Chapter Text
But in your dreams whatever they be,
Dream a little dream of me
Iori Utahime was trying to daydream the anxiety away. The room was always filled with tension whenever Jujutsu Technical High and Kyoto Jujutsu High convened for a rare joint staff meeting and she often found that the best way to weather the storm was to sink into the rêverie of her imagination. Utahime wasn’t proud of the fact that her own prickliness often contributed to the strain. She couldn’t always help it when he was around.
So she was letting her mind wander. In her imagination, she was shopping. She had an unlimited budget and she was casually adding little tubes and potions to a shopping basket on her arm, smiling serenely with the perfect blowout and a designer handbag on her shoulder. In her daydream, she’d be getting a drink soon. In her daydream, she was perfectly relaxed.
But in her daydream, quite suddenly, someone’s hand was threaded through hers as she walked. Someone kissed her temple and jostled her close, teasing her as a kiss from a soft mouth landed on the tip of her ear.
Her heartbeat thudded uncomfortably and Utahime shook away that unsuitable imagery, pushing the daydream back into the ether where it belonged.
Utahime was sitting at the far end of the long, rectangular table and as the rêverie dissipated, her fingers began nervously tapping the surface. She should focus. She hoped that her superiors saw her slight frown at the onset of reality to be the marker of a determined sorcerer, one who was grimly absorbing the facts of the growing curse threat as her superiors gave their unsettling reports. She hoped her expression reflected resolve and not that she had been daydreaming. The last thing she needed right now was any sign of her composure slipping. As Gakuganji spoke, Utahime desperately tried not to let her eyes settle on the man at the opposite end of the table who was the usual source of her anxiety — Gojo Satoru.
She wasn't sure why he'd been called to the meeting, given that he was more likely to snort loudly at anything he didn't agree with, complain about the lack of catering and then do whatever he wanted to anyway. He was, as always, a force of disruption in regulated spaces.
A true anomaly. Unusual by design and by nature. That had to account for at least some of how she felt.
He had even disrupted her daydream.
As the meeting continued, Gojo casually leaned back in his chair, his sunglasses partially concealing his striking eyes. As usual, he seemed entirely unfazed by the gravity of the situation, exuding an air of nonchalance that irritated Utahime.
This was a fairly recent development— his self-possessed, languorous bearing. When they were teenagers, he'd been too gangly and angular for his loose-limbed posture to not simply seem sloppy. Utahime, whose grandmother had smacked her with a little bamboo rod if her posture faltered, had been dismayed that this lordly teenager could be so gratingly dishevelled. Now, his shoulders had become so broad, and his height so intimidating, that Utahime had to glance away whenever he stretched his arms out along the back of the seats beside him that had been strategically avoided by his colleagues.
Out of everything that Gojo Satoru was, the fact that he was also beautiful grated on Utahime's nerves the most.
She blinked, forcing her attention back to her principal, whose rusty voice rattled over the grim state of affairs that jujutsu society was facing.
"We have a situation that needs our immediate attention. There has been an unprecedented surge in the number of low-level curses. Our more powerful sorcerers are being stretched thin by what basically amounts to busy work for them. Given that we are also seeing a surge in stronger curses here and there that are causing the deaths of competent, but overworked sorcerers, we simply need to increase the number of feet on the ground. I'm afraid we can't continue with the current rate of attrition."
Utahime had to force herself not to touch the scar on her face. She perhaps belonged to the ranks of “competent” sorcerers, the kind that could be killed and maimed quite easily when pushed to the limit of their endurance. Her stomach churned because she still hadn’t become used to the fact that everyone could see her failure on her face. They weren’t all like Gojo.
"The Higher Ups have decided to lower the criteria for enrolment in the sorcery schools," Yaga said, with a glowering look around the room. "They state the need for a steady supply of low-grade sorcerers as a rationale. Perhaps they are right. We can’t afford to be picky.."
"I disagree," a voice chimed from the end of the table. "The sorcerers on the ground need to be the best in order to fight any curse. If the sorcerers are weak, then there is no point."
Gojo had spoken. His voice was deep and calm, yet it rumbled outwards through the room like a thunderclap.
