Chapter Text
“You need a hobby, dad.” His teenager's voice carries through the phone—laced in disdain, as Toji currently tries to hold said object in the gap between his shoulder and ear.
Toji swipes a hand down his face, “You might be right.” He said.
Unhurriedly walking towards his fridge, (the thing needs to be repaired.) Both the handles have to be pulled with force akin to pulling open a steel plated door.
“I’ve just-” He grabs a water bottle, twisting the cap open skillfully in one hand. “I’ve been trying to make time for myself—You know, with you gone ‘n all.”
Megumi scoffs on the other side of the phone. Loudly. “Getting drunk? Getting high? Those aren't hobbies, Dad.”
Clutching the phone in his non dominant hand, he presses it to his ear once again. He senses irritation from the other side. It's not unlike Megumi to be mad at him, he doesn't hold it against him–Hell, he would be angry at himself too.
“You know I don't do that anymore.”
The line goes quiet for what feels like an eternity. He has to keep checking his phone to make sure Megumi is still there.
The water in his hand remains untouched. In that short span of time, he had forgotten he was still holding on to it.
Megumi audibly sighs, “I don’t hold it past you. You know what—“ Megumi shuffles on the other end, “—Just forget it.”
Toji chugs the bottled water, squeezing the plastic in attempts to make the process go faster.
“Im going to hang up.” Megumi said.
Crinkling can be heard through the phone, the form of the plastic warping to the shape of Toji’s hand with every press and squeeze.
A repeating beeping presents itself in his ear.
He's used to this, his son deciding for himself when to stop talking to him, and when to start.
Megumi’s in college after all, that's what college kids do. They get away from home, get freedom, and all of a sudden their parents stop existing.
Not like he existed much before. Toji doesn't reach out, he might think about it, but never goes through with it.
Neither does Megumi.
They may communicate once in a while–small, quick, meaningless bursts of conversation.
They always start (and end) with him telling Toji to get off his ass, and do something productive ‘for once in his life’.
Toji fails to realize how deep that cuts into him.
Toji is productive, he goes to work (occasionally), he works out in his spare time, just the normal day-to-day life things—that doesn’t mean he sits on his ass all day.
Toji sets his phone down on the counter, the blocky thing he keeps only for phone calls—mostly either from Shui or Megumi. It looks like he took a brick out of his pocket and decided it was reliable enough to keep around.
He searchingly heads over to his couch, plops down on the dingy thing like it was made for him, stretches his limbs out, and turns the television on.
The small box turned on in a matter of seconds, a news anchoring channel broadcasting live is the first thing he sees.
He pays no mind to it, switching the channels until he lands on the right one.
Sports.
Toji never played on an official team, not even his high school team, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t find it interesting to watch grown men fight and yell over a ball. It can prove to be hilarious, yet entertaining.
His favorite just so happened to be baseball.
He played it a couple times when he was younger, in his youthful teenage years, when he looked at life as something that he couldn’t wait to end.
He gives ‘thanks’ to his relatives for that.
Toji’s family—he didn’t consider them family, they forbid Toji from doing anything outside of school that didn’t involve homework, or running errands for them.
So, that eventually made him sneaky.
Climbing out of his room window—luckily for him, was on the first floor— trailing onto the grass that surrounded the estate. The sky was painted orange and red, the sun was setting.
Toji had a curfew, to be home before the sun begins its descent.
He didn’t care. Fuck the curfew.
But he still had his doubts. Getting caught sneaking out would result in permanent scars and bruises that’ll take weeks to fade. So, he had made sure his uncle, Naobito, saw his face before he went off into his room.
There was an abandoned house a couple blocks down, the wood was stained black and muddy from a fire that took place three months ago.
He’s sure that his uncle had something to do with it.
Behind the house laid a wide open field, bare of trees for a couple acres, soft grass—mainly where he spent most of his time.
“Toji.”
