Chapter Text
Zen’in Naoya might be an asshole, but at least he’s self-aware.
It isn’t that he doesn’t know sending back his triple-shot iced vanilla latte to be remade because he specifically asked for three ice cubes and the barista put four is widely considered to be a dick move. It’s just that sometimes, that’s how the cookie crumbles. What Naoya wants to do, Naoya does, and the rest of the world needs to deal with it. After all, he’s the heir to the Zen’in Group.
The thing is, while Naoya isn’t under any false impressions that he’s gaining any good karma in this life, he also doesn’t think he’s that bad in the grand scheme of things. With all the real criminals out there, how much is the universe really going to care about him bumping into the occasional elderly lady on a crosswalk? (And okay, he might have caused all her groceries to spill onto the pavement and a few eggs from her carton to crack, and he might not have stopped to help her pick anything up, but at the end of the day, people should really look where they’re going in the first place.)
At worst, Naoya would consider himself medium-bad. And if you do compare him with some of the real losers out there—you know, murderers, pedophiles, those people who unironically wear socks and sandals together—he honestly starts to look pretty good.
Tapping his foot patiently against the floor of the driver’s seat, Naoya curses at the red light which is practically taking twenty minutes to turn. He’s interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing, and presses a button on his dashboard to answer the call. “The hell do you want?”
“Naoya.” It’s his cousin Megumi, who he’s been ignoring for the past month. It’s not his fault that Megumi majorly overreacted to Naoya borrowing 5,000 yen out of his wallet.
“That is my name,” Naoya responds, already bored. His fingers tap at the steering wheel.
“Did you go drinking with Yuuji and Mai last night?”
Naoya scratches his head. “Yeah.”
“And did you promise to be the designated driver?”
Naoya thinks back to the night before. “Hmm. I might have.”
“Naoya, you promised them. You said you were going to drive everyone home!”
“And they should have known better than to believe me.”
“You seriously ditched your friends at 2AM for a one-night stand with a random guy?”
“He was hot,” Naoya retorts, unapologetic. “But eh, it didn’t work out after all.” He’d gotten as far as making out with the guy in his car before realizing he had a hearing aid. Naoya wasn’t going down on that, that shit is weird.
“You mean to tell me that you left your employees—and friends—alone, tipsy, without so much as telling them, only to just end up going home yourself?”
Naoya shrugs, honking at the car ahead of him as the light finally, finally turns green. Some people are truly slow as hell. “It’s not my job to figure their shit out.”
“Naoya, they had to spend 10,000 yen on a taxi since all the buses had stopped! And you left an open tab that they had to pay for!”
“Again,” Naoya yawns, “Sounds like a them problem.”
“Ugh.” Megumi groans in exasperation. Naoya can imagine the look on his face just from his tone of voice—disappointed, annoyed, ready to throw his phone across the room. “You’re literally the worst, Naoya. This is why you have no friends. Just see if any of us are willing to hang out with you again.”
“I think you misunderstand,” Naoya replies lightly. “I absolutely could not care less if any of you want to hang out with me. In fact, good riddance, Yuuji in particular is annoying as fuck.”
“I hate you,” Megumi hisses, then hangs up.
Naoya hums as he turns on his radio. He could care less what Megumi thinks, actually.
———
This must not be Naoya’s lucky day, because he’s bothered again during dinner. He’s in the middle of chowing down on some expensive pasta, feet up as he watches Love Island with subtitles on the TV, when he gets another call.
He would usually ignore anything after 6PM, but glancing at the screen, he realizes who it is. Ugh. Blowing off Gojo Satoru is tempting, but usually results in even worse of a headache later. Groaning, he sets down his pasta and picks up the phone.
“What do you want?” he says flatly into the speaker. “It’s a bit late for business, Satoru, don’t you think?”
Even Satoru’s laugh irritates him. Unfortunately for Naoya, Satoru is a shareholder on their company board, and can’t be totally ignored. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure I’m interrupting your beauty sleep and all, but I had a favor to ask.”
Naoya rolls his eyes. “Spit it out, then.”
