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He’s six years old when he meets Itadori Yuuji for the first time.
The estate is bustling with movement – servants frantically preparing rooms, sweeping floors, making sure everything is perfect for the arrival of their guest. It’s not the first time the Okkotsu household has hosted an important figure, but it is the first time that Iori knows about the arriving visitor. How could he not? The name of the man has long been drilled into his brain.
Savior of the world. Vanquisher of the King of Curses. The strongest man to walk the earth.
“Hello.”
A warm hand ruffles his hair. Soft, brown eyes meet his own. The man smiles, gentle and kind, as he lowers himself on one knee, so they can speak face to face.
“I’m Itadori Yuuji. It’s good to finally meet you, Iori-kun.”
For a moment, Iori doesn’t know what to say. A million thoughts and questions rush through his mind, but none of them ever leave his throat. It’s like his tongue refuses to form words, and yet he can’t look away. There’s something about the man – Yuuji – that captivates him. He’s beautiful in a way that’s hard to describe. The way he smiles and speaks is so ordinary, so unlike what Iori had imagined ‘the strongest’ to act like – but beneath the gentle touch of his hand on his head, Iori can feel it.
Power. Strength. A simmering energy, the kind that Iori knows can change history.
“Um–” he blurts out, before he can stop himself. “I’m gonna– I’m gonna be strong like you someday, mister!”
Yuuji’s smile freezes for a millisecond, then quickly returns to normal. The change in expression is so minute that for a moment, Iori thinks he’s imagined it – but then he sees Yuuji’s gaze drop, just slightly, so he no longer meets Iori’s eyes. He gives Iori’s head another pat as he stands.
“I’m sure you can, Iori-kun,” he says. “I’ll be rooting for you.”
His voice, as always, remains warm and soft. But Iori can tell, even though he can’t explain it, that something’s different. Something had changed between them, in those few lines exchanged. It made Yuuji look at him in a different way. It made Yuuji’s smile fake.
As he watches Yuuji follow the servants away, he clenches his fist. He doesn’t really get it, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter. He’s still a kid, but he’ll do it. He’ll get stronger, and stronger, and stronger – until he reaches the top, with Yuuji.
And then, maybe, Yuuji will smile at him again.
Iori’s heart pounds a little harder in his chest at the thought of it.
***
He’s seventeen when he realizes there’s a cancer in jujutsu society.
It comes to him after an hours-long training session. He lies on the grass, exhausted, sweat dripping down his face as he stares into the cloudy sky. For the longest time, there’s been an ache in his chest. It started the day Yuuji had met him, and had grown ever since. Iori had once believed this to be ambition – his desire to grow stronger, smarter, more powerful. Now, he wonders if it had been despair, instead.
Because the world of sorcery had grown terribly, unfathomably weak.
It’s taken him until now to fully understand the severity of it. He had only met his peers and distant relatives from the other great clans a handful of times, but even that is enough for Iori to gauge their characters. Despite coming from the same bloodline of powerhouses, their attitude toward jujutsu is blasé, an afterthought in their lives. They don’t care about training. They don’t care about learning. They ask him, “Okkosu-kun, why don’t you relax? Have fun? You won’t live forever, you know.”
Of course he won’t. There’s only one person in the world blessed with immortality, and it is that very man whose heights that Iori is trying to reach. An impossible task, perhaps – chasing after someone who has all the time in the world to grow – but Iori does it nonetheless. Relaxing, having fun – those things are meaningless, nothing but fleeting pleasures. Soon, they will be gone, memories forgotten. But strength remains. Power gathers. And if no one else cares for it, then Iori will carry the burden of nurturing it.
He closes his eyes.
Sometimes, he dreams of Yuuji. In them, his pink hair catches the light, and his face shines bright as the sun. Iori hasn’t seen him since that day, when he’d knelt on one knee and ruffled his hair, and told him that he was rooting for him. Iori’s old enough now to know that was a lie, an indulgence of a child’s far-fetched dreams. To him, however, that statement was anything but. When he sees Yuuji again – and they will meet again, Iori knows it – he’ll make sure Yuuji knows it.
He’ll tell him that he’ll become strong – strong enough to stand by Yuuji’s side. He’ll tell him that he has conviction, and he has the fruits of his training to show for it. He won’t be a child then, but a man – and Yuuji will finally understand the gravity of his words, will see him as a kindred spirit, as someone worthy to be acknowledged by the strongest.
