Chapter Text
It happened late at night, when both of them were already in bed, and Choso was in that pleasant half-sleep he'd grown fond of.
"Choso", he heard her calling. "You awake?"
He squinted an eye open to stare at the lines of her face, barely visible in their pitch-black bedroom. Her golden hair was untied and spread over her pillow, and he knew it would get tangled if it stayed like that. If it got tangled, he would have to comb it because she tended to pull too hard and rip out a few hairs on the way.
"Hm", he grunted, closing his eyes. "Tie y'r hair up".
There was a snort and a poke on his cheek.
His nose twitched, and he leaned away, trying to preserve the comfortable sleepiness he often struggled to reach.
"Don't ignore me", and she poked at his forehead and neck and, if that wasn't enough, flicked his ear with a sharp thud that forced him to squint both eyes open.
"Tch".
Countermeasures were needed.
He wrapped himself around her—arm, leg, and then his face tucked into the curve of her neck, his favourite place. Ignoring her sound of protest, he exhaled and leaned further into her.
"Choso", and he heard amusement in her voice. "I know you're awake", and she pinched his side because she couldn't not take it when so freely offered.
He grunted in annoyed defeat. "Hm?"
"I have an idea".
Uh oh.
He took a deep breath, pressed his eyes shut for a second, and once the drowsiness faded a little bit, he untangled from her. "What's it?"
"Don't sound too excited, I'll think you are interested".
The look he threw her was entirely unamused. "Can y' blame me?"
She shrugged and intertwined her fingers with one of his. "It's a bit of a silly idea", she said. "You don't have to say yes".
"Let me decide that", and though he wanted to close his eyes, he wouldn't as long as she had something to say. "If you're making the time to ask me so late, I doubt it's irrelevant. Talk to me?"
There was a faint sound, and even in the darkness of the bedroom, he knew she was smiling. "Sweet, sweet Choso", and she caressed his cheek in the way he liked. "Remember you're allowed to say 'no', okay?"
He nodded, knowing she'd notice.
"Well, I.... I've been thinking we could make sex more fun".
That caught his attention, but not for the reason she expected.
"I thought the paint had been fun?"
"I'm not saying it wasn't", she reassured, hearing the concern beneath. "It's another type of fun".
"Like the strip Twister?"
"No, Choso, I'm not talking about a game, I-".
"The rented van or the ice?"
"I—"
"The Nerf competition?"
"Choso". He didn't hold back a smile when she lightly smacked his chest, light enough to be more punctuation than actual scolding. "I was talking about a third".
His silence stretched long enough that he blamed it on the hour, and then on the strangeness of the suggestion.
"A third?" Just in case he had misheard.
"Mhm". Yuki shifted beside him, propping herself on one elbow, her hair spilling over her shoulder. "You know what a threesome is?"
"You made me watch half of your collection. I know what a threesome is".
"Okay, so that, but for us".
She waited while he thought. Confident, at least, that he would not fall asleep on her. Though this time she had to wait a little longer than usual.
"Okay".
Yuki blinked.
"Wait. Really?!"
"Yeah". He yawned wide, jaw cracking, and tried to sink further into his blanket. "Do we need to choose someone tonight?"
Her hand caught his shoulder.
"Choso". There was something different in her voice now, the amusement pared down into concern. "We've talked about this, babe. You gotta want it too".
He held her palm and planted a soft kiss on the skin of her knuckles.
"If it's something you're willing to ask, then I'm more than willing to try. You've never led me astray. I doubt you will now". His eyes were already slipping shut again. "Tell me more tomorrow?"
She was not entirely convinced; he could tell that by the pause. But she must've taken pity on his sleepiness because she kissed his cheek and settled against his back.
"Tomorrow".
And that was that.
***
Choso was not a morning person. He didn't look like one, and he wasn't.
He wasn't much of a day person either, but mornings were an odd grievance he couldn't yet win against.
Still, his sleeping patterns were irregular at best, and the sun always came up, so he would do the same.
When he woke up, he sat on the bed, put on Yuki’s slippers — their floor would take longer to warm, and he didn’t want to step on the cold tiles barefoot if he could help it — and made his silent way to the kitchen.
He stopped at the door. Stared at the tangle of knots that was Yuki's hair and noticed her comforter had fallen to the floor, tragically thrown off at some point during Yuki's night wiggles. Carefully, he picked it up, dusted it and placed it over her shoulders. She always slept longer than he did and, even if he himself couldn't fully enjoy the pleasure of sleeping, he could at least make sure she was a bit more comfortable.
He grabbed her comb on the way out.
The kitchen was cold. The kitchen was always cold in the early hours because their apartment faced east and the sun hadn't cleared the building across the street yet, so the light came in flat and pale and did nothing useful for anyone. He'd complained about this once, and Yuki had said that's why we have blankets in the tone she used when she considered something solved and had moved on.
He drank some tap water as he waited for the stove to heat his favourite pan, a gift from Nanamin the week after Yuki told everyone they'd be moving together into a shared apartment.
(It was part of a set, actually. Choso had not understood the utility of those pans at first. Still, his question about the importance of a good pan seemed almost to offend Nanami, who then sat down and explained materials, seasoned cast-iron cookware, and why proper maintenance mattered.
He'd given Nanamin the first edible sourdough he'd made on the skillet, and Nanamin's smile had been so genuine and moving that Choso had almost teared up.)
The eggs were on the counter, washed as soon as Choso got them home, despite Yuki's insistence on their cleanliness. It came out of a chicken's ass, Choso had retorted, sleeves rolled up and carefully scrubbing any stains off the eggs. Why would I trust them?
The mushrooms were already sliced — he'd done it last night, covered them, left them in the refrigerator, and the mozzarella was in its container beside them. He ate a piece of it while the butter melted in the pan, and was well into his third piece when Yuki appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Her hair was loose and full of knots, and she was wearing one of his shirts. She looked at him. She looked at the mozzarella container. She looked back at him. She looked down at his feet.
She pointed out the peach-fuzz monstrosities covering his feet. "My slippers", she whined, because she was barefoot.
"My shirt", he said, shrugging, and threw the mushrooms onto the pan.
"Jerk", and she slumped over his shoulders. "How much of that have you eaten?"
He ate a fourth piece, unhurried. "Enough left".
She made a sound that was not quite an argument and crossed to the window, pulling it shut against the morning air. Then she went to the cabinet by the door —the one that held extra blankets because Yuki had insisted on extra blankets and Choso had not objected because Yuki was, as always, correct about things like this— and came back with one folded over her arm.
She draped it around his shoulders without ceremony.
He headbutted her shoulder in thanks as he cracked the eggs into a mug, whisked them, and added a splash of milk. She took the mug from him so he could pull the blanket tighter around himself, and the particular silence between them was the comfortable kind, the kind that didn't need filling.
By the time the omelettes were done, he was more awake, which was the reliable alchemy of cooking: it required just enough attention to pull him into the morning, whether he wanted to go or not. The toast had come out even, golden and crusty. The mushrooms had cooked down properly. He'd folded the mozzarella in at the right moment so it was soft but not liquid.
He carried both plates to the table where Yuki had set two places, glasses of water, and the small pot of extra butter she knew he liked with his toast. He sat down. He arranged the blanket so it still covered his shoulders. He began to eat.
Outside, the city was doing what cities did in the morning: making noise, moving, getting on with things Choso had no interest in yet.
He ate half his toast. He ate some of the omelette. He drank some of his coffee, which had gone slightly lukewarm, and preferred it that way because hot things first thing in the morning were an unnecessary commitment.
It wasn't long before Yuki asked for what Choso had figured she'd ask sooner rather than later. "Did you think any more about what we talked about?"
He'd known since he woke up, in the vague background way he knew things before he was fully conscious, a sort of low-level awareness that sat beneath the tiredness and waited. He'd thought about it in the ten minutes between waking and getting up, lying in the dark with one arm behind his head. He'd thought about it while buttering the pan.
"Yeah".
Yuki’s shoulders eased by half an inch. Most people would have missed it. Choso didn’t.
