Chapter Text
The wet, marbled surface of the steak glistens in the fluorescent light of the grocery store. Six of them, stacked in the cooler, price tags stamped on plastic pulled taut across slabs of muscle. Yuji’s stomach growls.
Someone’s shoes squeak on the floor, one aisle over. It echoes slightly, mixed with the buzzing of the lights overhead, and the hum of the coolers in front of him. One of the lights flickers, endlessly flashing a message of disrepair.
This grocery store wasn’t the best, but it was the closest to campus. A little run-down, and their butcher is new, Yuji can see he hasn’t drained the blood from the steaks correctly. There’s a murkiness to the myoglobin, flecks of true blood standing out against the sterile white styrofoam. It’s probably why they still had six steaks left, this close to the end of the day.
Yuji realizes his jaw is clenching, involuntarily, a fluttering of muscles that connect down his throat and straight to the empty hole of his stomach. Muscles, like the ones on the shelf in front of him. Thick slabs of flesh, with slivers of silver skin across meat so red it almost seems purple. His mouth waters, and he swallows down the animalistic bodily response.
A second to hesitate, and then he sweeps all six steaks into the small pink shopping basket, moving before one of the other meandering shoppers could see him do it. The same way he’s done three times before. He heads to checkout without bothering to go through the other aisles, and then circles back when he remembers that Kugisaki had asked for instant noodles.
“More beef this week?” The cashier smiles at him, a slightly tired and weathered smile. She looks his age, he thinks.
“Family’s enjoying it recently.” He lies. He’s not used to lying to strangers. It comes out slightly stilted, the dishonesty filling in his mouth.
She smiles politely, nodding along because he knows she truly couldn’t care less. He could just tell her the truth. Admit it’s all for himself, and he’s going to tear into one of those steaks the second he gets home.
Maybe it would be cathartic to admit it. But he pays instead, and comments about the weather while she agrees. Counts his change subtly the same way his grandfather had taught him to, rather than discussing his shopping habits for the last month. He pretends he doesn’t feel strangely ashamed, looking at the stack of meat while the cashier packs it into a white grocery bag for him, with fingers tipped in chipped nail polish.
The bag clings to the slight condensation of the groceries when he leaves the store, wet plastic showing glimpses of red within. His stomach growls, fueled by the sterile, organic scent of raw meat that clung to the store. He swallows and feels his mouth soaked with saliva.
He tries not to look at the meat when he’s back to campus. It feels like an accusation, sitting on the shelf of the dorm fridge where he wrapped the bag around it twice and shoved it to the back. Half-hidden behind bottles of melon soda and leftover meatballs.
He wonders if Kugisaki and Fushiguro have started to notice his habits. It had been a while, after all. Still, it wasn’t like his appetite had grown all at once.
After the first finger, Yuji barely started to notice it. He would have dreams about it, rarely at first. Dreams of a lake of blood and a shrine of bone, and slaughtered animals piled as far as the eye could see, entrails spilled across the ground. Dreams where he carved those animals up, meticulously, found the best parts of the leg to sink his teeth into. To tilt his head back and feel the wet blood rushing down his face, christening him in his own violence. Dreams he woke from soaked in sweat, grasping at his ribs and half his face for reasons he couldn’t explain. Dreams that lingered, for a moment, in front of his eyes when he awoke. Sometimes for minutes, turning the carpet of his room into a wet sea of blood, the walls into bone. And then he would clear his eyes, blink and rub his face, and his room would return. And he would rise, and go about his day, and pretend he didn’t still feel the warmth of blood around his mouth.
After the second finger, that voice started to plague him as well, words sliding like a rasping tongue over his consciousness. Lying awake in his dorm room, plaguing him with whispers. When he didn’t consciously suppress it, Sukuna’s voice would echo late into the night, talking to himself, to Yuji, to nobody in particular. Reciting poetry, recipes, jujutsu techniques, the things he would do to Yuji once he was free. The way a human tasted, if you turned them around like this and cut them here like that. Yuji turned up the white noise machine he had borrowed from Kugisaki, and drowned Sukuna’s hungry voice out every night beneath the sound of fake ocean waves.
By the third, he finally noticed the inordinate amount of meat he was consuming. It could be written off as a side effect of training, his body’s need for increased protein intake with all the muscle he had been putting on. But even then, his specific cravings were strange. He wanted meat. Meat, and the campus cafeteria didn’t seem to scratch the surface of his cravings. His dreams worsened, brain crawling and screaming until it drove him into the supermarket, buying steaks with a curious sense of guilt. The campus cafeteria couldn’t come close. He wanted it raw.