That’s all Iori wants. That’s all he’s ever wanted.
When he blinks his eyes open, he sees that the afternoon sun has broken through the clouds.
Without a word, Iori picks up his sword, and continues his training.
***
Yuuji returns one month after his son is born.
Iori hears of his arrival when he’s already at the gates. There’d been no advance notice, no warning – all he has time to do is throw on his best kimono, slick back his hair, and try to calm the pounding of his heart. The floorboards creak underneath his feet as he rushes through the winding hallways, mind awhirl with thoughts.
Yuuji’s back. He’s come back for me. He cares for me. He remembers me. He’ll see how strong I am now, how strong my family is. He’ll be proud. He’ll be pleased.
He’ll smile at me again.
The servant bows as he reaches the entrance, and there he stands–
Pink hair. Brown eyes. His hands are buried in the pockets of the same red hoodie that he wore almost two decades ago. His face remains as youthful, as beautiful as ever. He has not aged a day.
Iori’s throat swells with emotion. God knows how long he’s prepared for this day. He’s has spent countless late nights memorizing potential speeches to make the best first impression. And yet, in the face of this man, he’s like a child again – overwhelmed by his presence, his power, his perfection – unable to form even a single word.
Then, Yuuji takes a step forward. Then another, and another, until they’re standing face-to-face, their eyes meeting for the first time in over two decades.
“You’ve grown up, Iori-kun,” he remarks. His voice is fond, like greeting an old friend. “Who thought you’d be even taller than me now?”
Ah, Iori realizes, in a daze. He’s right. It’s not a huge difference, but there are a few inches between them in height. It’s a stark, sudden reminder of just how many years has passed – and how much Iori has grown since then. His training has blessed him with physical strength. Is this Yuuji’s way of praising him? Of acknowledging his hard work?
A wave of confidence washes over him. He bows.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Yuuji-sensei,” he says, and it takes all his willpower to keep his voice from trembling. “I’m… I’m glad to see you again.”
Cautiously, he raises his head, gauging Yuuji’s reaction. He sees the man give a small smile of acknowledgement, and for a moment, his heart flutters with hope – only to realise in the next second that something’s missing. It’s not the same as before, not the same as the one he’d been dreaming to see. The curve of Yuuji’s lips seem… forced. Plastered on. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Iori’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach.
A sudden panic grips him. Has he done something wrong? Was his greeting too emotional, too informal? Of course, that must be it – he’s nothing to Yuuji, just a random kid he met years ago. Why would he care if Iori was happy to see him or not?
He digs his nails into his palm, inhaling deeply. Stay calm, he tells himself. That was a misstep, but it’s alright. He’ll fix this. If he stumbles here, how could he ever call himself someone worthy enough to stand by Yuuji’s side?
“You don’t have to call me sensei, Iori-kun,” Yuuji says. He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not your teacher.”
You are, Iori wants to interject. Yuuji’s the reason that he’s where he is today – why he’s learned so much, has trained so hard, and has pushed himself to reach these heights. But he bites back his thoughts as they head inside the estate, knowing nothing good would come out of them. What matters is that they have time. Yuuji’s here. Iori won’t waste this opportunity. He’ll make him understand.
The bedroom is dim with half-drawn curtains when they enter. Mifuyu is still recovering – her birth had been long and difficult – and she spends most of her days resting in semi-darkness, the light of the sun too harsh and migraine-inducing. She’s lying down when Yuuji arrives, but at Iori’s sharp look she immediately struggles to stand and bow. Yuuji rushes in immediately, worry unexpectedly written all over his face. He takes Mifuyu’s arm and coaxes her back into the sheets, waving away her apologies.
A tight, ugly feeling grips Iori’s heart at the sight. Once again, he forces it away.
He pivots to the cot parked by the wall. “This is my son,” he introduces, in an attempt to change the conversation. He rolls the cot forward, presenting his greatest creation to the greatest man on the planet. “His name is Tsurugi.”
Yuuji’s expression softens. He leans forward, watching as the infant sleeps. It’s a good sign. Iori continues, desperate to impress.
“He has both Zenin and Gojo blood, as you know,” he lifts the infant into his arms, mindful of the way Yuuji’s eyes follow his every move. The attention makes him giddy with excitement. He wishes Yuuji will continue looking at him forever – only him, and no one else.
