, Shoko,” – here, Shoko flops down, joining Satoru in their shared scolding, “Are going to head to somewhere around Koganei Park, to investigate what seems to be a nature curse on the higher spectrum on Special Grade. Shouldn’t be a problem for you, it’s unregistered, and Satoru, put the pencil down.”
A hand raises in the air, and Yaga’s eyes flick to Yuuji’s arm with acknowledgement. “Yes?”
“A deity?” Yuuji peeps, nearly too quiet to be heard, had the room not gone silent at the words. Undeterred, though his tone falters when silence stretches further, he plows on. “It – It’s just a curse, right? Not a deity haunting the place?”
Haibara.
The damn monke–
“Suguru.”
He turns to Shoko, and she points to his clenched fist. His fingers curl away, revealing little rivulets of blood flowing from where his nails have unawarely pierced epidermis, warm and sticky as it cools as time goes on. “I’d rather not have to wave my hands for a trivial matter,” Shoko tells him as a means of escape.
Suguru just nods rigidly, finger joints as tight as he imagines Yaga’s to be in this moment. Flashes flit in his mind – A fountain of blood, dripping scarlet from arms holding a dear friend – the guilt, and the rage, and the absolute visceral hatred threatening to explode like a volcano, casting wishes of hate upon the world–
“Not a deity,” Yaga rumbles, voice tight and taut as he speaks, opening the hefty folder with a thump and pulling out a neat stack of printed cream. “Just an extraordinarily powerful spirit, I’d say. It haunts the place, started about two days ago, caused two major fires and three casualties before we got the mission. Pleasant stuff, I know.”
“Details?” asks Yuuji, serious and concentrated demeanor in full gear – unlike the clearly fooling-around Shoko and Satoru in the background, whispering about the latest sugar trends or whatnot. Suguru resists the urge to snap at them, instead bottling it down and keeping the lid screwed tight.
It could be worse, after all. They’re nothing compared to the restless clamour of those accursed monkeys.
The words of others fade out of existence, washed out by the lapping waves of nothingness and only his thoughts to consume the emptiness within. Monkeys. With their stupid faces, their all-around careless demeanor, uncaring of a single element of remote care around them. They’re the reason Haibara – no, he can’t think about that now – why everyone has to suffer, why Amanai died, why both Satoru and Yuuji have the world weighing on their shoulders, why Suguru catches Shoko staring at the cigarettes in convenience stores with a sort of faraway longing in her eyes. Why Suguru has to stand the taste of rot, clinging to his tongue and teeth and mouth and gums while they swallow their food with smiles and cheers of delight.
“...And that’s it,” Suguru can hear just as he’s snapping out of the reverie, and Yuuji’s nodding along. Yaga’s eyes stay on him one final time before tapping the packet of paper with a pointed finger and sweeping out, muttering under his breath of the next tasks on his to-do list. Suguru turns to Yuuji, casting questioned eyes on him as the chair in front scrapes on the floor.
“Anyone want your papers?” Yuuji calls out, rifling through the stack as the remaining three stay seated.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Satoru waves him off, lanky limbs crawling over his desk and chair like a spider as he stands, next to Yuuji in a flash and distortion of space. The rustle of winds results in not a blink from Yuuji nor Suguru, both used to his teleportation shenanigans ever since that. “Let’s wing it. I’ve got free time, you’ve got free time, Suguru’s got free time, and we’re making free time for Shoko! I heard the mochi over there are to kill for. Let’s wrap it up quick and get some!”
At the mention of free time, Shoko’s eyes light up, and by the time “mochi” falls from Satoru’s teeth, she’s already springing up, face aglow with interest. She beckons for Suguru to follow with a crooked finger, a matching smile steadily arching on her face, pushing her cheeks up not unlike a curtain being raised.
“If you being a dragging bum makes me miss my mochi, Suguru,” she says solemnly, eyes sharpening as she pierces holes in Suguru’s soul, fierce and cold. “I’ll personally oversee your death and feed you to the rats in the morgue. And it won’t be pleasant, let me tell you–”
“Coming, Shoko,” Suguru’s hand curls around the top of his chair, squeaking it into the hollow space below his table. Satoru and Yuuji are already halfway through the door before the last words leave his lips, wood slamming against frame as the handle wobbles back and forth, caught by Shoko’s index tapping it lightly to stop the back-and-forth. “I’ll catch up soon enough.”