Kugisaki had caught him last week, in the small dorm kitchen, dropping slices of steak in the pan just long enough to sear the outside layer, to pretend they were cooked rare before he tore into them. She made some remark about disgusting boys and Yuji enjoying his steak blue, practically still grazing out on pasture. Yuji had laughed, guiltily, and made up the excuse of not knowing how else to cook it. She had accepted the excuse, despite the fact he was the best cook between them, and he accepted her offer to teach him to do it properly, some day.
He felt like some kind of criminal. Buying the cold, red steaks from the grocery store after missions. Watching their glossy shine through the plastic, the way they lay with wet marbled flesh against the styrofoam. He stocked them up in the fridge and, when he couldn’t avoid it, when he feared he would run out before the next mission, in the freezer as well.
The fridge beeps a reminder about the door being open too long, and he pushes the thoughts from his mind. It didn’t matter why he was craving meat. It was a bit of a quirk, and one that fills him with a weird shame, but nothing else. He spares another glance at the pink flesh through wet white plastic before swinging the yellowed fridge door shut. He tries his best not to think about it, in the hours until dinner. Does his best to eat his fried rice in the cafeteria later, and sip on orange soda, and not think about the juicy marbling and the way it would roll across his tongue.
“Yo, Itadori.” Kugisaki chews her bite of rice around her words, and Yuji flicks his eyes up to her. The dining room is quieter than usual, but he can hear the second years behind him, playing some game that involves a lot of swearing and telling eachother to not fucking do that, they’re so close to the objective. Kugisaki doesn’t glance over to the other table, eyes remaining on Yuji. “Did you get more steak?”
He feels like he’s been caught cheating on an important test. He swallows before responding, voice as casual as he can make it. There’s nothing to be guilty about, he tells himself. “Yeah, why?”
“Dude, you’re obsessed,” she chuckles as she goes back for another bite of rice, and Fushiguro makes a face at him.
“You know the campus dining has meat options too, right?” Fushiguro asks, chopsticks busy selecting another bite of vegetable. “You don’t need to cook your own steak.”
“I know,” he says, shrugging, motions as casual as he can make them. “I’ve been feeling homesick for Sendai beef recently.”
It’s a lie, but Kugisaki at least perks up at that. Yuji knows she doesn’t like small towns, but she and Gojo-sensei could discuss food specialties for hours.
“What, like the char-grilled beef tongue? You guys have wagyu too, right?” she asks, leaning forward slightly over the table. Her country town accent comes out when she’s not thinking about it, and Yuji has a cruel moment where he considers laughing about it before he nods.
“Yeah, A5 stuff, I think,” he shrugs, and is glad for the conversation to distract from the pile of vegetables on his plate, the colorful blobs that may as well be made of play-dough. He thinks they must have changed the way they prepared them recently, they seem to land on his tongue like tasteless paste. He could have sworn the food was better when he first arrived at campus.
“Ooh, A5,” Kugisaki closes her eyes dramatically, and Yuji laughs. Pushes away the guilt of pulling the fake ‘homesickness’ card, and thinks instead of the scent of char-grilled beef like they served in the BBQ joints back home, the marbling on the beef flesh as it popped and sizzled on an open grill.
“We should ask Gojo to go there, some time,” Kugisaki comments, opening her eyes like she’s snapping out of a dream. Fushiguro screws his face up as if he’s remembering the last time he was in Sendai, and Yuji takes the break gratefully.
“Yeah, that’d be cool,” he agrees, setting his own chopsticks down as subtly as he can, leaving the vegetables in his bowl. “We should ask him.”
He thinks about a trip to Sendai later that night, lying awake and clutching a pillow to his stomach to suppress the growling. He doesn’t know why he was so hungry recently, but it seemed to be becoming more nights than not that he lay awake, a pillow pressed against his torso to dampen the need. Trying not to think about the steaks in the fridge, trying not to let Sukuna speak. Trying to think of other things he enjoyed, like mochi, and ice popsicles in summer. Sugary, nothing things, made to be eaten in small bites while he walked home from school. If he thought about other things enough, he told himself, perhaps the hunger would go away.
It didn’t.
The weeks dragged on to summertime. The sun rose a little earlier each day, reached his room earlier and earlier, and began to find him already awake, in the twilight half-sleep of hunger.
Yuji stares at his ceiling, and counts the days mentally. It had been three weeks since he bought the six steaks. They had lasted him a week and a half, when he got them. Then he went back to the store to buy more, another six. Those had only lasted a week. They had satiated him, though, even when the ones he had to put in the freezer lost some of their texture, ice dampening the perfect pop of flesh beneath his canines when he cooked them.
Yuji’s fingers search across his pillow, counting the days on each finger. He had a day off today. He was going to see a movie, and then he’d swing by the grocery store again. If he got another six steaks, maybe he could last until the next day off. Maybe he should get seven, instead.
Thinking about steak has the hole in his stomach growling too badly to consider sleep as an option, so he drags himself out of bed instead.