"And?"
He munched on another piece of toast. Outside, a car horn. The sun had started to clear the building across the street. The light in the kitchen shifted from pale to something warmer, though its usefulness would take longer to exist. Things took time to warm.
He hummed. "I'm curious".
Yuki looked at him, waiting. Not surprised, exactly, but attentive in the way she had that meant she was listening to more than the words.
"About the idea", he clarified. "Not just making you happy, though I want that too. But I find I'm—" He considered. "Curious. In my own right".
"Yeah?"
"The things we've tried have been..." He paused. He needed the right word. Fun? No, it wasn't like Mario Kart. Engaging? Maybe, but books were engaging too, and those weren't (mostly) sex related at all. Curious? Hm. Perhaps. But snails with funky shells were curious as well and. No. So maybe... "Interesting. In ways I hadn't anticipated before we tried them". He ate some omelette. "Why would a third be different?"
She stared at her coffee for a moment. "You know," she started carefully. "Most people wouldn't be so willing to try. Things can get complicated".
"Because of logistics?"
She snorted, and he passed her a tissue. "Thanks. And I mean emotionally, too".
"Ah". He considered it for a moment. "Yes, that makes sense. Intimacy can be difficult and... How did it go? Sharing is caring? No, no, that's not it. But-"
"Pfft"
He sighed. "Please don't mock me, I'm trying to empathise".
"Babe, right now I pretty much only care if you're okay with it or not", but the teasing tone hadn't disappeared from her voice.
"I already said I was interested", he grumbled, and took away one of her toasts, dodging the fork that got stuck on the wood beneath. "Should I not be?"
"Hm", and she stole a piece of his omelette. “The question is less ‘should’ and more ‘do you actually want this,’ ya know? It's messy 'cuz sex is messy. Adding a third person could make things complicated. It's okay if you don't want to see your partner having sex with someone else".
"Would it upset you?"
She shot him a look. "We're talking about you right now".
He pouted but leaned back to consider it.
Yuki with someone else?
He scrunched his nose and ignored her chuckle. "I think I can give you enough pleasure for two", he grumbled. "But it's not just about pleasure, is it?"
"Not entirely".
He nodded and looked down at his plate, though he had stopped eating.
It helped, actually. Pleasure was simple to understand. He wanted Yuki. He liked touching her, liked being touched by her, liked learning the shape of what made her laugh, gasp, swear, melt. That was not confusing.
The idea of someone else there should have felt stranger than it did.
And it did feel strange, but not wrong. “I think,” he said slowly, "I want to know."
“Know what?”
“What it would be like.” He paused. “To see you wanted by someone else. To be wanted too. With you there.”
Yuki’s teasing expression faded into something quieter.
“So yes,” he said. “I want to try." Choso looked away first, annoyed by the heat crawling up his neck. “With you. Not instead of you.”
“Choso…”
“So yes,” he said, before she could soften too much and make it harder to speak. “I want it. Or I want to try. I won't know the difference until I do.”
“And not because I asked?”
“No.”
“Not because you think you owe me?”
His frown deepened. “I don’t owe you desire.”
That stopped her.
“Good answer,” she smiled, and then took a sip of her mug.
He nodded to himself. "We shouldn't yoink a random dude from under a bridge, then". And so she kept it in mind: "STIs are not to be trifled with".
She looked at him for a moment, her expression doing something he couldn't entirely read, which was quite unusual after four years.
"Yoink".
"Yes". He looked up from his plate. "You wouldn't want that either, presumably. Someone you don't know. Someone with no..." He searched. "Hm. Established character, I suppose".
"Choso".
"Hm".
"Yoink? Really? Where did you even learn that word?"
He considered. "Yuuji. I believe the word is reasonable in this context, yes? It means 'to snatch quickly and unexpectedly', I believe."
She picked her fork back up. She looked at her plate. She was trying not to smile, which he recognised because her mouth did a slight compression at one corner that she never quite managed to suppress.
"You've got to stop letting him do that".
"He doesn't do it intentionally". He ate the last of his omelette. "It's conversational osmosis. I can't help it. He's smart".
"Yes, but yoink?"
"It conveyed the meaning accurately".
She laughed then, properly, and something settled in his chest like it always did when she laughed like that: warm, uncomplicated, a question he already knew the answer to.
"Okay", she said. "So not yoinking. Not a random dude". She propped her chin in her hand. "Then how?"
"Someone we know", he said. "Or know of. Someone we can—" He thought about how Yuuji might say it. Decided, for once, to find his own words. "Assess. Thoughtfully. Before committing to anything".
Yuki was looking at him with an expression he knew very well. The one that meant she'd had the same thought and was now recalculating how to present it.
"I have an idea for that", she said.
He reached for his coffee. Outside, the sun had fully arrived. The kitchen was a bit warmer.
"Tell me?"
Yuki smiled into her coffee.
That was usually the first warning.
"A date!"
Choso's head tilted a bit to the side, almost a tad worried. "I like going out on dates with you, but I fail to see how this relates to a threesome. I thought voyeurism wasn't your... how did you say it? Ah, yes. Your cup of tea?"
She rolled her eyes and threw a napkin at him. It bounced off his forehead. "No, dumbass, I mean going on a date to figure it out. You and me, somewhere nice. We sit down, we think about who we know, and we decide together".
He ate a piece of toast. He thought about this as he put Yuki's napkin aside. "Who would we consider?"
"People we know. People we trust, or could trust. No one either of us is uncomfortable with".
"How would we remember everyone?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. "Off the top of our heads", she shrugged.
He raised an eyebrow at her.
She looked at him.
"Choso—"
"We would forget someone". He said it with the patience of someone used to identifying a structural problem before construction began. "We always forget someone. You forgot Ijichi's name for a month, and you see him regularly".
"After I reminded you four times". He finished his toast. "We should write them down".
"Okay, I see your point, we write them down—"
"With their information, so we can discuss properly". He reached for his coffee. "It's more practical to have the details written in front of us than trying to remember everything at the moment".
Yuki looked at him for a moment.
"You want to make files on people?"
He drank. "I'll print them".
"You'll—" She stopped. "How many are you thinking?"
He considered the scope of their social world, the number of sorcerers he'd encountered over three years, the various grades and affiliations and ages, and the upper and lower limits of reasonable age consideration.
"Several", he said, because it was the closest word to the truth.
Yuki picked her coffee back up. She looked at him over the rim of it with an expression that was somewhere between fond and mildly concerned for everyone about to be printed and added to their threesome sex file.
"I'll make doubles", he explained when he noticed her staring. "So we can review simultaneously".
"Of course you will".
***
A few days later...
Choso had not meant to say anything strange. He had not meant to make things weird. He had not meant to hurt anyone.
This was important to remember: a key feature of Choso's attempts to integrate into society was learning by trial and error.
Later, when Yuuji sat on the edge of his bed with both hands over his face, wondering if there was a way to rinse knowledge out of the skull like one could rinse shampoo from hair, he would remind himself that Choso had not meant anything by it.
Choso rarely did.
That was usually the problem.
Their apartment wasn't particularly small. When Choso, a year and a half after Shinjuku, had mentioned a few times the idea of wanting his own place, he'd made the mistake of saying it around Okkotsu-senpai. Because Okkotsu-senpai had the salary of a Special Grade, the spending habits of a monk and apparently inherited Gojo-sensei's policy about money, which was very simple:
If you want it, buy it.
And so after asking around, collecting details and spending a month or two reading about real estate around Tokyo High, he'd shown up to Choso with a pair of keys, documents and a soft grin. Gojo-sensei had been waving from behind (and Yuuji had heard, around four months later, that Gojo-sensei had been the one to pick the best place, choose the furnishings and cover three-quarters of their not-small mortgage, letting Okkotsu-senpai pay the rest).
Choso had cried and given both Okkotsu-senpai and Gojo-sensei a hug. Yuuji had smiled when he'd heard about it, because Choso's hugs were really the best, and their deployment was always fun to be around.