“It’s a pity he wasn’t born with the Six Eyes,” he continues, “but he’ll definitely inherit one of the Zenin’s techniques. He’ll be the strongest in his generation, after all – even stronger than the former Ten Shadows user you knew, sensei.”
He knows the claim is bold to make, but he’s sure of it – he would not dare boast of something so casually in front of Yuuji otherwise. With his bloodline descent, and the training and knowledge he will impart on his child, Iori knows he can raise someone worthy of leading a new generation – just like Yuuji had done as a teenager, all those decades ago.
Look at me, he wants to crow. Look at my creation. Look at what I’ve done for you, for Jujutsu, for the world that everyone else has abandoned.
And Yuuji, who stands before the two of them–
Does not smile.
There is not even a sliver of a curl of his lips. His expression is blank. His eyes remain fixed on Iori’s own, but they do not see him.
“If your child does not inherit a technique,” he begins, and for the first time, his voice sounds distant, almost cold. “What will you do?”
A test. Iori’s grip on the child tightens, fingers digging into the folds of the blanket wrapped around him. This is a test – an evaluation of what Iori will do in the event of catastrophic failure, of how he would move past such a setback and claw his way back to the top once again.
“If he does not inherit a technique, there will still likely be a Heavenly Restriction imposed.” He will not waver here. He will not fail. “Even with low levels of cursed energy, one with such a Restriction can still become strong. Take my mother, for example – you could hardly call her weak.”
The baby stirs in his arms. Is Iori holding him too hard?
He doesn’t care. He continues.
“No matter the level of cursed energy, with sufficient training and determination, I’m certain this child can reach great heights. And– And–”
Yuuji is still not smiling. A cold, sweeping terror sinks in. He’s missed something again. He’s still not good enough, not smart enough, not strong enough, and Yuuji will leave, abandon him, leaving him to rot with the rest of these weaklings, fuck–
“I’ll have another child,” he blurts out.
The boy in his arms begins to cry.
“Surely the second will inherit a technique – no, not just any technique, definitely the Ten Shadows!” Iori’s losing control. The words tumble from his lips faster than he can rein them in, but he’s frantic, pleading. “I know this generation of sorcerers are feeble, sensei, but I will change things. I swear it, I will!”
Yuuji remains silent, saying nothing. Slowly, he steps forward, wordlessly reaching out a hand. In a daze, Iori hands over the wailing infant to him. He watches numbly as Yuuji rocks the baby in his arms, cooing nonsense underneath his breath. It’s almost magical, watching his child settle as quickly as he’d awoken – his tiny eyes fluttering closed, completely relaxed in Yuuji’s hands.
Even in this, Yuuji’s perfect. Iori’s chest aches – with admiration, and with the weight of his own inadequacy. Is there anything he cannot do?
He drinks in Yuuji’s every move – his gentle movements as he hands the child back to Mifuyu, his whispered word of apology. Mifuyu shakes her head. “No, thank you,” she murmurs, looking almost stunned, “this is the fastest he’s ever fallen asleep. You’re quite something, Itadori-san.”
Iori doesn’t quite catch what Yuuji says in response, but Mifuyu smiles, in that reserved, understanding way of hers, and doesn’t reply. Before Iori can consider the possibilities, Yuuji is turning back towards him. He stands straight at attention, straining not to snap underneath the weight that hangs on his shoulders, hardly daring to breathe.
But Yuuji simply raises his hood, obscuring half his face. He steps towards the door.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, as he walks past. He does not look at Iori, not even a glance. “If your child does not inherit a technique – it doesn’t matter. I hope you can understand that, Iori-kun.”
There are so many words Iori wants to say, so many things he wishes to do. His body moves of its own accord, hand reaching out to grab Yuuji’s sleeve–
And reaches nothing.
***
Sometimes, Iori thinks he’s drowning.
The air feels heavy no matter where he goes – an invisible, oppressive force that chokes him, threatening to collapse his body and mind underneath its weight. The doctors Mifuyu forces him to see diagnose him with useless labels, trying to dull his senses with pills he tosses in the toilet because he already knows the truth.
The heaviness on his chest is guilt. The pressure strangling his neck is despair.
Even now, he cannot understand Yuuji’s words.
It doesn’t matter.