The morning breeze eases through his window, curling around his feet and finding him standing over the duffel bag he packed in Sendai. He’s barely touched the bag since he got to campus. He had his uniform, anyway, and a sweater stolen from Fushiguro that he threw on over the top when he had a day off. His hand slips past the zipper to run across the soft fabric, and the scent of his grandfather’s detergent rises up to meet him. He grabs the first pair of jeans and hoodie he touches, and wraps himself in the scent of Sendai.
It makes him feel comforted enough to try sips of the coffee from the cafeteria, and almost comforted enough to pretend it doesn’t taste vile. He had another dream last night, something that lingers behind his eyelids. A nightmare involving disemboweling an animal and diving into its wet entrails while they writhed on the ground, painting blood splatters onto the concrete of his former primary school. He stares blankly into space as he sits on the front steps of the school, mug clasped in hand.
“Yuji!” Gojo-sensei’s voice echoes cheerfully, jogging up the steps towards him. He doesn’t need to catch his breath, but Yuji appreciates that he pretends for a moment to be winded from the run, adjusting his blindfold with a slight exhale. “Hey, good thing I caught you.”
“Gojo-sensei,” he offers, shaking off the visions of blood seeping into artificial grey rock. He sets the untouched coffee aside. “What’s up?”
“Before you head off for Tokyo,” Gojo pauses, glancing down at the mug for a moment. “Is that sweetened?” Yuji shakes his head, and Gojo sighs, waving a hand. “Nevermind. Before you head off for Tokyo, I wanted to talk to you about the fingers.”
The fingers. Yuji feels the slight chill that rises through his stomach, impacting the empty hole of his hunger.
“The fingers?” he asks, keeping the same casual tone he had when Nobara mentioned the steak at dinner last month. He tugs at a hoodie string, making the strings sit in the uneven way that always bothered Fushiguro.
“Yeah, yeah,” Gojo says, nodding along. “How’s tomorrow for you? They’re pulling the fourth one out of storage tonight, so…”
The higher-ups wanted him to eat another finger tomorrow. The thought made his stomach churn, throat thick.
He opens his mouth to reply, and pauses.
“They’re pretty antsy to get moving, since we’ve got a few of the things to get through. And since you’re doing so well.” Gojo’s gesturing with his hands, tilting his head down to look at Yuji as he speaks. Looking at him with that expression that makes Yuji feel like he’s truly being seen, even through the blindfold.
Gojo is smiling down at him, speaking in that reassuring voice that says it’s all going to be completely okay. The voice that made it impossible to want to say anything to him other than yes, of course.
“Sure,” Yuji replies, because it’s the only response that Gojo’s smile could allow. “I haven’t really noticed any signs of Sukuna, it should be fine.”
It’s not totally a lie. But what else would he say, that he felt hungry? That his side effect of hosting the calamity of Ryomen Sukuna was some cravings for beef, and waking up each morning with his stomach growling?
Gojo-sensei grins, an expression of genuine relief that makes Yuji feel like he said the right thing. His teacher flashes him two thumbs up, then claps his hands together. “Awesome!” He says, drawing out the first word into three long, happy syllables.
Yuji smiles, despite himself, and pushes the worries from his mind. It was like he told himself a month ago, and repeated a million times since then. Some cravings weren’t worth bothering anybody with.
“Alright, tomorrow morning then.” Gojo smiles, leaning down to help Yuji to his feet. His hand is warm, and large enough to swallow Yuji’s when he tugs him up. “We’ll shoot for like… 10am, yeah? Make the Kyoto folks leave early to get here.” He’s chuckling under his breath at his own jab to the sister school, not waiting for a response before he’s patting Yuji’s shoulder. “Here, go catch your bus. If you miss it, I can make Ijichi drive you.”
Yuji chuckles, eyes rolling slightly despite himself. He doesn’t really know why Gojo dislikes Kyoto anyway, but the pettiness seemed funny. “I don’t need Kiyotaka-san to drive me, Gojo-sensei.”
“Let me know if you change your mind!” Gojo promises, slapping him on the back in the way an irresponsible older cousin does, not quite aware of his own strength. “Have fun!”
Yuji’s smile lingers for a few seconds, as he heads down the steps. When he glances back, Gojo is raising a hand in a wave, one hand holding Yuji’s abandoned coffee mug. He tries not to listen to Sukuna whispering about how lanky humans tasted the worst, stringy meat and no marbling within the flesh. How Gojo was like the meat of a rabbit, and would make a fine stew, some day, if he was paired with the right wine.
He turns, pushes Sukuna’s words to the back of his mind, and speeds up to catch the bus. He ignores the fact he can still smell the entrails from his dream, the hot iron and sour scent of bile.