“Well, you know that college scholarship that the Zen’in group sponsors? The one with the decision letter going out tomorrow?”
“Uh huh,” Naoya hums, already bored (again). It was one of those PR things that his father insisted on, where lots of ‘underprivileged’ teenage hopefuls could apply. Naoya had simply stuffed the applications in the paper shredder and delegated it to one of his cousins’ nephews, distantly related enough not to cause too much scandal.
“I saw the results today, and I wanted to ask you to reconsider. There’s an exceptionally talented young student in the mix, who comes from a really tough background. I went through his application myself and I was really impressed. No offense, but this kid has ten times the talent of that nephew you’ve shoved in the slot.”
“That sounds,” Naoya drawls, “like absolutely none of your business.”
“I’m serious, Naoya, it’s not just about the money, it’s literally one click on your portal and this award could change the kid’s life—”
“Is this really all you called me about?”
“Well, shit, Naoya,” Satoru says in exasperation. “And here I was trying to give you one chance to redeem your image.”
“My image doesn’t need any redeeming, thank you,” Naoya sniffs. “Next time you need a favor, ask someone else. I don’t do charity.”
Hanging up the phone, Naoya takes a deep breath to restore his beloved state of calm, then returns to his pasta.
Ugh. Satoru is so annoying. Just because he’s a Gojo, he thinks he can practically tell Naoya what to do.
Inner peace, he reminds himself, and unpauses Love Island.
———
Evenings are Naoya’s most sacred time. He does the same thing every night: first he drinks a cup of steaming hot decaffeinated tea, then completes his ten-step skincare routine, finishing with a snail-mucin mask pack. Usually he takes a few minutes to admire his reflection in the mirror—after all, he is a handsome son-of-a-bitch, if he does say so himself—then puts on his satin eye mask and turns on rain sounds before slipping between his silky, high thread-count sheets.
Naoya likes to think that’s why he sleeps like a baby.
Usually.
Tonight, though, is a different story.
Waking with a start in the middle of the night, Naoya can tell immediately that something is amiss in his bedroom, as though the air pressure has suddenly dropped. It’s cold, much colder than usual. Had he left his air conditioner running all night? That would be unusual, even for him, and besides, it’s freezing. Naoya wouldn’t be surprised if ice was forming on the windows—that’s how cold it is in the room.
Sniffing the air, he thinks he smells… pine? Why does it smell like trees? Slowly he sits up, pushing his eye mask up to his forehead and blinking to adjust his eyes in the darkness.
Then he screams.
There’s someone in his room—on his bed, sitting cross-legged at the foot of his blankets and staring down at Naoya as though he belongs there. Naoya considers the possibility that he’s dreaming, but then the (man? creature?) crosses his arms.
“Who,” he asks, scrambling back against the headboard, “are you?”
The figure is pale as death, clothed in purple robes with hair bound in two spiky knots on either side of his head. His eyes are set deep in his face, ringed with bruise-like darkness, and a black patch braces the bridge of his nose. The air around him seems to shimmer darkly, as though his presence disrupts the atmosphere itself.
As Naoya stares, the man stares back, lifting one dark, strangely handsome-eyebrow, and Naoya faintly catches another whiff of pine. What the hell?
“Who the fuck are you?” Naoya demands again, voice trembling. “Get out of my apartment before I call the cops on you!”
“I,” the creature says, “am Choso.” He has a deep, baritone, resonant voice that seems to reverberate in the very air of the room. “And you, Zen’in Naoya, are due for a great deal of punishment.”
Naoya screams again, but this time, the creature—Choso—reaches out and muffles his mouth with one large, cold palm. He tries to say something else, but Choso clamps harder around his jaw.
“Hush,” he says. “You will disturb your neighbors.”
Naoya wants to complain that Choso is disturbing him, but he’s still unable to speak.
“As I said,” Choso continues, “My name is Choso, and I am what is called a daitengu.”
Naoya stares at him over the palm still across his mouth. What the hell?
“I see you do not believe me.” Choso’s expression is completely calm, almost devoid of emotion. “I am a mountain spirit whose job is to deliver punishment to humans who display excessive pride, arrogance, or vanity. As you have demonstrated egregious displays of all three, the tengu realm has flagged your soul for immediate karmic rot.”