"You may have a point, Satoru," Yaga acknowledged, "but we must also consider the survival of the community. There are fewer and fewer sorcerers available to take on the scourge of these weak curses."
"The quality of the sorcerers should remain the same, regardless of the number. A small, but highly-trained team is preferable to an army of untrained idiots,” Gojo drawled. “What you’re describing is a recipe for inept Curse Users.”
Gojo's voice was even, but the tone was clearly a challenge. He had never shied away from challenging the authority of his elders. Utahime glanced at him. The line of his jaw was firm and the muscles tensed as he spoke.
But he smiled a slow, lazy grin. Handsome, sharp as diamonds, charming, frightening. It snagged Utahime's attention in that troubling way. She couldn't help but look now, feeling her cheeks get hot when he let his cursed energy settle all around their shoulders like a pet snake.
Elements of the daydream started to peek into her imagination and Utahime had to pinch her thigh to stop her from letting it run amok in her emotions.
She was startled to find his gaze turned towards her. His sunglasses concealed the direction of his eyes, but the grin still played on his lips. She quickly averted her look, lest he figure out that she was gawking at him.
"We can't have weak sorcerers running amok," he said slowly and meaningfully. “They might run straight to Geto Suguru.”
Utahime's heart thudded, her temper flaring.
"That is enough, Satoru. We will discuss the details later. There are a few other protocols that we wish to discuss," Yaga cut in.
"Like what? Do they concern me?" Gojo yawned. “Can I leave?”
"Everything concerns you, Gojo," Yaga said irritably. "But the next item on the agenda also concerns Utahime-san."
Utahime blinked, shocked at the mention of her name. She was often the only female sorcerer present at faculty meetings, and she was also habitually ignored or talked over. And yet, as all the heads in the room turned to look at her, she appreciated that to be singled out felt dangerous.
"Me?" she murmured, pushing her hands into the sleeves of her kosode so that she wouldn't fiddle.
"Yes, and your boosting technique. You can imagine how it would be incredibly applicable in cases of weaker sorcerers and Windows in the wave of targeted exorcisms we are planning to roll out across Japan."
Utahime swallowed. She had a good idea of what was coming next. She had her polite disagreement in the chamber. Yaga continued, addressing the room almost as if she wasn’t there.
"We think that Utahime's technique will be better served in the front lines in support of other sorcerers than in the classroom. We don't intend to take her out of her teaching role entirely since her recent appointment has yielded promising results, but we would like her to deploy her skills in the field more frequently."
"No."
Gojo's voice was like the crack of a whip, snatching the words out of Utahime’s mouth before she could speak.
"What do you mean, 'no'?" Utahime glared at him, her voice brittle. "I'm a sorcerer, Gojo, and I have a role to play. It's my duty to use my innate abilities where they will be most useful."
"You'll be killed," Gojo said coolly.
Didn’t your face get fucked up last year? He didn’t say this, but Utahime heard the subtext loud and clear.
Utahime glowered at him, her anger bubbling up as forcefully as the hurt. He'd said some version of this about a thousand times in all the years that she'd known him, but it still stung whenever Gojo Satoru implied that she was weak.
He’d said some other casual things that had hurt her before as well, but she could hardly hold those things against him.
She shifted her gaze back to Yaga.
"I'll do it," she said firmly, levelling out her voice.”Put me where you need me. Just please don’t take me away from the classroom entirely.”
"Thank you for your willingness to contribute to the cause, Utahime-san. We'll make the necessary arrangements," Yaga said grimly. "You will also receive a salary adjustment based on the increased risk. We will inform you of your first deployment when we have a plan."
"Thank you," Utahime replied quietly.
"We'll reconvene in a couple of weeks," Gakuganji concluded grimly.
Utahime knew that her principal would be furious about this. He was, in his own way, extremely protective of her.
As the room started to clear, Utahime stood, gathering her bag and coat. She was surprised that Gojo lingered. He lounged in his chair, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, his sunglasses making his face inscrutable as he watched her gather her belongings. When they were younger, he used to look over the edge of them when he spoke, now they covered his eyes entirely.
He said nothing, watching her frown and collect her things together. And then suddenly, he was standing beside her, looming over her. The small breeze of particles shifting moved her bangs.