Shoko glances at him one final time before yanking the lever down and stepping out, waving as the last dregs of her voice float by. “The manager’s not gonna wait for you, Suguru. Catch up, or I’ll deliver.”
Suguru gives her retreating figure a lethargic wave, heading to the door and pushing it open once more. It closes behind him softly, a light thump in contrast to the prior slams and smacks given to the poor door by his friends.
The walk to the path is silent, save for the occasional bird-cheep and rustle of leaves casting dappled light upon the grass below. Nanami and Haibara are surely somewhere near the training fields, or perhaps the weapon storages – to his knowledge, the second-years don’t have much going on as of now, considering the situation they’re in after that.
The rumble of an engine replaces the click of his feet on stone and little sparrows in branches, a shout spurred on by another replacing rustles of calming leaves. “Suguru!” comes Yuuji’s voice, called-out and whistling. “Over here! C’mon, let’s go!”
Suguru glances up, a hand coming from his pocket to give a short wave of acknowledgement before picking up the pace just slightly, reaching the awaiting jet car, tinted windows sliding down in the summer heat, door clicking open and swinging to welcome him in. As expected, Satoru’s called shotgun, and Shoko scoots over to welcome him in the rightmost corner, right next to where she’s squished in the middle, Yuuji waving enthusiastically next to her.
“Will I be violently dismembered now?” asks Suguru dryly as the key slides in, engine beginning to send vibrations through the black-leathered seats.
“I’ll think about it,” answers Shoko with a catlike smile, a single strand of hair twirling around her index as she allows a faint smile to play on tired lips. “Not sure why the higher-ups let me go on this mission, but I’ll take the most out of the experience. Good chance to avoid studying for the exams known as the deepest pits of hell.”
“Are medical exams that bad?” Yuuji pokes at her shoulder quizzically, drilling into her skin. Shoko retaliates by flopping over on his shoulder, hair spilling on his uniform with lines of hazel against navy. “You make it sound worse than death, Shoko – sometimes, you whine more than Satoru at times, y’know.”
“I heard that!” Satoru singsongs from shotgun, a spiderlike hand grasping for Yuuji’s flailing arms. “Yuuji, stop insulting me! I heard that~!”
Ignoring Satoru, as the correct thing to do! – Shoko turns to Yuuji, thoughtful and pensive as she considers the question. Her grave expression crumbles in seconds, allowing for a light grin to replace her normally tired indifference, a crescent breaking through clouds obscuring her face. “They’re hell,” she reiterates, saturnine to the end. “Absolute hell. You’d not even get through the first two minutes, Yuuji.”
Suguru’s inclined to agree – Yuuji’s grin would surely fade within the first two seconds, more like, drooping from the upturned lips that’re normally positioned neatly on his face. While his personality’s a blessing at times, Suguru wouldn’t say he’s the…sharpest tool in the shed in academics.
“Ah, well,” sighs Yuuji carefreely, throwing his head back as he deftly disarms Satoru’s stinging arms, flinging the taller teenager back into his seat easily. Suguru feels a tiny pinch of satisfaction at the sight; even after being fully realized, Satoru still can’t beat Yuuji in a fight of pure physical strength, it seems. “All I need is to punch here, kick there, and bash people, right? You’ll heal us just fine, Shoko. You don’t need to be a doctor for that.”
Shoko scoffs, greenery whizzing by her head as she mock-hits Yuuji’s arm, rolling her eyes heedlessly. “Idiot. I need to learn more stuff anatomy-wise, or else I’m gonna rupture a blood vessel by accident. Reverse cursed technique, contrary to Satoru’s wise words, is not ‘Little bada-bing, little bada-boo, big explosion whoo’.”
She levels a pointed stare at Satoru, watching as he shrinks away under her insinuating gaze, though he bounds up – just as a rubber ball, springing up easily from any piercing implication.