Toji snapped his head back too fast; he thought he gave himself whiplash.
It was Shiu, leaning against a broken window that still held shards of glass.
He’s known Shiu since they were kids; they met after an incident with his uncle that left him sore with a black eye and twisted ankle. When no one was there, Shiu was.
Toji huffed, “Thought you said you weren’t coming.”
“Yeah, well,” Shiu smiled, that smirk that never reached his eyes. “I changed my mind—we playing or what?”
Chuckling, Toji ran down the field, positioning himself in the middle.
“ ‘Course we are, you miss me?” Toji stretches his limbs, grunting in the process, “Why are you here so early?” He asks.
Shiu pushes off the house, splintered wood cracking in the process. He begins jogging towards Toji, and throws him a glove and baseball. “Shut the fuck up Toji, i’m not early, you’re late. We have 10 minutes of sunlight left.”
“Nah, you missed me.”
“You’re so fucking gay.” Shiu holds the bat in both his hands, one over top of the other. A few practice swings, turning his body to the side and straightening himself into place, he’s ready.
Toji stills, what?
“I’m not gay.”
“You act like it.”
Toji narrowed his eyes, scowl becoming present, “No, it’s like if you were to tell your girlfriend, or your family that you miss them.”
Toji knows he’s not gay, he’s had plenty of interactions with girls. He knows he’s attracted to them—only them.
He tosses the baseball in the air, catching it effortlessly. The thing is worn down from months of rough play.
Shiu, keeping his tone casual, “As if you know anything about family.” He says.
Toji places the ball in his dominant hand, giving it a few turns, “Fuck off.” He launches the ball at Shiu, he swore he didn’t mean to put that much force behind it; it hits said man square in the chest.
Shiu wasn’t prepared, the wind got knocked out of him in the matter of milliseconds.
“Shit,” Toji jogs toward where Shiu is bent over, palming his chest. Toji doesn’t say anything. Boys don’t provide other boys comfort. Why would he ask him if he’s okay?
Toji’s reminded of the words of his father. “Be a man.”
Toji whistles a tune akin to disbelief, smirk pooling on his face, “Stand up and take it to the chest, Shiu. Be a ma-“
A violent blow whips Toji's head to the side. He stumbles back, catching himself before he hits the ground,
Shiu just punched him.
This motherfucker actually hit him.
Toji's hands immediately come up to his face, he’s not bleeding. Good. He can’t let anyone he lives with see this shit. He’ll just act like he rolled off his bed while sleeping and fell a little too hard if anyone asks.
Toji contemplates punching Shiu back, he knows he’s stronger than him, could easily knock him out with a few hard hitters.
Shiu silently laughs, “I’m fine. Go back to where you were. Let's play, asshole.”
A vehicle outside of Toji’s apartment window blasts its horn, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Toji chuckles fondly at the memory of when he and Shiu were approaching 18. He would almost consider those the hardest years of his life if not for said man.
Speaking of Shiu, Toji needs to call him.
Toji pushes himself up, bracing his hands on his knees for momentum, and dials for the man’s number.
The phone rings, three times, he picks up on the forth.
“Need your help, be here in twenty. Bring that computer of yours.”
Shiu doesn’t have a chance to speak before Toji ruthlessly hangs up the phone.
Fifteen minutes later, knocking rattles the door of Toji’s apartment.
Toji unlocks the door with a faint click, Shiu pushes past the door, suit clad, as always. “You’re not on that shit, are you?” Shiu says.
Toji walks back over to the couch, bare feet padding against the wooden floor.
Toji glances at him from over his shoulder, “Because I ask you to visit, you think i’m on drugs?” Toji raised an eyebrow.
“You never do.”
Exasperated, “Sit.” Toji says,
Shui follows.
Toji sat on his couch—Shui opposite of him—leaned back, one arm over the back, “I’ve been doing some thinking…” He waves his hand in a circular motion, “…and I want to try something new.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
Shiu remains seated, leaning back against the cushions, legs crossed; one leg over the other, and listening for any nonsense that is seconds from spewing out of Toji’s mouth.