"You mad at me?" he asked suddenly.
She looked up at him, heart thudding a little for his proximity, but keeping her face controlled.
"What makes you think that I'm mad at you, Gojo?" she asked, with forced coolness.
"Because you are. You're mad that I think it's a bad idea for you to be waddling out into the firing line? Just because these fucking geezers tell you to?"
Utahime narrowed her eyes at him, pushing her hands into her sleeves so she didn’t humiliate herself by trying to punch him in the chest and have her fist bounce off his Infinity.
"'Waddle?" she repeated icily.
Gojo's mouth tipped into a reluctant smile, finding his own imagery funny.
"Yes," he said, his grin growing a little, suppressed laughter colouring his words. "Like a duckling."
Utahime stared at him frostily, her whole body trembling with conflicting emotion. Her heart vibrated rather than beat when he was around, her blood growing a little too fervent, a little too hot. Sometimes it manifested as the overcorrection of her temper. Sometimes, when she was drunk, it became what it truly was and she had to fall upon Shoko to keep herself from behaving like an idiot. All of it was humiliating. But it would be better if her reactions to him hadn't piqued his interest so much. Gojo Satoru never liked to leave her alone.
"So you think I'm going to get myself killed, Gojo?" she said bitterly.
He shrugged.
"Probably. And it would be a pity. But you'd go down swinging, wouldn't you, Uta-hi-me," he singsonged.
He leaned into her space a little, making her tip her head further back in her refusal to give ground to him, her face flushing.
"It's my duty as a sorcerer to do whatever I can to fight curses. And you're not always around, so—"
"That's bullshit. Your duty is to stay alive," Gojo cut in, his voice a little too rough.
He was not the same as he once was. The childishness was a very thin veneer. Everyone could sense how Gojo Satoru had become slightly serrated around the edges in the past five years.
"Oh really?" she shot back. "Is this another way to say that I am weak and useless?"
Gojo laughed, a sudden burst of sound, a cackle.
When he was away from her, Utahime's blood would be cooler, her face could be calmer and she could even find the time to be a bit melancholy about the futile things that she felt about him. But when he was in front of her, when he was yanking on her ribbon or being abrasive or smiling at her discomfort, she couldn't always keep everything pushed down.
But she needed to. She concentrated very hard, feeling the emotions funnel inward as she pulled the plug out of where they were pooled in her chest. She closed her eyes briefly, focusing, calming herself down. She imagined it, like turning an inside-out sock the right way around. The emotions she felt for Gojo Satoru needed to be inverted, even if it couldn't be reversed.
She couldn't help that she felt...the way that she felt about him. But it was all so humiliatingly predictable that a prim, poor, little country girl like herself would find herself blushing and sighing over someone like him — sharply handsome, charismatic, charming, powerful…
The brightest star.
She remembered his voice, not that long ago, chuckling in disbelief at Kusakabe’s question.
“What? Nah, not Utahime. She’s not my type. She’s pretty, but I couldn’t see her as…you know…”
If he ever found out about her feelings, he would laugh at her for being susceptible in this way too.
"I already act as support for lower-grade sorcerers on trickier missions. This is just more of the same thing,” she murmured, wishing the past wouldn’t intrude on present emotions.
Gojo's smile didn't shift.
"If you say so," he shrugged. "Anyway, let's not discuss your bootlicking here. Shoko wants to go for a drink before you head back to Kyoto. Are you in?"
"Yes," Utahime replied automatically, trying not to blush again when she realised she’d agreed too quickly. "I need a drink."
"Good," Gojo said, nodding his head. "Let's go."
His grin widened, the light catching the sheen on his lips. She'd done it for years, and with practice, her temper could replace the soft, urgent feelings she had for Gojo Satoru.
In the smoky izakaya, Utahime took a long pull on her beer, her eyes narrowing at the teasing glint in Gojo's gaze as she sipped. She sat on a tatami mat with Shoko in front of her and Gojo beside her, the atmosphere buzzing with the chatter and laughter of patrons. The dim lighting and the scent of grilled food thickened the air. Utahime felt the alcohol cause a distressing inversion – along with everything she shouldn't talk about, the feelings she pushed down tried to bobble to the surface like an apple in a barrel. So she sealed her lips by pressing the rim of her beer to her lips.