“He was high,” Suguru provides, just to see Satoru curl up even further, and Yuuji hides a chuckle behind his palm at the rather blunt implication. “Cut him some slack, Shoko. He was screaming about random stuff before I saw him, at least according to you, right? Yuuji?”
“For real,” Yuuji snickers, coughing on his suppressed chuckles at Satoru’s face – not unlike a bedraggled, betrayed kitten left in the rain. “I think Fushiguro died of cringe, rather than Satoru’s Purple. Thought I was hallucinating from blood loss at one point, but it was just him being high on finding reverse cursed technique.”
“I killed him,” Satoru mutters sullenly, grasping on the metaphorical straw of murder as consolation. “Doesn’t matter if I was high. I was still very magnificent killing Fushiguro, so be thankful, peasants.”
The word hits hard. Though Satoru’d meant it as a joke, clearly, it only expands the already towering gap between them – the gap between sovereign and peasant, of human and ant. Because Satoru’s strong now, strong enough to do anything without any of them. Without relying on anyone else to make up for his now nonexistent shortcomings.
“Very magnificent,” says Yuuji austerely, pushing Shoko’s limp head onto the headrest as he stretches his surely stiff shoulder. “Very “Strongest” vibe, hashtag “saved my friends after being high on made-up drugs”, yes, we’re all peasants. Nice to meet you, Mister Strongest sorcerer of the modern era.”
“See, now you’re getting it!” Satoru announces, grin now fixed in place as he springs up once more, finger guns snapping at Yuuji happily. “You can call me that, Yuuji. Actually, please feel free to.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Yuuji waves him off, his head flopping against solid glass as his eyes close, lulled by the steady motion of the vehicle’s movement. “I’m gonna rest for now. Wake me up, Suguru. Don’t trust you to wake me up, Satoru,” he answers to Satoru’s lips parting.
“Betrayal,” Satoru gasps, going unheard to anyone but the silent manager as Suguru turns to the window, watching city buildings brushing the sky whiz by on the highway – it’s only about thirty minutes to Koganei, he thinks, so it should only be about ten minutes more. Absently, he lets his thoughts drift away with that final note of Satoru’s, consciousness joining the cars driving the other way from them, zooming faster than his eye can catch.
The mission’ll be over in half a second, he ponders dryly, nearly sorry for the curse had it not been his responsibility to swallow it. Little lemon drops weigh heavy in his pocket, reminding him of the fate awaiting both his tongue and the curse haunting Koganei – just Satoru would be overkill, sending all four of them is absolute madness. One of them probably pulled some strings to bring them all – Suguru’d bet a good two thousand yen it was Satoru, using his newfound influence with the jujutsu higher-ups.
Ten minutes comes and goes, and Suguru’s hand meets Yuuji’s shoulder to shake him awake. The uniform fabric rides up with the motion, revealing white lines separating tanned skin – Suguru’s grown used to them, though it’d been an object of concern at the start of year one – he still doesn’t believe the excuse Yuuji uses, but it’s not his business to interfere, surely. “Yuuji,” he mutters, watching as eyelashes flutter, revealing pools of umber that shift to his figure in lethargic sleepiness.
“Yep,” Yuuji mumbles, a garbled string of words following the affirmation. His hand comes up to grapple with the handle, lifting it outward and shoving forward, and he tumbles to the ground from the seat. Shoko watches him with amusement, following him with dainty footsteps that seem to tease his less-than stellar exit.
“Thank you for the ride,” Suguru thanks mechanically, the human response to give some sort of gratitude to the one that’d drove them here spilling from between his teeth without him even thinking. A cold shudder runs down his spine as he rethinks what he’d just said – what if he’s not a jujutsu sorcerer, what if–
“Suguru!”
Satoru’s voice latches around his neck, dragging him forward and onto the pavement. He stumbles, unused to the hard, stonelike ground as his feet struggle to find footing amongst the concrete slabs, and an arm loops around his chest to steady him. “Suguru?” asks Satoru in mild concern, sunglasses falling to the bridge of his nose as he peers down at Suguru. “You good, man?”