They echo in his mind, a constant mantra. Not a waking moment goes by without Iori ruminating over them. His head is constantly filled with questions. Why doesn’t it matter? What did Yuuji mean? As the strongest, wouldn’t Yuuji be the one who cares the most about the state of jujutsu, about the lagging power of the youth? Isn’t that why he separates himself from society, from the sickness that spreads within it?
Has he completely given up? Is that it?
More and more often, Iori finds himself up at nights, unable to sleep. He doesn’t know when it first happened, or when it developed into a habit – but most evenings, he tiptoes out of his bedroom and locks himself in his study. There, he pulls out paper and ink, scribbling – well, anything, really. At first they were notes on his progress, or how he should improve. But somehow they quickly turned, more often than not, into letters to Yuuji – ones that Iori knows he will never send. It gives him freedom, that knowledge. He pours his heart out in its contents, black ink smudging the page.
Yuuji-sensei, will you ever come back? I'm sorry.
Yuuji-sensei, I don't understand your teachings. I know I'm worthless, but have mercy on me, I beg you. Come see me again. I swear I'll study hard and learn your ways.
Yuuji-sensei, jujutsu needs you. Can’t you see the way everything’s falling apart? The Gojo and Kamo clans are a shadow of their former self. There is no hunger to learn, to grow. The sorcerers of my generation are failures, growing complacent with their meager power. They don’t understand how they would amount to nothing under the threat of an evil like you once defeated. If a cursed spirit like Ryoumen Sukuna were to appear again, how could they ever defend themselves? But I swear I'm different, sensei. I know I have much to improve, but I'll work hard. I’ll get stronger. Just don’t give up on me, sensei. Please.
Please.
Please don’t abandon me, Yuuji-sensei.
Please don’t leave me, Yuuji-sensei.
Please smile at me again, Yuuji-sensei.
Please, please, please.
The papers scatter on the ground. Iori’s heart is beating too fast. It happens more and more often, now – that racing thumping in his chest that sends him stumbling, gripping his chest. The servants used to fuss, but Iori threatened to cut their tongues if they ever laid a finger on him, or breathed a word of this to anyone. That quickly sent them scurrying to the shadows, terrified of angering him.
Mifuyu used to ask if he’s alright, but after constant cases of deflections and being ignored, she stopped bringing it up altogether. Most days, she spends her time with their son, now nearing six months old. The doctors praise him, calling him a healthy, happy boy – but they cannot say for sure whether he has inherited a technique or not. It’s still too early to tell.
His grip on the ink pen tightens. There’s a reason why Yuuji brought up the possibility of his son not inheriting a technique. He’s the strongest in the world, has decades of experience under his belt – he probably took one look at his child and knew. Perhaps he has an ability to sense these things that ordinary humans can’t. Iori wouldn't put it past his sensei.
But if that’s true… to be strong and to raise the strongest, his children must inherit a technique. Any would be fine, but Ten Shadows would be ideal – and if they tamed the final beast, the Divine General Mahoraga, well, Yuuji must acknowledge him then. Right?
His hands are smudged black. He smears the ink between two fingers, trying to rub the color off, but it does not fade.
Iori cannot sit around and wait. He has to see Yuuji again. He has to, he has to, he has to–
He rushes back to his bedroom, throwing open the door.
“Mifuyu,” he breathes. “Let’s have another child.”
His wife stirs, her eyes slowly blinking open. Her irises seem to glow in the darkness. “Are you sure?” she asks, voice low.
Iori nods, still breathless. He’s shaking. The more he thinks about it, the more certain he becomes. Yes, yes, this is the way, this is how he can secure Yuuji’s approval, his attention. How could he have been so silly? This is what his sensei was pointing him towards, and it took him this long to realise it.
“We must,” he says. “I must.”
Mifuyu’s lips are wet when he kisses her. Her skin is soft, and her hands are warm in his palm. Yuuji’s hands were warm, too, when he’d pet Iori’s head, all those years ago. He wishes he could feel them again on his skin.
***
His daughter is born a year later.
Iori forgets how many days he spends pacing at the estate’s entrance, watching the empty road for a sign – any sign – of his sensei. No one knows how to contact Yuuji, but it’s obvious he keeps tabs on jujutsu society, given how he’d turned up at Iori’s doorstep after his son’s birth. No doubt, word of his new daughter would’ve reached him by now, so he’ll come to see her, right?