Naoya can only gape in disbelief against Choso’s deathly-cold hand. Bringing his own arms up, he shoves away the creature’s touch, finally freeing his mouth. “You’re crazy,” he exclaims, reaching for his phone.
“Yes, as I said, I know that you do not believe me yet.” Choso raises a hand, snapping his fingers, and before Naoya’s eyes, his phone leaps from his hand and into Choso’s. He examines the device for a second, then slips it into his own pocket. “But you will soon."
Choking on air, Naoya looks from his hand to Choso and back in disbelief. Did he really just...? But there’s no way…
“It may be harder to accept when I am in my more human form,” Choso continues, drawing himself up from the bed. As he stands, Naoya’s eyes get even wider; he hadn’t realized exactly how tall the creature—daitengu?—was when he was sitting. To Naoya’s further incredulity, an enormous pair of black-feathered wings begins to unfurl from Choso’s back, spanning half the width of Naoya’s entire bedroom.
Wings fully released, Choso crosses his arms once more. One black feather drifts through the air, falling directly into Naoya’s lap. When he absentmindedly grabs for it, the feather is as heavy as lead, and he drops it as if burned. “Does this convince you?”
Naoya blinks, then grips the sheets below him with both hands. “I have got to be dreaming,” he whispers.
Choso tilts his head, thinking. “I see that your sense of denial is rather overgrown.” Taking a step forward, he reaches over Naoya to the back of his silken pajamas, grabbing him by the back of the collar and lifting him straight off the bed. “Perhaps now you will accept reality?”
Flailing in the air, Naoya shrieks again. “What the—put me down, you fucking monster!”
A chill flashes through the room as Choso draws Naoya's face close to his, their foreheads nearly touching. “I am no monster,” he insists quietly, his voice echoing with an unearthly power. Then he drops Naoya back down on the edge of the bed. “But perhaps I should have expected this. I was told that your case would not be easy.”
Blinking in fear and confusion, Naoya rubs at his eyes, still not quite ready to believe what he’s seeing (or feeling). “Hold on,” he mumbles. “Let me get this straight. You’re here to, what was it, divinely punish my soul? Surely not. I’m not even that bad!”
Choso tilts his head thoughtfully, examining Naoya's face, as though wondering if he really means the words coming out of his mouth. “Let’s see,” he murmurs, drawing a a black, accordion-style book from his robes. He unfolds it slowly, and Naoya catches sight of writing spanning the pages, the characters glowing unearthly red. “Yesterday you swerved in the rain specifically to splash an elderly lady waiting by the curb. Two days ago, you dumped an entire stack of old coffee cups from your car on the side of the road near a park. Three days ago, you ate your coworker’s birthday cake out of the office fridge and blamed it on the cleaning staff. Last Saturday, you watched a pregnant woman get on the subway while sitting in the reserved seat for pregnant women and simply put your headphones on while ignoring her. And last week, you wrote ‘kill yourself’ on at least four different social media posts from an anonymous account. Zen’in Naoya, you are a parasitic presence on the mortal plane.”
“Are you serious?” Naoya moans. “A freaking ghost punishment for littering? I didn’t murder anyone, I pay my taxes… well, mostly... why don’t you go bother a real sinner?”
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because howling wind erupts inside of Naoya’s bedroom, sending most of the items on his bedside table crashing to the ground. His curtains flip in the intense gust, and Naoya ducks for cover, wrapping both of his hands over his head to cower in place.
“Let me say this again,” a deep voice intones next to his ear.
Naoya jumps, not having even heard Choso approach.
“I am a daitengu. I have watched kings and emperors wither from the exact same type of poisonous pride that you carry. I am no ghost. I am your last divine intervention before your soul is delivered straight to hell, so I suggest that you pay close attention.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Naoya decides that this is it. He’s about to die, and whatever this hallucination is, it’s clearly his final judgement.