Hours later, Yuji decides he wishes he had missed the bus, after all. Leaning a shoulder against the bathroom wall of the movie theater, trying to collect himself, all he can think about is the fact he wishes he’d never left campus at all.
He turns on the tap, and splashes cold water across his face until he feels his lungs beginning to cooperate. It had been nothing. A bad movie with a lot of blood, and gore, and cheesy effects. It didn’t help that Sukuna had interjected at times, all unhelpful remarks about the realism of a beheading scene or anatomical mistakes in the chest-bursting scene. Yuji didn’t know how he’d even sat through the movie with the curse’s nonstop remarks in his head.
Even without Sukuna’s voice, interjecting and ruining scenes, he still didn’t know why he stayed. The movie’s plot fell apart before the first half hour, and their good special effects were front-loaded. It limped through its runtime, held together exclusively by gore and shock factor. Most other movie-goers in the theater had accepted the wasted money and left early. He didn’t know why he remained seated. Did more than remain seated. Why his hands had gripped the armrest, eyes glued to the screen as another actress got disemboweled, another actor screamed dramatically and frothed fake blood from his mouth as the monster sank its claws deep into his back.
He didn’t know why he couldn’t get the images of gore out of his head, even in the too-bright bathroom. Why his stomach was growling, ravenous, howling worse than it ever had before. Why he was tasting bile, like his own stomach acid was devouring him from the inside.
The water of the tap begins to heat up, and he washes his hands with hot water until they turn pink. Until he feels vaguely guilty about wasting water and cuts the tap off, hands clutching against the cool edge of the sink instead. The extreme temperature helped, slightly, a distraction from the gnawing within him. He lets his eyes drift to the corner of the room, unseeing for a moment.
“Hungry, brat?”
The voice on his cheek was external and internal at the same time- the same way Sukuna’s voice always presented itself: Like an echo inside his cranium as well as physical words entering his ears.
“Shut up,” Yuji mumbles, absentmindedly, more impulse to Sukuna’s presence than anything else. He was so hungry. He had skipped out on the movie theater popcorn, he didn’t know when it had started tasting so bad on his tongue. Had bought a large soda, instead, but the sugary bubbles had failed to fill the maw in his stomach.
He has to find somewhere nearby to grab a cheap bite, he tells himself. Something with meat, lots of it. It was late, so most places probably wouldn’t be open. But maybe a corner store. Maybe he could buy something there, something quick and full of red meat…
“You want to eat?” Sukuna’s voice holds a tone of danger, it always does, but tonight it seems to have amusement underlying it.
“Shut up.” He murmurs again, barely processing the curse’s words. A corner store might have some precooked bento, or onigiri. Maybe a beef one. Chicken would do, too. He could always eat around most of the rice.
“Those moving pictures were pretty violent, weren’t they brat?”
“Stop doing that.” He knew it was a lost cause before he even said so, but he still raised a hand to cover his cheek anyway, muffling the curse’s voice.
“Do you realize how much you broadcast your thoughts? They echo through the empty expanse of your head.” Sukuna sounds almost casual, conversational. Yuji gets a familiar phantom tingling across his back, as if Sukuna had shrugged their- his- shoulders.
“I don’t know how to hide my thoughts, that’s ridiculous. They’re in my head.” He’s doing what he always told himself he’d stop doing, getting dragged into arguments with Sukuna. His stomach growls again, returning him to the same desperate mental tally of nearby corner stores, or maybe a ramen place that would do extra meat on top.
“Are you mentally impaired?” Sukuna asks, and his neck tingles with the sensation of tilting it to the side. “If you’re that hungry, then eat.”
“I said stop doing that,” Yuji spins around on instinct, frustrated with the kind of irrationality that only hunger brings. Forgetting for a moment that his opponent wasn’t physically beside him, even if Sukuna’s voice seemed to echo from the right side of his face. Sukuna’s resulting laugh makes his frustration sharpen.
The growl in Yuji’s stomach is almost louder than the curse laughing against the side of his face, the sudden hunger pain enough to make Yuji grab his stomach on instinct.
“Settle down, boy.” Sukuna’s voice is a rumbling growl, but the kind of growl Yuji’s learned to differentiate as casual, not bloodlusted. Voice light with mirth that he only seemed to gain when Yuji was frustrated, or in pain. “It’s just instinct, you know.”
“What is?” Yuji demands, ignoring his common sense telling him that Sukuna wouldn’t have anything worthwhile to say. He looks into the mirror of the bathroom, and almost jumps at the glimpse of dark stain on his own face, a smudge of ink or soot across the bridge of his nose. When he scrubs a hand across it, it’s gone again. It must have been a trick of the light.
“Seeing an animal die and getting hungry. It’s perfectly natural.” Sukuna’s voice is still amused, erupting into another fit of laughter when Yuji slaps his own cheek, clamping a hand down over the cursed mouth on his face.