Yuuji had received another one when, less than a day after signing documents and going through all the paperwork with Higuruma, Choso had approached Yuuji right after sunset and asked, in an oddly quiet way, if Yuuji wanted to live with him.
Yuuji had laughed at first, because he thought Choso meant for a few days. A week, maybe. Until the new place was set up.
Then Choso kept looking at him.
Quietly.
Waiting.
Asking.
And Yuuji had realised his brother meant living living. Yuuji hadn't been particularly smooth about it. “You want me to live with you?”
“Yes.”
He hadn't shown a lot of excitement either. “Because you want that? Or because you think I need it?”
Choso looked at him for a long moment, long enough that Yuuji then remembered Choso had been existing for well over a century and had never been one to make choices lightly.
“Both", he'd admitted. "But mostly because I want to come home and know you are there.”
Perhaps Yuuji had hesitated too long because Choso's usual composure had begun to fray around the edges; the mark over his nose had wiggled and thickened around the middle, as if it were trying very hard not to leak.
"Please don't see this as an attempt at control", the older man had said, looking down and tapping his fingers like he did when he was nervous. “I know I have no right to rule over your life. I don’t want to. You are strong. Capable. You have people". He swallowed. " But I'm... I'm still learning how humans do this. Homes. Families. Lives. I need to have a space to call my own, so I can maybe one day call it home. Humans have that, don't they? And my home wouldn't be complete without my little brother around". He'd smiled, kind and sad and genuine. "If you do not wish to, that is alright. But I'll still give you a copy of my keys so you can drop by whenever you want. If you want to get away from things, or visit, or lock yourself inside a bedroom and refuse to come out, that is more than fine by me. I'll be there".
Yuuji had not known what to do with that.
With the keys. With the offer. With being offered something without that almost intrinsic sensation of guilt at the rejection of kindness.
“You know I forget laundry, right?”
“I'm aware”.
“And I eat leftovers.”
“I know”
“You already planned for me?”
“Of course.”
Neither had spoken for several minutes, and Yuuji had been grateful at the acceptance of silence.
“Okay,” Yuuji had said eventually, voice rougher than he wanted. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Choso had hugged him so tightly Yuuji’s spine made a sound.
“Dude.”
“Sorry.”
He had not released.
“You’re not sorry.”
“Not at all.”
And so there they were, four years after Sukuna's defeat, sharing what was slowly becoming more and more like the home Choso had been looking for. Three bedrooms (one of which had been turned into a study, because Yuuji still had to study, and sometimes Choso wanted a quieter, more private space to read in peace and away from the sun or just exist away from the sun as a whole), two bathrooms, an ample kitchen where Choso had grown strangely territorial over the knives, and a living room big enough to hold several guests at any given time.
Tsukumo-san had basically moved in a month or two after the official move (and Yuuji was very okay with that because both Choso and Tsukumo-san were adults and respectful and had never made Yuuji suffer the horrifying ordeal of hearing two people fuck).
Yuuji liked it.
He liked the slippers by the door, one pair his and one pair Choso’s, though Choso often forgot his own and wandered around barefoot like the cold floor had personally insulted him. He liked the rice cooker on the counter. He liked the mug Yuki had bought Choso, black with a little red heart on it, which Choso used every morning completely unironically. He liked the spare blanket folded on the couch because Choso said the living room got cold at night, even though Yuuji had never noticed until Choso started placing it there.
He liked coming home and not coming home to silence.
He liked hearing the bathroom fan running, or the kettle boiling, or Choso moving around the kitchen with serious, careful steps.
He liked the way Choso told him things.
“I am going to the store,” Choso would say. “I’ll be back in twenty.”
Or:
“Yuki invited me to lunch. I may be home late.”
Or:
“I’m training with Maki at four. If I do not answer my phone, assume I am being thrown.”
Yuuji had told him, several times, that he didn’t need to report his every move. Choso had listened, considered it, and continued doing it.
After a while, Yuuji stopped correcting him.
It was kind of nice, actually.
It was nice having someone say 'I’ll be back' and 'welcome home'.
So when Choso stepped out of his room that evening wearing dark pants, a clean shirt, and the focused expression of a man preparing for something more complicated than dinner, Yuuji looked up from the couch with only mild interest.
He had been lying upside down, legs thrown over the backrest, scrolling on his phone with one hand and eating chips with the other. The television was on, unwatched, filling the room with the background noise of a cooking show neither of them had chosen. The host was passionately explaining the importance of letting onions sweat.
"Hey, man", he'd said, almost absentminded. "You going out?"
"Yes", he said with ease, as he checked for his wallet, keys and phone. And, Yuuji noticed, a file under his arm. And then Choso looked at him with the calm, solemn expression of a man about to communicate a completely reasonable piece of information. “Yuki and I are going on a date to discuss candidates for a threesome,” he said. “I’ll be back for dinner.”
The cooking show continued.
The host stirred onions.
Somewhere outside the apartment, a scooter passed by the building with a sharp, fading whine.
Yuuji’s phone slipped from his fingers, landed on his chest, and then slid sideways onto the couch.
He did not move.
His legs remained over the backrest.
His head remained hanging upside down.
His eyes were open.
His mouth was slightly open, too.
Choso waited.
Yuuji blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then he closed his eyes.
Slowly.
Peacefully.
Like a dog sitting in sunlight.
Like a monk accepting the suffering of all living things.
Like a man choosing, in real time, not to scream.
I will not hear this. I will not understand this. I am one with the universe.
Choso’s brows drew together. “Yuuji?”
Yuuji inhaled.
Exhaled.
Still upside down, still eyes closed, he said, “Okay.”
Choso studied him, and because he was way too observant and apparently determined to destroy Yuuji's current mental state, he opened his mouth.
"You are distressed".
Yeah, no shit!
“No.”
“You closed your eyes.”
“I’m resting them.”
“Your phone fell.”
“It’s resting too.”
“Your face changed.”
“My face is fine.”
“It's really not.”
Yuuji opened one eye. Because he was upside down, the look came across even more tragic than intended.
“Aniki".
Choso straightened a bit like he did every time Yuuji called him that, because some things never changed, and apparently Choso's absurdly weak spot for his younger brother recognising him as kin was the biggest one of them.
"Yes?"
"Look, I. I’m really happy you trust me.”
“I do.”
“And I’m glad you and Tsukumo-san are, uh, communicating.” He opened the other eye.
“We are.”
“That’s great. That's healthy”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome. It is proper, or like. That's what Nanamin would say,” Yuuji swung his legs down from the back of the couch and sat upright too fast, making himself dizzy. He took a second, pressing a hand to his forehead. “The part where you tell me where you’re going and when you’ll be back? Great. Ten out of ten. Excellent older brother behaviour.”
Choso looked pleased.
Yuuji lifted one finger.
“But.”
Choso’s expression shifted immediately into full attention. “But?”
"…but this is one of those things you usually don’t tell your younger brother in detail.”
Choso blinked. “Why?”
Yuuji closed his eyes again. He was the picture of peaceful despair.
Choso stared back, waiting, genuinely waiting, because he wanted to understand.
And that was the problem, wasn't it? That was the thing that made Yuuji’s embarrassment sag sideways into affection, even while his soul was trying to evacuate through the nearest window. Choso wasn’t trying to traumatise him. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t showing off or being gross on purpose. He had simply followed the most horrifyingly complete conclusion of the sentence "I should tell Yuuji where I’ll be".
Yuuji, the victim, rubbed both hands over his face. “Because I live here too. In my head. Speaking of your date was perfect, but you just gave me the director's cut”.
Choso nodded as if he understood, which was probably only half-true because some movie-related terminology still escaped him. “I see. I have entered your head without permission.”
“Kind of.”
“That seems inconsiderate.”
“It is, a little.”
“I apologise. I did not mean to embarrass you.”
“I know.” Yuuji turned his head to look at him. “Trust me, I know.”