Suguru blinks once before pushing Satoru’s hands away roughly, bringing himself to his feet. “Peachy,” he huffs, patting the ruffled fabric down with steadied hands. Behind him, Yuuji waves to the car already driving away, casting anxious eyes on Suguru before turning to a joyfully gesturing Shoko. “Thanks,” he adds as an afterthought.
Satoru’s eyes linger on him for five seconds more before his fingers curl around Suguru’s wrist, dragging him forward. In an instant, his fingers change from grasping the joint to laced around his own fingers, intertwining in what feels like an oddly unnatural combination.
“C’mon, Suguru,” Satoru sighs, dragging him forward by the tightly held hand to where Yuuji and Shoko’re already on their way up the path to the main plaza. “Don’t space out on me. You were always the smartass, weren’t you? I’m counting on you, my faithful GPS! Go, Suguru! I choose you!”
“Isn’t that the Pokemon release phrase?” Suguru mutters, eyes fixed firmly on the petal-littered ground. It’s late autumn, but withering pink still floats through the air, wind pleasantly cool. “Whatever happened to Digimon, Satoru?”
“Oh, so you were listening,” Satoru says, tone mildly surprised. Suguru glances up to see a teasing, lilting grin swooping over his cheeks, boyish on his seventeen-year old face despite it having seen so much blood. “Thought you left me for a moment. I’m honoured you remember my rants, Suguru.”
His lips part, wanting to say something that comes barbed and wired to his tongue, catching on every little movement he struggles to enunciate. Satoru stays silent for once before striding forward once more, yanking Suguru along with him before he has a chance to answer Satoru’s simple thoughts.
…It’s soothing, in a way. Just the two of them, Yuuji and Shoko trailing either forward or behind, just as it’d been since April. Their fingers locked together, weaved in interlocking fingers not unlike a basket made of just them. Petals, leaves, wind swirling together in a quiet cacophony to accompany them.
It’s ruined, though, when a boy runs in front of them, chasing a little white ball down the path, every bounce punctuating his slapping footsteps until the sphere of milky white rolls to a stop in front of their slowly walking feet. Suguru’s hand reaches out instinctively, coming to ghost the pads of his fingers over rubber, squeezing tight and lifting it up.
“Thanks, nii-chan!”
Suguru stops.
A toothy grin arcs over his face, lifting dimples up like little pearls, held by arms of facial muscle. Two pudgy hands, fingers curling in like worms, reaching for the sphere Suguru holds. His breath, huffy and panting as a flush settles over babylike cheeks, a red curtain falling on the final act of a play.
Raging thoughts slam into the cavities of his head, stampedes of horses’ hooves echoing in his mind. Monkey. Child. Monkey. Child. Monkey. Child. Monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey–
Child.
“Nii-chan?”
“Suguru,” Satoru tells him with the tone of a scolding mother, and the ball’s plucked from his hands and held out to the child. “Give the kid his ball. If you want some, I’m happy to buy you a million, but you’re gonna make the kid cry.”
Suguru’s fingers dangle, limp without an object to wrap around and hold tight – but Satoru’s hand is placed on top of his palm, spinning it around and lacing together once more. The kid bounds off without another word, and Satoru’s eyes flick to where Yuuji and Shoko have stopped below an orange-leaved tree, waiting for them with jokingly crossed arms.
“Let’s go, Suguru,” Satoru breaks their rather awkward silence, tugging their limbs forward until Suguru stumbles over his own feet, breaking into a light jog as he pulls him along. “Yuuji and Shoko won’t wait forever, you know! After this, let’s visit one of the souvenir stores from here, and I’ll see if they sell any temari balls ‘round here. They’re a lot more colourful than the white one, anyways.”
It’s silence all the way, only crackling leaves beneath their feet allowing for a break in the quiet. When Yuuji catches sight of them, he waves a hand clutching a light, minty box happily, and little balls of dough and cream bounce within. Beside him, Shoko’s chin is smeared with a little streak of green-ish white, a squished mochi held tightly in her hand.
“S’tu, S’gu!” Yuuji mumbles around a mouthful of mochi dough, a little bit spilling from the corner of his lips. “Tr’ som! R’ly gd!”