“But, I need your help.”
Shiu peers down, Toji’s has a long finger pointed at him, waving in circular motions towards the laptop on Shiu’s lap.
He looks out the window to his left, a streetline full of cars and white noise. He can see his own car from here. “Megumi put you up to this?” He says.
“No.”
Shui glanced at Toji, “Yeah, he did.”
“Only a little. Not much of an influence though” Toji says, while shrugging his shoulders.
His hand begins to absentmindedly draw circles against his bare abdomen, feeling the ridges of his abs as he works his way up and down.
Something to keep his hands moving.
Shui began rubbing at his temple, exhaling a deep, and long breath. “Let’s get this over with,” Cautiously handing over the device in his lap, Toji takes it with less care than someone would handle a rock.
“I’m giving you ten minutes Fushiguro,” Shui massages at his head, tired and low eyes watching, “And I promise you, if there is one singular new scratch, you’re paying for it.”
Toji glances at him through his lashes, fingers steady against the keys of the keyboard. “Yeah, whatever, put your money where your mouth is.”
Air blows out of Shui’s nose like a stressed old man, “What the fuck does that even mean, Toji.”
“It’s provocative.”
“Spell provocative.”
A deep grumble resonates through Toji’s chest, “Fuck you. I’m not stupid.”
“Found it, look here.” Toji says.
Shiu pushes himself up, brushing himself off before reaching Toji’s side.
“Found what, exactly?”
Toji tilts the screen slightly towards Shiu, “It’s some website— it has a bunch of different types of groups ‘nd shit, or something. I saw it on T.V.”
“So, what’s your end goal here?” Shui leaned back casually against the armchair, slowly running a hand through his hair.
“To get a hobby, so the kid says.”
Nodding his head, Shui takes the laptop out of Toji’s hands, “Hm. move over.”
There is enough room on the couch for two people to sit comfortably. Shui could’ve walked to the other side. He just wanted to be an asshole.
Shui spends approximately five minutes scrolling through the pages, clicking on links that take him to different company pages.
Toji mindlessly picks at his fingernails in the meantime, occasionally glancing at the screen.
“Found something. A baseball team, it’ll be like the old days.”
Toji side eyes the screen— there is no way in hell he’s playing unprofessional league baseball as a grown man. They couldn’t pay him enough.
“It says here—it’s just for practice. Adults only too.”
Toji immediately breaks his focus on picking at his nails— “Let me see.” He said.
Shiu hands him the device, he can’t tell whether it’s legit or not, hell, he barely knows how to work this thing.
If it can get him out the house then it might be a good thing—Is he actually contemplating joining?
He’s thinking about it. He hands the laptop over to Shiu, whilst positioning both his arms to rest against the back of the cushions, lolling his head back in a circular motion. “Fuck, honestly, put my name down for me. Before I change my mind.”
Shui resists the urge to roll his eyes, “Alright.”
In the meantime, Toji slowly steps into his kitchen, just a couple of feet away from the living room, opens a cupboard, and grabs a granola bar.
“The next practice is in two days. I’m signing you up for that one and the next. After that you’re on your own.”
Toji makes an inaudible noise, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Shui figures it’s an “Okay.”
“It’s being hosted by someone by the name of Nanami Kento…”
A pause.
“…and Ryomen Sukuna.”
He halts mid-chew.
“What?”
Did he hear him right?
Shui glances into the kitchen, face full of no emotion except that easy going look of contempt.
“Nanami Kento and Ryomen Sukuna. Those are your instructors.”
Toji’s mind blanks. Tossing the finished crumpled up granola wrapper into the trash—it hits the side before it goes in—and bares his hands against the fridge, ready to pull it open.
Fuck, he’s going to start stress eating again. Why is he even stressing?