Choso’s fingers were tapping again, and it was a good sign he wasn't trying to hide that, but also not a good sign because he was actively doing that. He was very still, as if movement might make the situation worse. His hair was tied back today, neat and high, but one loose strand had escaped near his cheek. Yuuji resisted the urge to stand up and fix it. That would make him feel six years old, probably.
Choso said, “I thought you would want to know. It's important".
Some important things can stay in your heart, he thought, but didn't say because, again, this incident was not malicious in nature.
“I want to know you’ll be out. I want to know if you’ll be late. I want to know if you need anything. I want to know important things about your life.” Yuuji paused, choosing the words carefully, which was hard because his brain kept trying to throw itself into traffic, and he didn't need Kugisaki's voice mocking him for his already lacking 'grey matter' or whatever. “But I don’t need details about your sex life.”
Choso absorbed that.
Slowly.
Then he nodded.
“I see.”
“Yeah?”
“I gave unnecessary details.”
“Yes.”
“I should have said, ‘Yuki and I are going on a date. I’ll be back for dinner'.”
Yuuji pointed at him. “Yes. Perfect. Beautiful. That’s the sentence. That’s exactly the sentence.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
A small silence passed.
Then Choso said, “Should I tell you if we choose someone?”
Yuuji made a sound.
Small.
Broken.
Almost musical in its despair.
He closed his eyes again.
The cooking show host announced that the onions were now translucent.
Yuuji wanted to be an onion. Onions did not have brothers. Onions did not have to explain boundaries. Onions were allowed to sweat in peace.
Choso looked toward the television, then back to Yuuji.
“Please, I beg you. Do not.”
“Not even if it is someone you know?”
“Especially if it’s someone I know.”
“Understood. I will only tell you if there is danger, emotional distress, or logistical difficulty.”
“What counts as logistical difficulty?”
“If we are unable to contact Uro Takako.”
“WHY IS URO TAKAKO ON THE LIST?”
"She seemed like a reasonable candidate if we can figure out how to reach her". Choso glanced at the clock and nodded at the door. “I should go. Yuki will be waiting.”
“Yeah.” Yuuji picked up his phone from the couch. “Have fun.”
“I will.”
“Be safe.”
Choso paused. Turned to him. Raised an eyebrow, asking a silent question Yuuji had not meant to prompt.
“Not like that,” he said quickly, feeling his ears grow red. “I mean—just—normal safe, okay? Outside safe. Street safe. Food safe. Don’t get hit by a car, safe.”
Choso nodded. “I’ll be careful.”
“Good.”
He went to the door, put on his shoes, checked his wallet again, and opened the door.
Before stepping out, he turned back.
“Yuuji.”
“Yeah?”
“Yuki and I are going on a date,” Choso said carefully. “I’ll be back by dinner.”
Yuuji’s smile came back all at once.
“Perfect.”
Choso gave one firm nod, as if he had completed a difficult training exercise.
Then he left.
The door closed.
The apartment was quiet.
Yuuji sat still for three seconds.
***
The chosen cafetería was one off the beaten path and tended to be quiet all day round. It had turquoise wooden pillars, white chairs and was filled with all sorts of hanging plants and ferns.
Choso had chosen the table in the corner. Good sight lines. Close to a side door. Enough distance from the nearest occupied table that their conversation would stay private, but public enough that no one would think twice about them being there. He'd also chosen it because the afternoon light came in at an angle that made reading easier, and reading was what they were there to do.
He had organised their materials before Yuki arrived: two folders of equal thickness, two yellow highlighters, two pens, and a plate of food he was already working through methodically. He was pleased by his order; the chicken was crispy but not too dry, and the coffee frappuccino wasn't too sweet.
Yuki arrived seven minutes late with a coffee and no apology, pulled out the chair across from him, and looked at the folders.
Then she looked at him.
"You really printed doubles".
He handed her the file. "I said I would"
She sat down. She picked up her folder. She opened it, closed it again, and then said, "Did you label these?"
"By last name, alphabetically, and then reorganised by preliminary interest level. The tabs on the right side indicate—"
"Choso".
"Hm".
She pressed her lips together in a way that meant she was deciding whether to say something. Then she opened her folder again and took out the first page.
It was a headshot of Ino Takuma, slightly off-centre, printed in colours.
She looked at it. She looked at him.
“I thought to include backshots—”, Choso said, reaching for his highlighter, "but—"
Yuki choked on her coffee. "I'm sorry, include what?"
"Backshots. Like headshots, but from the back".
"Babe, that's not—" She stopped. She set the page down. She picked up her coffee and took a long sip. "That's not a photography term".
He considered this. "It should be".
"It absolutely should not—" She stopped again, looked at the ceiling for a moment, and then back at him. “Okay, first of all, never say that in public.”
“Why?”
“Because it means something else.”
“What does it mean?”
“Not relevant.”
“If I used it incorrectly, it is relevant.”
“Choso.”
“Yuki.”
“…I’ll tell you later.”
“Is this like when you told me not to say ‘breedable’ at dinner?”
“Worse". She sighed. "You know what? It doesn't matter. Let's just—" She gestured at the folder. "Let's go".
He nodded and found his own copy of Ino Takuma:
INO TAKUMA
Grade 1 sorcerer.
Age: 24
Cursed Technique: Auspicious Beast Summons
His hobby is attending drinking parties.
Favourite food: Deep-fried horse mackerel.
Least favourite food: Pickled dish.
Cause of stress: None.
Fun fact: Has cried at a television commercial on at least three documented occasions (source: Gojo Satoru, unprompted).
"Oh, I remember him", Yuki said. "Not a bad face at all and a good head on his shoulders. Interesting type".
Choso uncapped his yellow highlighter and drew a careful line over three times. "What was it?" Then, in the margin, in his small and precise handwriting: loyal. works hard, earnest.
He paused. Added: too young?
"A sturdy woman with thick, strong legs, kind, responsible and easy to talk to". Yuki was already drawing. A small pair of round ears appeared above Ino's headshot, and then, after a moment of consideration, a tiny tail at the corner of the page. She examined her work.
"He gives me little brother feelings", she said. "Like. I should encourage him, not climb him, you know?"
Choso nodded solemnly, drawing a sad face next to Ino's face. He looked at his margin note and then crossed out the question mark. Too young.
Several more candidates were eliminated before either of them finished their drinks.
Ijichi lasted eleven seconds, was eliminated for his own safety, and they agreed to send him a fruit basket for his almost-trouble. Nitta-chan lasted slightly longer, mostly because Choso insisted her responsibility deserved acknowledgement before Yuki wrote younger sister energy, no across the assessment box. Mei Mei was eliminated by ethics, budget, and Choso’s increasingly dark expression whenever Ui Ui was mentioned.
Shoko remained under consideration for a while, but Yuki eventually tapped the page and sighed. Hot, yes. Emotionally available? No. Also, doctors’ schedules were already terrible enough without adding threesome logistics.
Then Atsuya Kusakabe arrived, and Yuki immediately brightened:
KUSAKABE ATSUYA
Grade 1 sorcerer / Jujutsu High instructor.
Age: 38.
Cursed Technique: None. Master of the New Shadow Style.
Hobby: Fishing.
Favourite dish: Torotaki-maki.
Least Favourite dish: Tuna eye.
Cause of stress: All missions.
Fun fact: Likes cola-flavoured Chupa Chups. Uses a CPAP machine. Has declined every optional staff social event since 2019.
"He taught Yuuji Simple Domain", Choso said.
Yuki pointed at him. "Points".
"He was a bit grumpy, but he was important". He highlighted Simple Domain instruction with some feeling. In the margin: practical. smart. takes care of his students.
Then, below it: lazy.
Then, below that: points for Simple Domain. loses them for the rest.
Yuki was drawing a tiny Chupa Chup next to his headshot. Cola flavor. She'd coloured it in.
"He'd be annoyed the whole time", she said.
"Yes". Choso ate a piece of his sandwich, thoughtful. "But he'd show up".
Yuki looked at him. "Is that a point?"
He considered. "Half. I'm sure he wouldn't be happy with extra activities. And if he stays over to sleep, he'd need to bring the CPAP, right? I don't want to buy a CPAP".