It was Yuuji who’d pushed Iori to have another child, after all, and he’s certain this time that Yuka will be the one to inherit a technique. So it’s obvious that Yuuji will come back, and Iori can make up for his past mistakes, and Yuuji will finally, finally, accept him.
But the days turn into weeks, and weeks into months, and Yuuji does not return.
The papers in his study are piling higher and higher. The tips of his fingers are constantly stained black with ink. His heartbeat pounds in his chest at every moment of the waking day, a drum that rattles his ribs, that echoes in his ears, louder and louder and louder until it’s all Iori can hear.
Years later, when his daughter manifests the Ten Shadows, Iori knows he can’t wait any longer.
In the cover of night, he packs his things and leaves – never looking back.
***
It’s raining when Iori finally tracks him down.
The sky above is dark and grey, thick clouds intercut with flashes of lightning that illuminate the earth below. His clothes had long been soaked through, his long hair – overgrown from years of neglect – sticking uncomfortably to his sunken face. He knows he looks like a mess, a shell of the regal young master he used to be, but Iori does not care.
He’s found him.
At the end of an empty alley, Itadori Yuuji waits. His red hoodie is drawn over his face, but Iori knows that it’s him. This is the man he’s longed for since he was a child. He would recognise him anywhere, anytime.
Yuuji does not look at him when Iori draws near. His eyes are still hidden underneath his hood, but his face is angled slightly away, like he doesn’t wish to look directly into Iori’s eyes. A sharp, stabbing pain pierces his heart at the realization. Once, long ago, Yuuji had knelt before Iori, had lowered himself just to meet his gaze. How did things change so much? How did everything fall apart between them?
He wants so desperately to ask, to beg for forgiveness, for understanding, for an explanation – but his eyes well up with tears and all he manages to get out is, “Yuuji.”
His voice is strangled, hoarse from disuse. It comes out as a rasp, like a drowning man gasping for precious air. He reaches out a hand to cling to Yuuji’s clothes, to hold him tight so he can never leave again – but Iori stops himself halfway. His arm trembles, then lowers it slowly to his side.
“I’ve missed you, Yuuji-sensei,” Iori whispers.
Yuuji watches him without a word. Silence engulfs the two of them, accompanied only by the steady patter of rain, and the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance. Every second that passes feels like torture, like invisible knives being stabbed one after another into his heart. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip, shoulders shaking, the agony unbearable–
Warm hands cup his cheek. Iori’s eyes snap open.
Yuuji is looking at him.
The hood casts shadows over his face, but he is looking at him. With those eyes – those eyes! – the very same ones that had enchanted Iori decades ago, that had looked at him with both fondness and pity and are now looking at him with something else entirely, something that isn’t disappointment or anger or any other emotion Iori had expected.
He thinks it might be sadness.
“I’m sorry, Iori-kun,” Yuuji murmurs. “You’ve suffered, haven’t you? It’s my fault.”
Something about that jolts him to life. “No!” he cries out, almost yelling. “It’s not– Nothing’s your fault, sensei, it could never be. This is my weakness, my– my– lack of understanding, of training. I could never reach your heights. I was foolish to even try. I couldn’t even sire two children with techniques even though I acted so pridefully. So please–”
He bows deeply, a perfect ninety-degree angle, head lowered so far that his hair falls into his eyes.
“Let me atone, sensei. Let me learn from you.”
“Iori–”
“I know I can do it, sensei!” Normally, he wouldn’t even dare dream of raising his voice towards Yuuji, but desperation drives him forward. He knows this is his last chance. “I’ll do anything you want me to. I’ll train until my skin breaks and bleeds. I’ll serve you for the rest of my life. I’ll become better, stronger, until I can stand in your shadow.”
He swallows hard, clenching his fists.
“So please… don’t abandon me again, sensei.”
Silence, again. Iori maintains his bow, eyes trained directly on the ground. The water seeps into his shoes. He barely feels the cold, barely feels anything except the fire that burns in his veins that threatens to consume him whole. Please, he prays to any deity that may listen. Please, please, please.
“Iori-kun, look at me.”
Iori raises his head, ever the obedient student. He watches as Yuuji takes a deep, long breath.
“It doesn’t matter, Iori-kun.”
Those words, again.
“Being the strongest, attaining power, raising the next generation to be more powerful than the last – none of those things matter, Iori.”