“Shut up,” he demands, fingernails digging into the flesh at his cheekbone, voice hissed as if anyone else could hear the curse. He’s alone in the bathroom. But even if he wasn’t, he knows it wouldn’t matter. Sukuna could scream bloody murder on a street during rush hour and gain no reaction. Not even other sorcerers seemed to hear when Sukuna spoke in his mind.
All the same, Yuji clamps the hand tighter over his cheek, face flashing with irritation when the mouth only reappears on the back of his hand. He yanks the hand away from his face instead, holding it at arms length as if he was talking face to face with the curse, keeping Sukuna at distance. “Knock it off,” he says, swallowing to clear the way his throat tightened. Composing himself, mentally pushing Sukuna back to his hand. “Those were just actors. And they didn’t die, that was just... Stupid special effects. That’s not why I’m hungry.”
It occurs to him, suddenly, that Sukuna might not know what CGI is. It’s the kind of dumb thought that seems to spring into his head at the worst possible time, and his eyebrows furrow again.
“Whatever you say, brat.” Sukuna’s voice raises again, the mouth on Yuji’s hand twisting into a smile as it speaks. “But you broadcast your thoughts loudly and clearly through your idle mind.”
“Shut up.” It sounds more tired this time, the demand worn down after multiple attempts to silence the curse.
He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t even want to bring it to the surface of his mind, where Sukuna might spot it and latch on. He thinks about it in the same way he avoids looking directly at the sun, examining the idea through cracks in his fingers.
Misplaced hunger. There was no way that a movie like that would prompt that reaction normally. It was just a misguided effect of being in a theater and being hungry, feeling the ache of appetite in his stomach, the same way it had dogged him for weeks.
“It goes both ways, brat.” Sukuna’s mouth on his hand grins again, flashing canines and sharp incisors, and Yuji presses his palm to the mirror, just to feel like there’s something solid beneath his hand. Keeping Sukuna away from him, at arm’s length. The beginning of ‘what’ formed on his lips, and was quickly silenced.
“Don’t be so daft,” Sukuna snaps, and Yuji was tempted to comment that he hadn’t been daft- he hadn’t actually gotten the chance to speak, but Sukuna was talking again. “I’m inside your mind, brat. I know your thoughts, I know your desires. Your weak mind can’t keep us separate- my needs are in everything you feel.”
Yuji knows he’s just saying it to try to get under his skin. He still shudders at the idea. Then, to his horror, feels a rush of cursed energy down his spine. It’s like someone has run an ice cube down his spine, or maybe some kind of a balm like he used to use at sports practice. Sukuna’s cursed energy, or whatever amount of it the curse can access while locked away.
“Focus, brat.” Sukuna’s mouth is on his bicep, just for a moment, just enough to reach over and nip at the skin of his chest, needle-sharp teeth leaving holes in the fabric. Yuji swears before he means to, spinning half around on instinct, as if Sukuna was a physical entity beside him again. His hand clutches at the ruined hoodie, swearing under his breath. Then Sukuna’s mouth reappears at his other hand, and Yuji jerks it back, too, in a vain attempt to keep some distance. “Your needs are reflecting my needs. I’m trying to help us both here, boy.”
Whatever Sukuna’s playing at, Yuji isn’t going to bite. He’s been hungry, and craving raw meat. It’s an irritating side effect of housing the curse, but it’s not unbearable. He just needs to eat more. Whatever Sukuna is about to say, there’s no way it’s worth it. Still, he can feel a phantom trace running down his spine again, like Sukuna’s feeding him an IV drip of cursed energy.
“Don’t get lost in thought,” Sukuna’s voice snarls slightly, and Yuji finds himself opening his mouth to apologize on instinct, barely catching himself. “Listen when I speak.” It might just be Sukuna, but his brain flashes back again to raw meat. To himself, eating rarer and rarer steak, trying to fill the growing hole in his stomach where his appetite lay.
“I.. I just need to eat something.” The words are hesitant, directed at the mouth on his hand. He doesn’t know the exact moment when he forgot to keep telling Sukuna to shut up.
“That’s it,” Sukuna agrees, voice like an oil slick around Yuji’s brain. His voice holds the same note that Gojo-sensei does, just for a moment. The same easy confirmation that says everything will be just fine. “We will feed, and be satiated.”
His head almost nods, for a moment, surrendering to the hunger inside him. He did need to eat, and soon. At least him and the curse were in agreement about that.
“Don’t feel bad, brat. It’s perfectly natural.” Sukuna’s soothing him, which should mean that whatever he’s about to do is beyond awful. “Let me take control, I’ll do the hard part.”
“The hard part?” Yuji finally manages to get out.