She drew a small CPAP machine. It was very detailed for something that small.
Takaba was not eliminated so much as relocated to a separate folder labelled "environmental hazard". Yaga was removed by mutual respect. Ryu Ishigori received a long look from Yuki, a shorter one from Choso, and was ultimately dismissed because neither of them trusted a man with a dessert fetish and whose hair looked like a lewdly drawn cannon.
By the time Choso turned the next page, the fry basket was half-empty, and the candidate pool had become much smaller.
Higuruma Hiromi stayed on the table longer than Shoko.
Choso had underlined trustworthy twice. Yuki had circled his nose with the pink highlighter, then added a smaller circle for emphasis.
“He has a good nose,” she said.
“You wrote that already.”
“It remained true.”
Choso looked back at the page. “He is just.”
“That too.”
“And kind.”
“Mm-hm.”
“And I think he's funny".
Yuki leaned her cheek into her palm, smiling. “Look at you, swept off your feet. Interested?”
Choso did not answer immediately. That, by itself, was an answer. “I would be,” he said at last. “If circumstances were different.”
Yuki’s smile softened into something more thoughtful. “Yeah.”
Under Concerns, Choso had written:
Actively attempting to be sentenced. Current legal instability. Limited availability.
Yuki tapped the line with her pen. “He’s still trying to get himself sent to jail?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s working as both a sorcerer and a lawyer?”
“Mhm.”
“So his schedule is impossible, his emotional availability is questionable, and if we actually liked him, there’s a non-zero chance he’d disappear into the prison system.”
Choso frowned. “I dislike how you phrased that.”
“You dislike that I’m right.”
"Hm".
Yuki sighed, then drew a small, mournful heart beside Higuruma’s headshot. “Tragic. I would’ve.”
“I am interested,” Choso admitted, a little quieter. Yuki looked up. He kept his eyes on the page. “But I do not want someone who is already trying to punish himself. I think I have enough of that on my own”.
The joke left her face.
For a moment, the cafeteria noise filled the space between them: trays, chairs, someone laughing too loudly near the drink machine.
Then Yuki nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s fair.”
Choso picked up his pen and wrote under Final Assessment:
Strong candidate in theory. Eliminated due to legal instability and self-punitive behaviour.
Yuki added beneath it:
Would. I recommend therapy and a lighter caseload first.
Choso considered this. Then, after a pause, he wrote:
Agreed.
Iori Utahime's file made Yuki sit up, and Choso lean forward.
IORI UTAHIME
Grade 1 sorcerer / Kyoto Jujutsu High instructor.
Age: 35.
Cursed Technique: Solo Forbidden Area.
Hobby: Watching sports and going to karaoke.
Favourite dish: Alcohol, preferably beer.
Least favourite dish: Sweets.
Cause of stress: Satoru Gojo.
Fun fact: Can sustain a single vocal note for an average of 47 seconds, her Kyoto students adore her, and her favourite teams are Sanfrecce Hiroshima (soccer) and Saitama Seibu Lions (baseball)
"She's fun", Yuki said.
"She is". Choso highlighted singing voice. Then is single. Then, after a pause, likes beer, though he wasn't sure why he highlighted that one; it just felt relevant. In the margin: competent. kind. good instincts. patient and caring. He looked at the headshot. "She'd hold her own".
"She absolutely would". Yuki drew a small musical note on the page, and then, in a moment of inspiration, small stars around it. "Finalist?"
He tapped his pen against the table once, considering. "Finalist".
Then Choso had turned the page.
Uro Takako stared up at them from a printed image that looked less like a headshot and more like a warning. Her eyes were sharp. Her mouth was set. Even in a still photograph, she looked like she would object to being photographed, printed, evaluated, and placed inside a transparent plastic sleeve.
Yuki leaned forward.
“Oh.”
URO TAKAKO
Age: Unknown, reincarnated.
Cursed Technique: Sky Manipulation.
Favourite dish: Salt-grilled fish.
Least favourite dish: Greasy junk food.
Cause of stress: The Fujiwara clan.
Fun fact: Contact information unavailable. Last confirmed location uncertain. Approach with caution.
Yuki turned the page.
Turned it again.
Kept turning.
She looked up. "Choso".
"Hm?"
"There are seventeen photographs".
"Yes".
" Of potentially the same woman".
"Potentially". He had highlighted Sky Manipulation with some feeling, and in the margin, written: Competent. Self-sufficient. Does not appear to require institutional validation. Respectable. Below that, in slightly smaller letters: very attractive in at least four of the photographs, possibly more if image three is also her; I think it might be.
Yuki read the margin note. She read it again.
"You wrote that she's very attractive".
"Objectively".
"In your official margin notes".
"All notes in the margin are official. That's what the margin is for".
She looked at the seventeen photographs spread across her side of the table. She looked at image three, slightly out of focus and taken from an angle that suggested the photographer had been trying very hard not to be noticed. She looked at Choso.
"I think that's her", she said.
"I thought so too". He reached over and tapped it once, with the air of a man confirming a hypothesis. "The jawline is consistent with images one, six, and eleven".
Yuki picked up her pen. On Uro Takako's page — the first one, the official profile — she drew, slowly and with great care, a tiny figure floating in the sky. Arms out. Cloud beneath her feet. She examined it, added a small cape for no reason except that it felt right, and set the pen down.
"She'd be extraordinary", Yuki said.
"Yes".
"If we could find her".
"Yes".
They looked at the seventeen photographs.
"Can we contact her?" Yuki asked, though she already suspected the answer.
Choso's expression was the one he wore when a conclusion he'd already reached was being confirmed by the evidence in front of him. "No known number. No address. No affiliation. The most recent incident report that mentions her is eight months old and lists her last known location as 'somewhere coastal, direction unconfirmed'".
"Somewhere coastal?"
"Direction unconfirmed".
Yuki picked up image three. She looked at it for a moment. Sighed. Set it back down.
"We keep her on the list", she stated more than asked because Choso had written "attractive" and taken the time to look for, collect and print seventeen pictures.
"Agreed". He gathered the seventeen photographs back into their stack with careful hands and returned them to the file. In the margin, beneath everything else, he wrote: logistics: unresolved. Do not remove from consideration. Find a way.
It was, Yuki thought, extremely him to write find a way as if it were a reasonable action item and not an open question with no visible answer.
She didn't say this.
She moved to the next file.
Nanami Kento's profile was one page.
Choso had not been able to bring himself to make it longer than one page, because Nanamin always handled paperwork with a certain economy of language and deserved due respect. The file included what all the other files did, with some notes about Yuuji's commentary, a brief explanation of his taste in cooking pots and a collection of skillsets everyone knew he had, right above the addendum of Adult of Adults, added by Choso, who had heard it from Ijichi.
The last line sat at the bottom of the page, slightly separated from the rest, in Choso's small and careful handwriting.
He would say no.
Yuki read it. "You think he'd decline".
"Yes". Choso said it without hesitation. "He is private. He values his boundaries significantly. He would find the request..." He considered. "Troublesome, probably".
"He might surprise you".
Choso looked at her with the expression he had when he was being polite about disagreeing. "He would say no. Politely. And then he would never mention it again and continue being professional, and I would respect him enormously for it and feel guilty for approximately two months".
Yuki looked at the page. At The Adult of Adults™, which Choso had written with the sincerity of a title genuinely bestowed.
"Finalist?" she said.
"Finalist". He closed the file. "Out of respect".
In the margin, below he would say no, Yuki drew him a tiny loaf of bread.
Hours later, long after finishing their second food order, Choso let out a deep breath and leaned back into his seat.
We're being too picky", he said.
Yuki looked up from Higuruma's file, where she had been adding detail to the nose sketch.
"Are we?"
"Ijichi would be too fragile. Nitta-chan gives younger sister feelings. Ino is too young. Takaba would—" He stopped. "Higuruma has a chance of going to prison. Mei Mei would bankrupt us. Yaga-san is grieving. Kusakabe-san is—" Another pause. "Half a point. We have eliminated most of our options, and the finalists are—"
"Good ones".