Gojo had taken off his uniform jacket and he'd popped open the top buttons of his shirt. He was teasing Shoko, who just looked at him in dry amusement through a hooded smile. Utahime's heartbeat picked up because he knew that he'd turn his attention to her soon.
She could smell his expensive cologne as he reached over her for the snacks. Fuck, he smelt good. It made her stomach flip over, wobbling like a dropped coin.
"Don't eat so much, Satoru," she scolded faintly, her voice cracking a little like a page folded too many times, bent with overuse.
He smirked.
"I have a high metabolism," he said, popping another fried snack in his mouth. “That’s why I’m so shredded.”
"You mean you’re a beanpole," she scoffed.
Gojo cackled, always so pleased when she was salty, and suddenly grabbed her around her neck, the muscle of his bicep flexing to squish her cheeks. She gave a muffled squeak of protest, and he tugged her into a strange little blood-choke grip, flustering her as he mussed up her hair.
"Yes, and me with my little noodle arms too," Gojo teased as she battered at his forearm to let her go.
His grip wasn't tight, but his arms around her neck and head, the jerk towards him that it caused, made Utahime's face flush. Her heartbeat was immediately erratic, a hummingbird clattering at a window, because she felt his body against hers in a way that recalled something she was trying to push away.
She remembered the daydream, the fantasy of him pulling her towards him in a made-up shopping district, and how his firm body felt against her.
"Let her go, Satoru," Shoko instructed mildly, her drink at her lips.
Gojo ruffled her hair again, playful, brotherly. He let Utahime free and she jerked out of his grip, the room spinning. She needed to push down the feeling of how much she liked it when he touched her, how good he smelt, how much...how much his strength dazzled her. Her technique was about finding strengths and amplifying them, and so something in the fibres of her soul reached out to his strength like the tendrils of a coral bed for the sun.
It was humiliating to be as weak for him as she was. But the reality was that she was always going to be attracted to someone like him.
And the fact that he had been the first person that had ever really touched her was an additional complication that she didn't need. He probably didn't even remember it and for her, it had been a rite into a new state of being. Rainy weekend afternoon, stolen beers in Shoko's room, the spinning bottle deciding the path of the universe.
It wasn't just the attraction that was the complication though. Because, honestly, anyone with a pulse could be attracted to him. The problem was the mode he turned to now as the conversation moved on and Utahime retied the bow he had knocked askance with his horsing around.
He was talking about the meeting.
"Lowering the admissions requirements is not the answer. That's just a surefire way to get more children killed."
Shoko and Utahime nodded, both thinking of the youngsters. Utahime shuddered, thinking of her students.
"The children are so much more resilient and stronger than any other generation," Shoko sighed. “They’ll probably be fine. The weakest sorcerer now is already stronger than the weakest sorcerer fifty years ago.”
"Well, they have to be resilient, don't they?" Gojo said, with a faux grimace. “Especially if Utahime is their sensei.”
She ignored him.
"I'm not entirely sure what they mean by lowering the requirements," Utahime commented quietly. “Is that possible?”
"Yeah, that's what worries me. I'm just going to run interference for as long as I can," Gojo shrugged. "I’m personally not interested in training kids who are not fit for the job, just because the Higher Ups have their heads up their asses. Maybe if we’re working a little harder, their need for canon fodder will hopefully be a moot point. I'm not putting able sorcerers, and particularly my students, at risk because of the incompetent bureaucracy of others."
This was the thing that sucker punched Utahime every time.
"I've got to catch my train," she murmured, finishing the dregs of her beer.
"What, you're not staying the night?" Shoko said, surprised.
"Nope. Principal Gakuganji has given me some assignments. I need to get back to Kyoto," Utahime lied. "It's pretty urgent."
"Oh," Shoko said. "Then you've missed your train. Have this idiot teleport you back. He's dying to show off."
"Uh, no, that's okay..." Utahime mumbled, shaking her head. "Last we spoke about that he couldn't get the whole watermelon to the other side of campus with all its molecules intact."