“I’ll take down the animal. You can eat it. It’s very simple, boy.” Warmth floods his mouth, like he’s bitten his tongue, but his jaws haven’t moved. It must be Sukuna, Sukuna’s presence filling his gut, sliding down his throat, giving the sensation of eating a four course meal. Giving the sensation, at last, of satiation. The desperate itch that he had been trying to scratch for weeks, had devoured meat and tore through steaks to merely dampen.
“Yeah,” Yuji gets out, the word almost a soft groan. He’s so hungry. It’s been growing, worse than before, ever since Sukuna acknowledged it was there. He feels like hunger is going to eat him whole. His stomach is a churning cauldron of acid, he needs something to fill it. Nothing will be enough. Nothing other than-
“Just one of the pathetic animals in this place.”
“No!” The word is like an ice shock through his chest. Yuji jerks upright, and realizes he doesn’t know when he ever dropped his head down. His arms are clenched around his stomach, white-knuckle gripping his shirt, digging his hands into the expanse of his stomach, trying to quell the sensation of the empty hole in his gut.
“Just-”
“No!” He shouts it this time, staggering away from the wall. He feels like he’s going to be sick. There’s a sound of surprise from the door outside the bathroom, a couple who jolt back from the sound and speed up their steps as they pass the bathroom, shooting sideways glances. For a moment, the shape of their cursed energy wavers before his eyes, through the wood of the door and tile of the bathroom, appearing as two pieces of meat, two bags of muscle and fat with nothing but inconveniences in the way.
His stomach turns, and he tells himself it’s in disgust when he grabs his face.
The curse tries talking again, but he’s shoving it down. Forcing Sukuna’s presence lower. Forcing his head to clear.
It’s like swimming with weights on, fighting off Sukuna’s voice in his head. The surface of the water seems so far ahead, and Sukuna’s presence is like some horrific ocean creature grasping at his legs. If he stops for a moment, stops fighting his way to oxygen, Sukuna will drag him down to that frosty ocean floor. It’s an exhausting race, inch by agonizing inch, pushing the curse’s presence from his mind. He can hear Sukuna, growing more demanding, snapped orders for him to listen, boy. He visualizes shoving the curse into the abyss, prying Sukuna’s fingers free from the edges of his consciousness. At last, he surfaces.
Sukuna’s voice is silent, and he’s breathing heavily, leaning against the cold sink. He looks up at the mirror on instinct, and his forehead is wet with drops of sweat, like he’s run a marathon. There’s a sweaty, pale tone to his skin. The sensation of hunger remains.
Hands shaking, he staggers out of the theater. Forgoes the corner store, catches the next bus, and pretends the scent of every human doesn’t make his stomach growl like a home cooked meal. Sukuna tries to surface, and he keeps his white-knuckle effort to keep the curse down. He gets back to campus late, and eats microwave ramen alone in the kitchen until his stomach feels like it’s bursting at the seams. He showers, and falls into bed, and screams into his pillows when the hunger remains.
He has to tell Gojo-sensei about it, he tells himself, clutching his stomach in the darkness, feeling the cold terror of consuming another finger, of worsening this feeling for even one more day. He has to. The need within him, the need for meat, for flesh, for people. He has to tell Gojo-sensei, and they’ll have to stop feeding him the fingers.
He’s convinced, by the time he finally falls into fitful sleep, that he’ll tell him.
His grandfather’s cane bangs on his door, and Yuji groans when he rolls over, feet hitting the end of the bed that’s far too small, but he hasn’t yet cared enough to replace. He rubs his face, and looks blearily up at the first hint of light beginning to shine through the window. It’s too early for anything. His grandfather’s voice calls a gruff “Come on, Yuji!” that gets him upright, and he groans again.
“Coming,” he shouts through the door. He’s wearing his jujutsu tech uniform, and when Yuji drags his feet out of the room, his grandfather huffs disapprovingly at the sight of it.
“Who chose that for you?” he asks, old fingers tugging at the baggy hood.
“My coach.” Yuji waves him off, fighting a yawn.
“What a moron. Come on, we’ll miss the crayfish.” His grandfather turns for the door, and Yuji sees that he’s holding two fishing rods, a basket of bait dangling from the handle of the cane.
Yuji rushes to take it for him, freeing his grandfather’s hands with a hurried “Careful, grandpa,” and receives a light smack of the cane against his leg in response.
“You think I don’t know how to handle a bait basket?” his grandfather asks, trodding down the ancient carpet of the hallway while Yuji locks the apartment door behind them, bamboo fishing rods swaying in his hand. “I taught you everything you know about fishing, you little shit,” he huffs, and Yuji sees a glimpse of familiar tea-stained teeth when he chuckles.
His grandfather leans a little heavier on his cane when he presses the button to call the elevator, catching his breath like the walk has drained him.