Toji can feel his heart pound against his rib cage. Why is his name alone making his nerves go haywire?
He doubts Sukuna even knows who he is.
Shui stands up with a grunt,“Well, i’m going to be heading out. Good luck, and don’t forget. In two days.” He holds up two fingers.
Toji pulls out a leftover container of noodles, He reluctantly nods his head in the form of a goodbye.
The door shuts with a sigh, a faint click following.
“Shit,” Toji’s hands brace against his head, head hung low, his hunched over form has his elbows digging into the countertop.
Should he go? Shui already signed him up, it would be a waste if he didn’t. Plus, yeah, there’s no way Ryomen Sukuna knows who he is.
“Fuck it.”
Sukuna is one year older than Toji, they went to the same high school.
They never spoke, not outright to each other. Only occasional glances in the hallway, glances you would give a random person you just so happen to be walking by. It was nothing he had or wanted to look into.
Until he kept appearing, over and over again. To Toji, it felt like Sukuna was taunting him. He always found himself near him, watching, waiting.
What for? Toji didn’t know. He was just there. Toji left like there was an invisible force pulling him—yanking him towards Sukuna's side.
Just like everyone else was.
He didn’t want to be apart of that crowd. The crowd that cheers for Sukuna. The crowd that boasts over receiving a simple greeting from him.
He hated those people. He hated the people that were made out to be “popular”, and he hated the people that supported them.
Sukuna had it all.
Family that supported him, a loving girlfriend, friends, money—even a good, reliable car.
Everything Toji could wish for.
And Toji was never a jealous person, he can’t recall a single time beforehand where he had been jealous of someone. He was handsome, tall, had women flocking to him, just none of the “good shit” Sukuna had.
Toji knew that Sukuna never noticed him, always ending up where he was.
He’s glad that he didn’t.
He was always standing around him like some fucking creep, and he couldn’t take it. It was aggravating to say the least.
So he left.
Between his family, and his school life, neither had provided him much to look forward to, so he left.
Never looked back, went to live with Shiu, (who initially was pissed and immediately argued against it, though after a while of Toji protesting, Shiu gave up.) then began working at a dingy hotel.
Toji had only worked there for 4 weeks before calling it quits.
The days had gone and passed in the blink of an eye.
Toji checks his phone for the time, it’s currently 11:46PM—the night before the ‘big day’ and Toji hasn’t gotten an ounce of sleep.
He can’t remember a single thing he did other than moping around, dreading tomorrow.
A sheen sweat breaks out on toji’s skin. The sticky feeling of cold sweat clinging to him as he lays in stillness.
There’s no other explanation for this feeling except anxiety. Toji isn’t one to feel anxious, even when his late wife passed away after giving birth to his son—he was heartbroken, that’s for sure. Torn into two.
But he was never anxious.
He knew the outcome that had awaited that fatal day. He predicted it after she became sick, ending up giving birth a whole month early.
Thankfully, Megumi was a strong baby. Taking after his father in that regard.
Toji could always predict that something was going to happen before it did.
He never predicted he would see Sukuna again.
Feelings that were pushed down, long gone, have begun sprouting up.
Hatred, one sided hatred— from almost two decades ago, feelings that Toji felt he had no right to feel.
Yet he does.
Sukuna never did anything to him, never bullied him, called him out of his name, spoke bad on his terrible family that deserved it. He never did any of that.
His heart is pounding in his chest, a rhythmic thump against his rib cage.
Toji sits up with a groan, large hand palming his bare chest. He swings his feet over his bed, and begins rustling the pile of clothes he pushed to the corner of his room.
He missed laundry day, he’ll head down to the cleaners eventually.
Toji pulls on a black hoodie and a pair of socks, already clad in sweatpants, and wipes the restlessness off of his face.
He grabs his keys where they lay on the counter, slipping on his shoes in the process. They’re old, years out of style, but they get the job done.