To his surprise, though, the wind around them dies down, and a cold hand closes around his arm, dragging him to his feet. Before he can stammer out anything else, Choso tugs him over to the wall of the room, slapping a paper to the surface with one hand and smoothing it until it sticks there.
“W-what’s that?” Naoya ventures, utterly confused.
“Your schedule,” Choso deadpans. “You will wake up at six, scrub the bathroom floor that you have neglected to attend to since running off all of your cleaning staff, and then we will go the convenience store to apologize to the employee that you yelled at yesterday morning.”
Naoya gives Choso a look like he’s crazy. “This is insane,” he murmurs. “I’m going to a hotel.”
Choso’s grip on his arm tightens, his expression still perfectly neutral as he draws his wings back into his robe. “You will do no such thing. If you step outside of this room, I will make the elevator drop with you inside it.”
Reality finally catches up with Naoya. Looking down at the hand grasping his arm, he understands that this is actually happening. Shit. Fuck. He is so, so screwed.
Covering his face, Naoya does his best to feign tears of frustration. Maybe if Choso feels bad for him…
“Stop your blubbering and return to your bed,” Choso commands, peeling his hands from his face and shuffling him back toward his pillows. “We have a long day today, and you will need your rest.”
“But I—”
“Sleep now,” Choso insists, pressing Naoya into the mattress and touching his forehead with one cold hand.
Before he can register anything else, Naoya finds himself drifting off.
———
When Naoya wakes up again, still early in the morning, he’s convinced it was all one horrible nightmare. After all, there’s no such thing as mountain spirits.
That is, until he walks into the kitchen to see Choso sitting at his dining table reading a book, and screams again.
The mountain spirit appears unperturbed. "Do you begin all your days so noisily?" he asks, not even twitching.
The morning goes downhill from there.
The terms of this arrangement—if you could call it that—become apparent quickly. First Naoya tries to tear up the task list he’s given, only for it to reappear, whole and undamaged in his hands. Choso is unamused, to say the least.
Next, noticing that his phone was back on his bedside this morning, Naoya tries calling his father for help. Unfortunately, the minute he taps his father’s contact, his phone screen shatters. Naoya kind of wants to cry in frustration.
“This will be far easier if you do as you’re told,” the daitengu suggests, standing over his shoulder. “You know what you need to do. Cleaning your bathroom is the first task of the day, and until that is done, we will not be doing anything else.”
Now, Naoya isn’t a complete slob—he picks up after himself decently—but there are certain types of work that are beneath him, including scrubbing floors. There’s a reason he hires other people to do it for him, though for the life of him, he can’t figure out why his staff keep quitting.
“I won't do that,” Naoya sniffs, crossing his arms in protest even as Choso drags him to the doorway of the bathroom. “Do you know who my father is? I don’t do floors.”
“Oh, but you will,” Choso contradicts, snapping his fingers once again. “A home is the reflection of the soul, and yours is filthy.” Naoya finds his body moving without his permission, sinking to his knees on the tiles. Next to him, Choso silently gestures to a scrub-brush and bottle of cleaner which have materialized beside him. “I suggest you get to it. We have another appointment scheduled directly after breakfast.”
No matter how much Naoya struggles, he can’t move from his current position. Choso watches quietly as he strains and whines without a single change in his expression. “You’re only making this harder on yourself,” he says finally, turning to walk away from the room. “I’ll leave you to your work. When you finish, come find me.”
Irritated beyond belief, Naoya is left seething. His hands and knees are starting to hurt from being stuck against the tiles, but no matter what he does, he can’t move an inch from that position.
Finally, he gives up. It’s clear that he won’t be able to go anywhere till he cleans the floor, so it seems like he’s going to have to just scrub the damn bathroom and then figure out his escape route. Cursing under his breath, he reaches for the brush.
It’s hard work, and Naoya is anything but used to it. The tiles continue digging into his knees, and the act of scrubbing chafes his soft hands, rubbing them raw. He winces at the bleach smell from the cleaner, trying not to gag. As he cleans, he racks his brain, trying to think of the names of any of the five housekeepers who quit in the last month, and comes up blank. One of them ran out after Naoya berated her for leaving a streak on his shower door—sensitive bitch. Another he’d fired just because he didn’t like the way the guy looked at him, like he was sneering at Naoya. The others had similar reasons for going, but in this moment, Naoya regrets their departure at least a tiny bit.