Yuji rushes to catch up before the elevator arrives, bag of bait swinging against his leg. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, staying on his grandfather’s bad side, just in case he was needed. He leans over again to try and take the fishing rods, and his grandfather smacks his leg hard enough that he gives up. “Did you want to try the irrigation canal today?”
“You know I do.” It’s his grandfather’s favourite spot, and his favourite pastime. One of the things to still bring the excitement to his eyes, even after his fall last year left him bedridden for a month. One more summer, he’d triumphantly declare on the first day of crayfish season, surveying the still waters of an irrigation canal or flooded field. I’ve survived for one more summer, you little shits aren’t free of me yet.
He’d chuckle about his own survival while pushing pieces of fat squid onto hooks, telling old stories of his childhood as Yuji prepared the bucket. Sometimes he even talked about Yuji’s dad, on days where the crayfish came out of their hiding spots on cue, landing in his bucket satisfyingly enough to make him seem like a carefree teenager again, hiding within the shell of an older man.
“What bait are we using?” Yuji asks when they step inside the elevator, thumb sliding under the edge of the old container his grandfather used, dingy plastic with a handle that had been repaired twice. The doors close with a creak, elevator lowering with the familiar aching sound of an old building. “Fushiguro says that they like sardines the best.”
“I’m not listening to your little friend,” his grandfather scolds, raising one wrinkled finger like a war general. “I’m using the family recipe, Yuji. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
“Family recipe,” Yuji repeats with amusement, shoving his thumb under the edge of the container to pop it open. He pulls back the lid, curious, and his breath catches in horror. His stomach drops to his feet, struck with the dream logic of a realization that occurs before the sight reaches his eyes.
There’s flesh in the bucket, not the translucent flesh of a squid or light white of fish. It’s pink, thick with fat, dripping in blood, accented with pale skin. He jerks his head up, gasping. When he spins his head to look at his grandfather, it’s Sukuna beside him in the elevator, holding his grandfather’s cane.
The curse chuckles when he points one wrinkled finger downwards, to where the flesh in the bucket is shifting, wet squishy lumps churning as if stirred from within. “Family recipe,” Sukuna repeats, taunting. The bucket spits up chunks of meat with pale skin, scraps of pink hair clinging to scalped flesh, tea-stained teeth mixed with blood. “Get it?”
Yuji wakes up gasping into the empty darkness of his room, hands grasping in the sheets and a scream on the brink of manifesting.
He kicks himself to the top of the bed, pressing himself back against his headboard. Little gasps escape, trembling breaths of a fading nightmare, his fingers clutching the pillow beneath him until he convinces himself that the darkness of his room is just darkness, that the shape of his jacket hanging by the door isn’t Sukuna.
For an agonizing moment, he craves someone else. He wants to crawl into Fushiguro’s bed, and tremble in his warm sheets and pet his dogs until he feels more human than curse again. For a second, he thinks of the ridiculous idea of padding to Gojo-sensei’s room, like a child. Whimpering into the darkness that he’s sick. There’s something inside him, and it’s going to tear him apart, and he needs help.
Sukuna laughs at that idea, echoing inside his head with howls of amusement, and Yuji leans back against his bedframe and clings to his pillows tighter instead.
The blue light of morning finds him in bed, still upright. Bloodshot eyes stuck on the other side of the room, unable to make himself close them for long enough to surrender to sleep.
He thinks of what he’ll tell Gojo-sensei. “Gojo-sensei, I need to talk to you. I don’t think I can eat the finger today. I had a bad dream.” I had a bad dream? He cringes. The words sound painfully childish, almost as bad as his ridiculous fantasy of wandering through the campus halls, like he’s a child searching for some adult to check his temperature and tell him he doesn’t have to go to school today.
“I need to talk to you about Sukuna,” he tries instead, testing out the words into the silence of his room.
Yeah? What about? Gojo’s voice seems to respond, and he must be too tired, because it feels almost real, inside and outside his skull, echoing in his brain and reaching his ears at once.
“I lied, I have noticed him.” Yuji hesitates for a moment, closing his eyes to blink the burning heat from them. “He’s been giving me nightmares. And… cravings. It’s…” he pauses, hugging his knees tighter to his chest. “He needs to eat people, and I don’t know how much longer I can stop it.”
Huh, Gojo’s voice says, and there’s a pause where he can imagine the Six Eyes ramping up, peering through his body like an xray, examining the traces of Sukuna that cling to his cursed energy. Well, that’s too bad.
“That’s too bad?” Yuji asks, and for a moment he feels a breaking sensation of relief. It’s a casual remark, the same way he thinks Gojo might discuss a broken Rolex or an assistant manager with the flu.
Yeah, too bad, Yuji. Gojo inhales through his teeth, clapping his hands as he awkwardly leans his head back. Jeez, after all that talk about your old grand-pop, too.