On his way out the door, he stuffs his hands in his pockets. A soft, pillowing breeze rattles nearby wind chimes.
Toji peers to his left, then to his right, and heads down the stairs of his apartment complex.
The glow of the neon signs in the front of the store flicker with every heartbeat. The “O” in "Convenience" flickers every three steps.
It took Toji twelve minutes of walking to reach the storefront, seventeen if he would have stopped at every crossing sign, instead resulting in jay walking.
The door chimes as he walks through, shoes momentarily squeaking when they come in contact with the tiled floors. The store clerk looks up as fast as he looks down, a young man, approximately eighteen years of age, he assumes.
Toji pays no mind to the kid as he begins striding over to the third aisle. He examines a packet of noodles, fucking sodium in these things have skyrocketed over the last year. He’s going to buy it anyway.
As long as it tastes good, he’ll burn off the extra calories.
The cashier looks visibly tired when he approaches, he doesn’t blame them—it’s midnight afterall, the kid probably has school tomorrow.
Cigarettes line the back wall behind the clerk that is ringing up his item. Toji points to a pack, telling the kid that he’ll buy two packs of Marlboro reds.
Toji isn’t one to normally smoke.
He’s been around Shiu long enough to understand the impactful effects; the drawbacks Shiu has come to have are ridiculous—but Toji eventually ended up picking up his habit, emerging himself in the taste of nicotine every now and then.
More often when he’s stressed, contemplating his life choices.
The bell on the door chimes as someone walks through, footsteps heavy, purposeful, yet silent.
Toji pulls out his wallet, counting the spare bills that rest there, shifting his fingers through the insides as if he’s searching through a space in his wallet that doesn’t exist.
The wallet in his hand snaps close with a quick gust, sliding it into his pocket, and pulling out a wrinkled bill.
Placing it on the counter, the kid hesitantly picks it up, punching numbers into the register.
The clerk looks past him, supposedly looking at the individual that just walked in.
Toji registers the footsteps to be male. It’s unlikely for a woman’s footfall to be that heavy.
The man behind him doesn’t say anything. There’s enough space between them that it’ll be deemed as comfortable, but Toji feels anything but so. He’s not scared or frightened by the man.
Just unsettled.
There’s an aura radiating off of him that has his nerves succumb to the feeling of vibration.
Rotating his now bought items in one hand, Toji shoves one packet of cigarettes in his pocket, leisurely turning on his feet.
Toji’s eyes immediately darted to the pink tuffs of hair protruding from the man standing in front of him.
Holy shit.
He recognizes that hair. Only for it to be paired with tattoos, a mature face, and an even taller; bulkier frame.
The right side of his face had visible scarring—an ugly, yet formidable sight. The absence of an eyeball was present in the socket, conforming the eye to be permanently shut.
The man who can only be known as, Sukuna.
Toji scratches at his own scar, the split skin that stretches and pulls with every quirk of his lip.
Sukuna clears his throat, his singular red eye blank and unseeing. “Are you gonna let me by, or are you going to keep staring?”
His voice is smooth and deep, likely carrying the weight of someone who’s seen the world, his world, collapse before him.
Toji feels a rush of conflicting emotions, yet he maintains his composure, not allowing his emotions to be portrayed.
For a fleeting moment, anger surges throughout his body, traveling to the tips of his toes and fingers.
Only to fade once he comes to his senses, Toji sidesteps, darting his eyes towards the entrance, “Go ahead.”
Sukuna walks past him—his height being taller than Toji’s by 3 inches—and doesn’t forget to glance at Toji as he passes.
The air outside the store mellows into a calm breeze. Toji opens the familiar box in his hand, pulling one of the cancer sticks out, and placing it between his lips.
Toji reaches his hand into his pockets, the fabric giving in to his rummage as he begins feeling around for his lighter.
He knows he brung it with him, it was sitting on his dresser. Shit, he must’ve dropped it in the store.