Why is he hearing those words again?
“Do you understand?”
Something inside Iori shatters.
His ears begin to ring – high-pitched, sharp, rattling. Yuuji continues talking, voice soft and low, but Iori cannot hear him. Is this what he meant, back then, with Mifuyu and his child in their bedroom? It wasn’t an instruction, a push to try for another? But, but, if that were true… if nothing mattered to Yuuji…
Then what about him?
Iori stumbles back. Yuuji grabs his arm, trying to steady him – but his knees have turned to jelly, and he slumps, like a puppet with strings cut, to the ground.
Yuuji’s calling his name. He’s kneeling beside him, in this filthy rainwater, and Iori knows he should stand but he can’t. His hands are touching his face. They’re still warm, so warm, even in this biting cold.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
Yuuji never cared for strength. Yuuji’s goals were never the same as his. He thought he understood this man, thought he knew what he wanted, spent his whole life building himself up and breaking himself down to be someone Yuuji would need, would want.
And it was all for nothing.
Because it doesn’t matter.
“Iori-kun!” Yuuji’s shaking him now. His voice is frantic. Somewhere along the line, the hood had slipped off his head. He’s still so beautiful, unchanged from the day they first met – like a neverending summer, bright even in the darkest storm.
“Iori-kun, look at me!” He’s never heard Yuuji sound so worried, so upset. “Are you alright? Are you sick? Tell me what you need!”
What he needs?
He needs Yuuji to return to jujutsu society. He needs Yuuji to stay by his side. He needs Yuuji to take back those three, devastating words, and to never cast his gaze away ever again.
But what he ends up saying is–
“I want you to smile at me again, sensei.”
He glances up at Yuuji’s face, droplets of water running down his cheeks. He’s glad it’s raining. That way, Yuuji can’t see his tears.
“I miss your smile,” he continues. “The one you had on your face when I met you as a child. I dream of it, do you know? It was all I ever wanted, ever since I was a boy. You were all I ever wanted…”
He reaches out a trembling hand, feeling as though he’s in a dream, and caresses Yuuji’s cheek, thumbing at the scar on his lip. Even his imperfects are perfect – reflections of the trials he’s gone through, the enemies he’s bested. They are testaments to his strength, the kind that Iori once hoped to reach.
But, well. It doesn’t matter, does it?
When Iori kisses him, his lips taste sweet on his tongue.
Yuuji freezes beneath him. Iori doesn’t care. He leans in closer, deeper, tilting his head upwards so he can devour Yuuji’s mouth like a beast starved, hungry and wanting. Yuuji tries to jerk his head back, but Iori follows, undeterred – causing them to both lose their balance and fall onto the dirty ground.
Iori grabs his hoodie, yanks him close. He kisses him again before Yuuji even has the chance to take another breath, hot and wet and sloppy, wanting to taste all of him, from the inside out. His heart is pounding the fastest it’s ever been in his life. His head feels like it’s about to explode.
But right now, Yuuji is here, in his arms, real and tangible, and Iori can’t let go, because it doesn’t matter anymore – the power he’d been chasing, the techniques he’d honed since he was a child, the dreams he’d nurtured in his heart. Yuuji had thrown them all away.
Iori can live with that. He’ll survive. What he can’t endure is if Yuuji chooses to walk away, here and now. After everything he’s gone through, after everything he’s given up and been stripped of – he can’t lose this too.
He grabs Yuuji’s face, nails digging into his skin. He knows he’s losing his mind. He knows he’s dying, knows this is the end, but he can’t, he can’t–
Yuuji shoves him back, and he falls into the freezing rainwater, head slamming against the pavement.
A burst of pain explodes behind his eyes. He gasps, vision blurring, as the ringing in his ears suddenly comes to a violent stop.
Yuuji is already on his feet. His chest is heaving, his hair is messy, and there are scratches on his face from Iori’s fingers. He takes a step towards him, and for a moment Iori wonders if this is it – this is how he’ll die, at his sensei’s hand for daring to defile him. That’s fine. That’ll be fine. At least he’ll die with Yuuji holding him. What more could he ask for?
He closes his eyes, waiting for the pain.
It never comes.
When he opens them again, Yuuji is gone.
The rain falls. Lightning crackles overhead. Thunder shakes the earth.
And Iori is alone.