"Yes, but." He looked at the finalist pile. Utahime. Uro Takako, who would be nearly impossible to find. Nanamin, who would say no. Gojo, who was complicated for reasons Choso hadn't fully articulated in his margin notes and wasn't going to now. "There are fewer than I expected. And some of them will likely also say no. And it has been..." He checked the time. Then looked at the two folders, the highlighter marks, the accumulated doodles and margin notes and seventeen photographs of a woman who might or might not be the same person. "We have been at this for some time".
Yuki set down her pen.
She looked at him, really looked, and noticed the underlying stress beneath his expression. "Choso".
"Hm".
"We have time".
He looked at her.
"There's no deadline". She folded her arms on the table, easy, unhurried. "It doesn't have to happen this month or next month or this year. And if we go through all of them and none of it works, well. " She shrugged, one shoulder, in a way that said and that would genuinely be fine. "It doesn't have to happen at all. It was an idea. A good one, I think. But it's not a mission".
He was quiet for a moment. Outside the cafeteria windows, the afternoon was doing its usual slow gold descent into early evening. Someone at a distant table laughed at something.
"I wanted to give you something", he said. Less an apology and more of a statement.
"And I wanted to find something for both of us". She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers, once, brief and certain. "Those are different things. We're allowed to take our time with both of them".
He looked at the folders.
He looked at her hand over his.
He turned his hand over and held hers properly.
"Okay", he said.
"Okay". She picked up her pen. Looked at Higuruma's nose sketch. Added a small additional detail to the bridge. "And Satoru—"
They both paused.
Choso looked at Gojo's file, which was at the bottom of the finalist pile and which he hadn't opened again since the cafeteria.
"Satoru is a separate question", Yuki said, carefully.
"Yes", Choso agreed. "He is".
Neither of them said anything else about it. Yuki closed Higuruma's file and stacked it neatly with the others. "Same time next week?"
Choso began gathering the folders. Straightening the edges. Returning the highlighter caps. The seventeen photographs of Uro Takako went back into their sleeve. "I'll make a reservation", he said.
***
By the end of the month, the file had become less a tool of decision and more a monument to the difficulty of finding someone who was attractive, trustworthy, available, emotionally tolerable, unlikely to terrify Yuuji by implication, and not Satoru Gojo.
Their mistake, if it could be called such, was deciding to return the file to Choso’s old room at Jujutsu High.
His old bedroom had become a useful place for storing things he did not want to keep at the apartment and did not want to throw away. Old training clothes. Spare uniforms. Books he had already read but felt strange about donating. A box of Yuuji’s things that Choso kept because Yuuji kept forgetting he had put them there. The Nintendo 3DS was supposed to be among them, though Choso had borrowed it after Yuuji complained he had never managed to catch Xerneas.
The candidate file, after a month of use, felt like something that belonged there, too.
Not because he wanted to hide it.
Because, as Yuki had put it, “If Yuuji finds this in the apartment, his soul is going to exit through his nose.”
Choso had agreed.
So they had checked schedules. They had checked assignments. They had checked the building twice, because Choso knew better than most that assuming privacy in Jujutsu High was an excellent way to lose it.
The hallways were empty.
The lights were dim.
Once inside his old bedroom, she walked to the desk, dropped the file on top of it, and stretched her arms over her head until her shirt lifted slightly at her waist.
Choso looked.
Yuki smiled without turning around. “Careful,” she said. “You’ll start something.”
“You did that on purpose.”
“I stretched", she laughed, and the room, which had been quiet and still and full of old things, changed around the sound.
Choso shut the door. He did not lock it. There was no reason to lock it. The building was empty. They had checked.
He would think about that later with great irritation.
For the moment, Yuki leaned back against the desk and watched him with a face that made his body remember several things before his mind could decide which one to address first.
“We came here to put the file away,” he said.
“We did.”
“Do you have something else in mind?”
"Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe the room has potential.” Yuki’s smile widened.
Choso sighed, but there was very little force behind it. “You are demanding.”
“You’ve known for a while.”
She pushed away from the desk and crossed the room toward him, unhurried, giving him every chance to step away.
He didn’t.
When she reached him, she took the edge of his jacket in both hands and smoothed it down his chest as if fixing a wrinkle. There was no wrinkle. They both knew there was no wrinkle.
“Besides,” she said, voice dropping into something warmer, “you’ve been very serious all month.”
“This required seriousness.”
“It did.”
“I was being responsible.”
“You were.”
“And now you are mocking me for it.”
“A little.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “Mostly I’m thinking you deserve a reward.”
His eyes narrowed but there was no wariness in his face. “That is suspicious phrasing.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want one?”
“That depends on the reward.”
Yuki hummed and slid her hands beneath his jacket, pushing it from his shoulders. He let her. The fabric fell to the floor behind him, and her hands returned at once, palms pressing over his chest, fingers spreading as though she liked the proof of him there.
His breathing shifted.
Yuki noticed.
She always noticed.
“This room is private,” she said.
“It should be.”
“Should be?”
“I checked the schedules.”
“So did I.”
“The building is empty.”
“Then stop looking like you’re about to write a risk assessment and kiss me.”
Choso considered arguing.
Then decided there were better uses for his mouth.
The first kiss was soft, because the room was quiet and because Yuki had smiled into it before he even leaned down.
The second was not.
She gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, and Choso went because he liked when she did that, liked the bluntness of being wanted without needing to guess.
The desk hit the back of her thighs.
She made a pleased moan against his mouth.
He pulled back just enough to ask, “Here?”
“Bed,” she said immediately.
He did.
Not roughly, not yet, though she tried to make him by biting his lip when he picked her up. He clicked his tongue at her, and she grinned like the warning had pleased her more than the act itself.
The file remained on the desk while Choso lay Yuki down on the bed and followed her there.
For a while, there was no dossier.
No candidates.
No careful criteria.
Only Yuki’s hands in his hair, Yuki’s knee sliding along his side, Yuki laughing when he told her to stop pulling at the buttons and let him take off his shirt properly.
“You’re slow.”
“I am careful.”
“You’re wearing too many clothes.”
“So are you.”
“Fix it.”
He fixed it.
By the time his shirt joined his jacket on the floor and Yuki’s laughter had gone breathless, the room had warmed around them. Or perhaps Choso had simply stopped noticing the cold. Her hands were warm on his shoulders. Her mouth was warm beneath his. The lines of her body under him were familiar in the way a favourite path became familiar: not less exciting for being known, but easier to follow deeper.
She hooked a leg around his hip and pulled.
He stopped.
Yuki groaned. “Choso...”
“Don't be hasty"
“I have been patient.”
“You have not.”
“I’ve been patient for a month.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
He looked down at her, taking in the flushed irritation on her face, the spread of her hair over his old pillow, the way she looked at him like he was both an obstacle and the thing she wanted most.
His mouth curved.
“You are as impatient as always,” he said.
“You like it.”
“Yes.”
That quieted her.
Only for a second.
Then her expression shifted into something wicked enough that his pulse answered before she spoke.
“Then sit down.”
Choso tilted his head.
Yuki’s hands slid down his chest, over his stomach, lower, not touching where he wanted yet, only threatening to.
“Sit down,” she repeated. “If I’m so impatient, I’ll handle it.”
That, he thought, sounded like the kind of claim that required evidence.
So he sat.
Yuki followed immediately, climbing over his lap with the bright, pleased focus of someone who had gotten exactly what she wanted and intended to make it his problem.
Not long after she was going up and down over his lap, not yet bouncing, not yet filled by him, but rubbing against him in a way he'd discovered he deeply enjoyed.
His grip tightened over the skin of her hips. He huffed and squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the feeling of her body. When she stayed down for a moment, his hands slid behind and down her back to give her ass a sharp squeeze.
He smirked when a curse escaped her lips.
"You're such an ass".