Twenty minutes later, his nice pajamas soaked with sweat and cleaning fluids, Naoya stalks back into the kitchen. If he was afraid before, he’s pissed now. Who does this mountain freak think he is, anyway? When he gets to the kitchen, though, he stops short, unable to believe his eyes.
“So you have finally accepted your fate.” Choso turns from the stove, where he is in the middle of frying sausage and rolled eggs. To Naoya’s utter shock, there is a pink apron tied over the daitengu’s purple robes—something Naoya vaguely remembers seeing one of his housekeepers use once. “Wash your hands before sitting at the table.” Registering Naoya’s surprise, he gestures to the food in the pan. “I am aware that you cannot cook. Not every wrong can be righted in one day, so for now, I will take care of that. We can amend your ignorance at a later time.”
Naoya is too shocked to even protest as he washes his hands and sinks into one of the dining room chairs, staring at the bowl of rice which Choso sets in front of him.
The mountain spirit sits next to him, setting down his own plate. “Go ahead,” he urges, pointing to Naoya’s chopsticks. “We have a busy day ahead. You will need the energy.”
Unable to think of anything rude to say in response—a rare occurrence for Naoya—he reaches for a piece of egg and puts it into his mouth. “Can I ask,” he says around the mouthful of food, “What the hell this arrangement is supposed to be?”
“Swallow before speaking,” Choso chides, actually reaching over to shut Naoya’s mouth by pushing his jaw up. He ignores Naoya’s shock, setting down his own chopsticks. “As I said before, you are due for punishment and penance. It is a simple process. I will set you tasks, and monitor your behavior. If you act out, you will be punished accordingly.”
“Punished?” Naoya repeats blankly after swallowing.
Choso nods, slow and measured. “Punished,” he confirms.
Pouting, Naoya takes another bite of food. It’s good, but he’s feeling petty. “I don’t really like sausage,” he complains, pushing the bowl away. Choso goes quiet.
Then the daitengu scoots up next to him, taking away the bowl and chopsticks. He loads up another sausage on some rice and scoops it up, holding it in front of Naoya’s mouth.
Indignantly, Naoya tries to push Choso away, but the guy might as well have been made of iron; he’s immovable. “I don’t need you to feed me,” he protests, but Choso doesn’t even flinch.
“If you act like a child, I will treat you like one.” He taps the food against Naoya’s sealed lips. “Open up, or I will make you do so.”
Naoya shakes his head, petulant, then finds his jaw pried open by Choso’s cool touch before rice and sausage are shoved inside. He chokes on the bite, coughing, but Choso holds his mouth closed.
“Chew and swallow,” he insists, ignoring the tears that form in Naoya’s eyes involuntarily.
Still coughing, Naoya can only comply, gasping for air even when Choso releases him.
“There. That wouldn’t be so bad if you had just listened, would it? Let that be a lesson to you.”
“You’re—you’re an asshole,” Naoya gasps out, still hacking up grains of rice.
“Only because you are disobedient.” Choso turns to his own food, paying Naoya no more attention.
Finally clearing his throat of inhaled food and wiping at his eyes, Naoya groans in exasperation. “So are you going to stick with me literally all the time now? What about my job? You can’t come with me there.”
Choso gives him a blank stare. “I will come with you everywhere.”
“But my employees—”
“—cannot see me,” Choso finishes for him. “No one can, except for you. I will be with you at all times to keep you in line until you pass the test.”
“Test?” Naoya’s ears perk up. “You mean, there’s an end to this?”
“Of course there is,” Choso agrees. “After a month, I will leave you. If you have done enough penance for your sins, you will live a full life.”
Closing his eyes, Naoya breaths a deep sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck. I was starting to get worried that I’d be stuck with you forever—wait.” His eyes shoot open. “And if I don’t do enough penance?”
Choso blinks at him. “Then you will go to hell, Zen’in Naoya.”