"Aw, no fun. Lemme show you what I can do," he urged. "I've gotten so much better. Watermelon atrocities are a thing of the past."
"It's okay. It's not worth it. I can't afford the headache," Utahime replied, smiling awkwardly.
"Don't be that way," Gojo huffed. "Let your kohai shine."
Utahime swallowed, glancing uncertainly at Shoko. It would save her on the train ticket and it would be nice to wake up in her own bed.
"Okay fine, let's go into the alleyway though so no one sees. Shoko, you’re coming too in case my liver doesn't make it to Kyoto or some shit."
"Nah, I'm good. I have to go to work early tomorrow. Satoru will get you there safely, Utahime, I promise. I'll see you next time," Shoko said, finishing her drink and gathering her bag.
She waved, smiling, and left the izakaya. Gojo finished his soda too, shoving the rest of the snacks into his mouth as he shrugged his jacket back on, but didn’t button it up.
"Ready?" he grinned after he had paid for their drinks and food.
"As I'll ever be," she muttered.
They exited the bar into the alleyway and she waited for him to get ready, the wind whistling down the alley and shuffling through her hair. His jacket came off again and he handed it to her to hold. He rolled up his sleeves and tucked his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt.
There were other daydreams that she had, ones that involved them stumbling out into alleyways like this, grappling with fabric, laughing breathlessly, moon-eyed. She indulged those sometimes when she was alone. To lust was one thing, a surface thing, and so she could forgive herself the times when her mind wandered when her hand was between her legs in the shower.
She could smell his cologne on the jacket she was holding.
"I'm working up to being able to do this remotely. It’s just figuring out the physics of it. But come here, Utahime. Hold on," Gojo said, grinning.
There was a little steam coming out of a vent, and the moonlight and streetlamps caused a slanting shadow as Utahime, a little drunk, stepped towards Gojo Satoru. He grasped her hovering palms and placed them on his shoulders.
"Don't be nervous. This won't hurt. I know you’re a scaredy-cat," Gojo teased.
Her lips parted, staring up at his face. His eyes were so clear, and he was so close, letting her touch him in a way she wasn’t sure most people were allowed to. Utahime's heart thudded a little faster as he settled his large, warm hands on her waist. She tried not to shiver.
"Just don't throw up on me," he chuckled absently, looking a little disconcerted that she didn’t react huffily to his jibe about her being a coward.
She wasn’t afraid of warping. The real threat was that she'd press her cheek against his sternum. She needed to ram it down, invert it. The sock turned neatly the right way. She swallowed, her hummingbird heart troubling her breath by working all the air out of her lungs too quickly with its wings.
"Gojo, actually I don't think this is a good—"
It was because his hands slid around her waist that she didn't hear a footfall or a sound before the thing knocked them sprawling.
Utahime screamed, her lungs struggling for air, the smell of cursed flesh overwhelming her in her fright. Gojo had grasped her wrist to stop her from being whacked into the brick but she rolled over her ankle in the slingshot action. She gasped at the spike of pain. Dustbins on wheels went clattering. It hit him in the head — hard. His blood flashed.
Wait.
It had hit Gojo, she realised, and it was almost definitely her fault. He probably needed to lower his Infinity to teleport. Utahime tried to collect herself, gasping in fright. The curse was oozing and vaporous, and it smelt like chemicals, a pure gas. She felt light-headed from the smell, as it collided off Gojo. It ricocheted back off the brick, snarling. Gojo squeezed his eyes shut, wincing, stumbling backwards, dragging her down onto the dirty alley floor by the grip he had on her wrist.
Fuck. Utahime panicked, crying out in pain as she tried to jump up onto her ankle and yank her arm out of Gojo’s grip. The curse bounded off the wall into her, knocking her flying down the alleyway. Gojo was slumped against the wall, bringing his hand up, gathering his energy. The gas of the curse was making her vision blurry, but she could see Gojo trying to collect himself, the creature’s noxious technique worming into his nostrils. Blood, bright as sap, poured down his brow into his eyes.
Her heart clenched tightly. Not Satoru.
Not the one she loved.
By immediate reflex, she almost sobbed at the effort to push that feeling away. It was just Gojo, her colleague. The Six Eyes. She needed to help him in the way she was designed.