“Why, of course!” Satoru announces, twirling about like a ballerina to reach Yuuji, hand swooping out to take the box from his hand. In approximately two seconds and a half, the clear plastic is flung upon the grass, and three little domes of sage march their way to Satoru’s mouth. They fall in, one after the other, and Satoru’s mouth clamps shut around it to chew and swallow.
Yuuji swats the remaining one from the box, pinching the floppy skin and dangling it from his index and thumb as Suguru approaches at a perfectly reasonable pace for the average human being, thank you. “Suguru!” he calls, having swallowed the desserts located in his mouth. “I caught one for you! Can I toss it in your mouth?”
“You’d miss it, idiot,” Shoko reaches for the dangling little baozi of a mochi, staring a game of keep-away with Yuuji and her in the time it takes Suguru to reach them, pluck the perfectly round mochi from his fingers, and drop the fat little drop in his mouth.
It’s smushed, squished, and everything in between – the dough-skin is thin from being stretched, and the cream is spilling out, but it tastes better than anything else he’s had in his life. Perhaps it’s the rather cheesy fact he’s with his classmates, perhaps the atoms of the world aligned in that one moment to make that one singular dessert taste the finest delicacy in the universe, stars and galaxies working together to bring the simple sweetness to his saliva.
Or perhaps it’s the simpleness of hanging out with friends. Without those people monkeys in the way.
“Is that all you got?” Satoru grumbles, rummaging through Yuuji’s pockets, as if he’d stashed away a pile of mochi away in his clothes for later. He comes up with three crumpled receipts, a mysterious purple blob, and stray threads falling from the inner pockets. “Go get more, my soldier! Advance!”
“You get it, rich boy,” Shoko pokes at him, twisting his head and turning Satoru to the other side of the park, where a little truck can be seen, a happy little mochi smiling on the logo, a single leaf dangling from its painted mouth. “You’re clearly the best candidate. Teleport, money, in and out. Just resist the urge to gobble everything, and we’re golden.”
“I concur,” Suguru hums along, pushing Satoru’s back forward as his classmate protests, just pushed-up glasses falling once more in the effort from the two of them. “Yuuji, help us. He clearly ate the most, so it falls on him to get more. He can’t stand up to your physical strength.”
A single finger joins all four of their hands, and Satoru stumbles forward, barely managing to catch himself from face-planting in the grass as Yuuji flicks his single finger forward, joint flicking up easily. “Cheating!” he announces, though his eyes are already steadily fixed on the truck, a hand reaching into his pocket and pulling out the Magical Black Card of Unlimited Money™ with a fancy flourish, whipping it between index and middle. “But count on me! All of you should get at least one tenth of a mochi!”
“Satoru!” Yuuji sputters, indignant as space warps around Satoru, mission temporarily forgotten in favour of the looming threat of Satoru turning mochi-thief on them.
“Well, it’s to be expected,” sighs Shoko, shaking her head in indifferent knowledge. She clasps her hands in prayer, lifting her eyes to the sky above. “I’m just happy I managed to grab one, even if it did have a little cream missing. Yuuji, next time, just don’t buy any. Satoru’ll pay for it either way.”
Suguru blinks placidly, indifferent to the idea of Satoru stealing all their treats. “Did you expect anything less?” he asks rhetorically, watching Yuuji wipe fake tears from his eyes.”It’s Satoru. Gluttony personified, if you’ve forgotten. If you go now, I bet you can catch up, Yuuji.”
Yuuji falls to the ground, hands and knees becoming entangled with autumn leaves scattered on the ground in his rather perfectly done dogeza. “There’s no point,” he sobs, sighing loudly as he rolls over, coral now mingled with darkened peach. “Even if I get there, Satoru’ll still take all of them, and we’ll still be very mochi-less. Yuu and Kento’ll have none as well. Suguru, can’t you–”
“No.”
“Curse you.”
“That’s taboo,” Suguru hums lightly, holding out a hand for Yuuji to grab and pull himself up. “On another note, shouldn’t we be investigating that suspiciously smoke-like spiral coming from over there?”