He didn't bother to deny it, choosing instead to nip her lightly on the neck. "You've known for a while", he said in a rough voice, before pressing a soft kiss over the light bite mark.
Slowly, his fingers found their way between her legs, and he hummed in satisfaction when he noticed she was already wet.
"Do you want more time?"
He could feel her roll her eyes. "Choso, I'm working out my thighs for this. The least you could do is— "
She didn't get to finish her sentence. He held her where she was, but spared a hand to give her proper attention. "The least I could do is take care of you, yes", he murmured as he rubbed slow circles over her clit.
She threw her head back when he pinched slightly. He used the extra space to nibble her nipple gently. "Beautiful", he sighed, and lifted her by the legs, always careful to keep her from falling back.
He barely grunted with the effort of lifting her, only with the strength of his arms, holding her high enough to angle himself beneath her. "Do you want to use some lube?"
"Choso, if you don't get that thing inside me right now, I will literally kill you".
He smiled, pleased, and just as he was aligning himself right there—
"Whoa, champ", a sudden voice said from the doorway. "Way to go".
There was no second thought.
The instant another voice joined what was supposed to be a private moment, Choso caught Yuki by the waist and hauled her to the side of the bed, where she would be well out of sight.
"HEY—".
He turned to scowl at the source of that annoying voice.
"Satoru Gojo", he grumbled, forehead wrinkling in displeasure. "What are you doing here?"
"I've told you there's no need to use my full name every time". The offending sorcerer lifted his hands. "No need to be so welcoming". He ruffled his white strands, finally looking away from the pair.
Yuki emerged from the side of the bed with a blanket falling off her shoulders and over her chest. "What the fuck, Gojo? What do you want?"
"I came here to pick up something Yuuji-kun asked me to".
At the mention of his brother's name, the frown in Choso's face eased slightly.
"Is it of dire need?"
"Not at all! It's the old Nintendo 3DS he used to own and said he lent you? He was complaining because he couldn't catch Xerneas, but as his beloved, most wonderful teacher, I—"
"Oh my god, shut up".
"You asked me!"
"I didn't ask for an audiobook!"
Before they started a discussion, Choso breathed out for a few seconds, threw his legs over the bed and headed to a closet by the corner of his bedroom.
"I already caught Xerneas", Choso explained as he carefully cradled the red device between his hands. "I was going to show him tomorrow".
He ignored both stares and walked up to Gojo to hand him the Nintendo with the grave care of a man delivering a sacred object, apparently unconcerned that he was still hard enough for Gojo’s gaze to keep trying, and failing, not to drop. "Here".
Gojo kept staring, for a moment, and Choso would've believed him to be testing his patience had it been any other situation. Humans were often put off by nudity. It was not entirely unreasonable to assume that even Gojo Satoru might be affected by Choso’s lack of modesty.
However, when Gojo stopped at hip level, Choso decided he'd been lenient enough.
"Um. Don't you think there's a little something you need to take care of first?"
"What I need or don't is none of your concern". Choso placed the Nintendo over Gojo's hands. "Do not keep my brother waiting, and next time, knock. I thought all humans were aware of this custom", and before the other sorcerer could give a reply, Choso slammed the door closed.
There was a long moment of silence as Choso and Yuki stared at each other.
And then:
"Did you have to throw me off the bed?"
"Sorry", and he was genuinely apologetic. "I couldn't think of anything else".
She sighed and stood up, no longer caring to cover herself. "It's alright", she said as she looked around for her clothes. "None of us were expecting an interruption".
He tilted his head. "Do you not want to continue?"
Her eyebrow lifted at him. "I could ask you the same thing", and she pointed at his still present erection.
"I would not want something you're not comfortable with".
She grabbed his hand and pulled him back onto the bed. "You know I wouldn't let you".
He smiled at her when she gave a quick peck to the mark over his nose. "I'm well aware", and once more, his hands found their way to her sides, sliding beneath the shirt she had managed to pull on. "Take off that shirt. I want to see you bare".
***
He made it to the end of the hallway before he had to stop.
Not because anything was wrong.
Nothing was wrong.
Everything was completely fine and normal and Satoru Gojo had walked in on people having sex before, it happened, it was a known occurrence in a world where sorcerers shared facilities and occasionally forgot to lock doors, and this was no different from any of those times except that this time he hadn’t anticipated — well, mostly hadn't anticipated, the door had been unlocked which was frankly their fault—
Except.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall.
Looked down.
Looked back up.
No, he thought, with great clarity.
His body was unmoved by this.
Absolutely not, he thought, slightly less clearly.
His body continued not caring.
The Nintendo 3DS was still in his hand. Little red device. Yuuji had wanted it back for a legendary Pokémon thing, Satoru couldn’t remember which one right now because his brain was doing something profoundly unhelpful.
He pushed off the wall and kept walking.
It was a normal physiological response.
That was all.
He had walked into a room containing two attractive adults in a compromising situation. His perfect eyes had registered everything: the heat, the movement, the charged air of a room where two people had been very close and very focused on each other. His body had processed this information and responded accordingly. This was biology. Practically textbook. It meant nothing specific and would resolve itself in a few minutes.
He turned a corner.
The thing did not resolve itself.
Yuki, he thought, adopting a more diplomatic approach. Yuki was objectively beautiful. That was known information. Yuki had always been gorgeous, which was a fact as immovable as the physics of her Cursed Technique. He'd known that for years. She was a known variable. A wild, untamable, well endorsed variable, had been since approximately the third time she'd beaten him in a spar and looked down at him like the outcome had been inevitable. There had been a period — brief, mutually entertaining, never discussed — and then they'd been colleagues again, which suited them both. He knew what to do with Yuki. He had a category for Yuki.
He could work with her.
The other part was less convenient.
Choso.
Choso standing at the foot of the bed. Completely, entirely, with no apparent concern for shame, modesty, or the social contract around unexpected nudity. Just standing there, hair down. And that was the first thing, actually, that Satoru’s brain had snagged on, because for three years he had seen Choso’s hair tied back every single time. Always neat. Always severe. Always pulled away from his face in that particular way that made him look serious even when he was doing something profoundly ridiculous, like explaining Pokémon move types to Yuuji with the intensity of a military briefing.
He had somehow not registered that it would look like that when it wasn’t, falling past his shoulders, dark and loose, strands barely reaching his chest—
Satoru reached his door.
Broad, his brain supplied, helpfully, while he was trying to get his key out of his pocket.
He had known Choso was built in the abstract way one knew things about people who wore loose robes every day, but abstract knowledge and visual confirmation were apparently two separate categories of information, and his nervous system was filing them with disgraceful enthusiasm.
He unlocked the door.
Stepped inside.
Closed it behind him.
Put the Nintendo on the desk.
Then stood in the middle of his room and conducted an honest audit of his current situation, which a lesser man might have avoided. But Satoru Gojo had never been lesser, and the results of the audit were:
Inconvenient.
Embarrassing, if anyone could see him, which no one could.
And persistent.
That was the most unreasonable part.
He had had time to walk back. Time to think logical thoughts. Time to establish that this was a simple neurological event with no particular significance. And Little Satoru —a terrible name he had invented at fifteen and somehow never stopped using unironically— had listened to all of that with admirable patience before indicating, clearly, that it did not find the argument persuasive.
“This is not—” he began, out loud, to no one.
His own body did not respond to the objection.
Rude
Satoru sat on the edge of his bed.
Okay, he thought. This was fine. Manageable. Yuki was a perfectly rational explanation. Yuki had looked the way Yuki always looked when she knew something before everyone else did and was reserving judgment for a more entertaining moment. Yuki had been half-covered, amused, furious, beautiful. That made sense. That was easy. Familiar territory, or it had been once, in a different arrangement of their lives.
He nodded to himself.
Case closed.
Done.
He lay back on his bed.
Choso had let his hair down.
Satoru sat back up.
Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? The detail that had snagged somewhere in his peripheral vision and refused to be filed away neatly with everything else. Choso’s hair was always tied, always controlled, always arranged. And then it had been loose. Loose around his shoulders, loose against bare skin, loose enough to make Satoru realize he had never really seen him.