Solo Forbidden Zone.
Weakly she formed the shape with her hands, steps skipped and form sloppy, but it was good enough for the disaster afoot. She just needed to boost him slightly so that his Infinity could be raised again. Her heart clenched, seeing his flushed face, his vulnerability, his blood . His eyes locked with hers, his breath shallow, and it caused a sudden spike in her pulse to have communication pass seemingly telepathically between them as he realised what she was doing.
Fuck, she loved him.
No. No. She could not love him. She had to, for everything that was prudent and rational, push that feeling inward. Inward .
She sobbed, tears streaming down her face. Invert it. Invert the feeling.
Her technique was in feeble effect as it started to wrap itself around Gojo’s cursed energy, but suddenly Utahime felt the strangest sensation. It was like sitting up and realising you were actually hanging upside down. Like all the furniture is on the ceiling. It was like her blood running backwards.
To her horror, she looked down at her hands clasped in the familiar jujutsu of Solo Forbidden Zone, but what flowed out was not the usual bolstering, gushing cursed energy that would augment someone else. It wobbled in the air, reversed.
Fuck. Reversed Cursed Technique. She'd turned her technique inside out by mistake.
Her gaze snapped up, because that meant—
Gojo groaned, clutching his chest, as Utahime's cursed technique drew the power out of him. His legs kicked out like a man being strangled, just as the teeth of the curse sank into his neck.
"Utahime, what the fuck! What the fuck are you doing to me?" he moaned, teeth gritted as he clawed at the curse that savaged his neck.
His voice was so strained that Utahime yanked her hands apart, horrified. She leapt up, shaking, toppling as she tried to bound forward on her twisted ankle. She grappled for the tanto knife on her ankle and flicked out. She scrabbled over on her hands and knees, lunging and stabbing the curse and then slashing messily through its guts. It screamed, falling away from Gojo, writhing horrifically. Utahime watched it twitch into death, her purplish blood seeping into the ground.
But it was Gojo’s red blood at its maw.
"Satoru," she cried, dropping the knife, her hand pressed to her mouth, horrified.
His skin was flushed, and his pupils were blown wide, and he was breathing heavily, his hands clawing at his shirt, delirious. And then slowly, the tautness in his body seemed to unravel. He smiled dreamily, his eyes closed. His chest rose gently. A calm breath.
"Gojo! Open your eyes! Fuck, I'm so sorry!" Utahime yelled, her voice high and panicked. "Gojo, I'm sorry!"
"Uta-hi-me," Gojo murmured, his voice sleepy. "What did you do to me?"
And then he drifted off, his breathing steady. Utahime clutched his head, pushing blood away from his mouth. The curse remains were already dissipating.
But Gojo was deeply unconscious, his hand limp in hers, his breathing soft and steady.
"Oh, no, no," Utahime whispered, pressing her palm to his cheek. “No, no, no. Wake up!”
She shook him, but he didn't wake. She felt his pulse and found it to be regular.
" Fuck !" she gasped out.
She looked around. She couldn't see anyone in the alleyway, the moonlit dark concealing them in the shadows. Utahime’s heart pounded, and her ankle throbbed. She felt like she was going to vomit. She felt lightheaded, the alcohol in her system mixing with the effects of the curse.
He looked peaceful, and she stroked his cheek again with a shaking hand.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, panicking.
She had to think fast and pull herself together. Instinctively, she knew that it needed to be concealed that Gojo Satoru had been injured. There was no way to get him on her shoulder and she couldn’t support her own weight on her rolled ankle. She needed to call people she could trust and only two people came to mind. If she still had his number, she’d call Nanami Kento. He'd take her home, and she'd leave Gojo with Shoko. Shoko would heal Gojo and all would be well. Gojo would be teasing her about her incompetence by this time tomorrow.
Yes. That was what she'd do. Utahime imagined the small bamboo cane of her grandmother smacking at her shoulder blades. She reflexively sat up straighter, trying to find composure.
"Satoru? Wake up. We're going to Shoko. I'll call Nanami. Please don't hate me," she pleaded, fingers tight on his shoulder, tight enough to hurt.
But Gojo was fast asleep.