Not like that.
And combined with the absence of the robes, the ever-present robes, the layers and sleeves and careful shadows, Satoru had been forced to confront the reality that underneath all that fabric was—
He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead.
Stop, he told himself. Stop, he told Little Satoru.
He did not stop.
Choso was well-built. That was just fact. Observable information. Broad through the shoulders in a way the layers usually obscured, thick through the arms in a way that implied those arms had been doing significant work for a very long time. Not built like someone who trained for vanity. Built like someone whose body had learned force before comfort and had not forgotten either.
He’s Itadori’s brother, he tried.
His body found this irrelevant.
He had an erection, he tried, because surely that was the kind of detail that should function as a deterrent.
His body, deeply unreasonably, found this relevant in the opposite direction.
Because Choso had stood there.
Had stood there.
Completely bare, completely unconcerned, and made eye contact with Satoru with the flat, unimpressed composure of a man who simply did not register the situation as requiring embarrassment. No performance. No self-consciousness. No scrambling for cover. Just: here I am, these are my arms, this is my hair, this is my—
Satoru Gojo, who had spent thirty years being the most overwhelming thing in every room he entered, had been handed a Nintendo 3DS and dismissed.
He stared at the ceiling.
This is not a problem, he thought, without conviction.
The ceiling offered nothing.
It was just surprising. Anyone would have reacted. Anyone with eyes and a circulatory system and the misfortune of being alive would have—
Choso had looked at him.
Not flustered.
Not impressed.
Not even particularly angry at first.
Just faintly puzzled by the inconvenience of him, then displeased when Satoru’s gaze had lingered too low for too long.
What I need or don’t is none of your concern.
Then the Nintendo in his hands.
Then the door in his face.
Somewhere in that specific sequence of events, Satoru’s body had apparently made several decisions without consulting him.
He looked toward the desk. The red 3DS sat there innocently, bright and stupid and incriminating.
Yuuji’s Nintendo.
Choso’s hands had been around it.
Satoru’s hands had taken it.
Yuuji would be thrilled to get it back. Yuuji could never, ever know what was currently happening in this room.
He thought of Yuuji’s face if he knew.
Then, unfortunately, he thought of Choso finding out.
Not embarrassed. Not flattered. Probably not even offended in any ordinary way. Just tilting his head slightly, dark eyes steady, saying Satoru Gojo in that particular way he always said, like a full name was the correct unit of measurement for a person.
Like a prayer you could moan while—
Satoru exhaled.
Slowly.
“Okay,” he said, abandoning logic entirely. “Fine.”
The ceiling offered no sympathy.
He was going to need a few minutes.
A few minutes, then he would never think about this again. He would handle the immediate problem, archive the incident, return the Nintendo, and move forward like the mature, emotionally sophisticated adult he obviously was.
He reached for the waistband of his pants.
Then stopped.
Closed his eyes.
And, with great reluctance, accepted that the first image waiting for him was not Yuki sprawled across the bed.
Satoru laughed once, breathless and deeply annoyed.
“Terrible taste,” he told himself.
His body, disgracefully, found this compelling.
“Fine,” Satoru said.
It came out rougher than intended.
He sat up long enough to pull his shirt over his head and drop it somewhere on the floor. His belt followed, then the button of his pants. He pushed them down just enough to ease the pressure, then stopped with his hand resting low on his stomach.
For one final, heroic second, he considered not doing this.
He could take a shower. Warp to the alley behind his nearest favourite cafeteria and order what Shoko liked to call the Diabetes Cavities Fuckall (always venti). He could do paperwork. He could prank call Gakuganji or warp to Nanamin, because Nanamin was always an absolute delight.
Then Choso’s voice came back to him.
Satoru Gojo.
The full name. Always the full name. Like Choso needed the entire unit to identify him. Like “Satoru” alone was too intimate, too casual, too generous. Like he was a formal problem requiring formal address.
Satoru’s hand slipped lower.
“Yeah,” he breathed, almost laughing. “Okay.”
He wrapped his fingers around himself and hissed softly at the first stroke, hips lifting before he had given them permission. His eyes closed again, and this time he let them.
The image returned at once.
Choso at the foot of the bed.
Hair loose.
Broad shoulders bare.
Dark eyes steady and unbothered.
Satoru moved his hand slowly at first, testing the shape of the thought, the heat of it. He tried to place Yuki there too, because Yuki had been there, Yuki was part of it, Yuki’s laughter and anger and sharp, knowing gaze had threaded through the whole scene.
He could picture her easily: golden hair, strong thighs, mouth curved like she had already seen through him and was simply waiting for the best time to say so. Her wicked tongue doing wicked things.
His grip tightened.
Yuki would know.
Of course she would.
She had probably known the moment he stepped into the room. She had probably seen him look, seen him stay one breath too long, seen the exact second his gaze dropped.
That thought should have embarrassed him.
It did.
It also made him harder.
“Fucking hell,” Satoru said, voice thin with annoyance.
His hand found a steadier rhythm.
In his head, Yuki smiled.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly.
Amused.
You looked.
He swallowed.
Choso did not smile in the fantasy. That would have been too easy. Choso only watched him with that level, unsparing attention, the same directness he brought to every question, every statement, every expression of care so sincere it became impossible to dodge.
What I need or don’t need is none of your concern.
Satoru’s thumb swept over the head of his cock, and his head got thrown back.
“That’s not fair,” he muttered.
No one answered.
Choso, imagined and merciless, only tilted his head.
Satoru’s pace quickened.
He thought about Choso noticing. Not in the hallway. Not later. There, in the room. Choso’s eyes dropping the way Satoru’s had. Choso seeing him hard and not laughing. Not teasing. Not even pleased, necessarily. Just observing. Taking in the evidence. Filing it away.
Satoru Gojo.
His hips jerked into his fist.
He bit back a grunt.
The room felt too quiet around him, every breath too loud, every shift of the sheets too obvious. He had Infinity wrapped around him by habit, the familiar hush of distance between himself and the world, but it did nothing against memory. Nothing against the way his mind kept circling Choso’s body, the weight of him, the calm arrogance of his lack of shame.
Not arrogance, maybe.
That was the worst part.
It was not arrogance if it did not require an audience.
Choso had not been showing off.
He had simply been.
Satoru groaned, low and unwilling, and stroked himself harder.
There, then.
That was it.
The fantasy shifted, sharpened, became less memory and more want.
Choso still standing in front of him, still naked, still unembarrassed, but now he did not hand over the Nintendo. Now he looked down at Satoru’s hand and then back to his face, expression unchanged except for the faintest narrowing of his eyes.
Satoru, Choso said in Satoru’s head.
Satoru laughed once, breathless and broken.
“Oh, fuck you.”
Ask.
His stomach pulled tight.
The words were not even something Choso had said. Not yet. But they fit him so neatly that Satoru’s body accepted them as law.
He was close.
Much too quickly, which was irritating, because Satoru liked to believe he had more pride than that. More control. More stamina against a thought. But Choso’s imagined gaze did not soften, and the ghost of Yuki’s tongue did not let him hide, and the whole thing folded around him like a trap he had willingly stepped into and then complained about.
Satoru’s hand tightened.
“Choso,” he breathed before he could stop himself.
That did it.
His orgasm hit sharp and hot, tearing a sound from him that he barely managed to press behind his teeth. His back arched off the bed, thighs tense, hand still moving through it as pleasure rolled over him and left his thoughts briefly white and useless.
For several seconds, there was nothing.
No analysis.
No joke.
No clever little escape hatch.
Only breathing.
Then, slowly, Satoru let his head fall back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling again.
The room returned around him in pieces: the dim light, the discarded shirt, the red 3DS sitting on the desk like evidence.
He swallowed.
His hand was sticky.
His pride was worse.
Satoru covered his face with his clean arm and laughed, soft and helpless and furious with himself.
“Well,” he whispered to the empty room.
A pause.
Then, with terrible sincerity:
“Shit.”
.