Yuji opens his mouth to reply, but Gojo is holding up a hand, the same easy confirmation that says not to worry about anything. Shoulders raising in a shrug, as he glances off through the wall, looking at something on the other side of campus. Well, look, he says, scratching the back of his neck. If you’re sure about this, then alright. I guess we’ll have to move up the execution date, but I can tell the higher ups about it for you.
His eyes open again, watering for a moment like it was a real conversation. The hope in his chest crumples, and he feels like the stupid brat Sukuna is always hissing about. It’s not that he forgot the looming threat of execution. But Gojo-sensei was his teacher, his coach. Gojo would…
What would the man do, if Yuji said he couldn’t handle more? If Yuji said that some nightmares and cravings were keeping him from improving the world with every finger he swallowed.
Maybe Gojo-sensei is a little too good at appearing like he had all the answers. Yuji feels like a stupid child, craving a shred of parental affection from a teacher. Looking for an excuse to get out of doing what needs to be done, hoping that if he begs then someone will intervene on his behalf.
He doesn’t try talking to the imaginary Gojo again. Doesn’t do anything other than stare across the room, eyes watering and stomach growling, burning with guilty need that makes his whole body ache.
When his alarm goes off on his phone, he silences it without looking at the screen. His finger catches on a familiar crack in the glass, and he winces for a moment.
He rises like the undead, and dresses himself in a uniform he’s mostly-sure is clean. Slips his cold phone into his pocket, and glances at the deep circles under his eyes on the way out the door. Maybe he’d say he was getting a cold, he thinks, not bothering to head down the hallway to the dining hall. He heads for the dorm kitchen, instead, and fishes out the last box of grilled lamb he bought earlier in the week.
He had been planning to serve the lamb onto one of the plain white plates and microwave it until it was hot. Eat it with one of the novelty forks Kugisaki bought, with little dog faces on them that sort of look like Fushiguro’s shikigami, if you squinted.
He pulls the container free, sunk to one knee in front of the fridge like he’s in prayer, and pauses. The lamb is grilled, flesh cooked and cooled, lying on a bed of rice and vegetables. It makes his stomach turn, and he shoves it back onto the shelf as if he’s been burned.
His hesitant hands move past it, instead, searching to find something raw. He knows he doesn’t have anything left uncooked in the fridge. He searches anyway, fingers brushing past tupperware, sticky notes with “MINE DON’T TOUCH” scrawled on them and custom glass containers with Fushiguro Megumi on the front. He ate the six steaks. That felt like a lifetime ago. But surely- there. He sees it, in one of Megumi’s nice glass containers. There’s slabs of meat, pork, he thinks. Circles with thick rings of fat. Megumi must be planning to make ramen, but they’re still uncooked.
He fumbles for the container like a dying man, sank to both his knees with the glow of the fridge light above him. Yanks it open, and barely thinks before he’s shoving the first of the pieces directly into his mouth.
The fat is cold and gelatinous, lacking the melt-in-your-mouth broiling and the dripping fat that falls apart into a bowl of hot ramen. Yuji doesn’t care. The idea of waiting, of cooking the food, right now, makes him nauseous. He chews messily, raw pork clinging to his teeth. His mouth floods with saliva, and soft meat breaks across his tongue. It tastes like heaven. He swallows, almost gasping for air, and the next piece is between his teeth before he can breathe, fingers smearing thick trails of fat across his lips when he pushes it in.
He eats ravenously, like a starving animal. He doesn’t care. Bent forward on his knees, crouched over the dish like he’s going to have it yanked away from him. When he struggles to swallow, for a second, too impatient to chew properly, a growl of frustration rises up in his throat.
The hunger in his stomach fades, slowly, with every bite. His brain feels quiet, and still, and the nightmare seems to leave him for a moment. Another piece, cold lard easing the slide of the next mouthful. He’s huffing, breathing like he’s run a marathon. Shoving another piece into his mouth, licking his fingers before he chews it, too, wishing only for the blood of the animal to join it. Burying his guilt, his cravings, the endless hunger, beneath the animalistic feeding.
He inhales a full gasp of air, at last, when the final bite slides down his throat. Fingers grasp, searching the glass bottom of the container for just one more piece, smearing cold grease in their wake.
It’s only been a few minutes, only a moment for him to finish. He’s fallen forward on his knees, doubled over the container like it’s giving him warmth in a blizzard. He licks his fingers, lapping every piece of the animal from beneath his fingernails. It quiets the growing pit of acid crawling up his throat.
As his own breathing begins to slow, he realizes he can see his reflection in the dark glass of the oven beside him.
It’s distorted, with wire racks and heating coils visible in the background of the dark surface. But he can see his reflection all the same, and Yuji recoils at the view of the thing he sees.
It’s bent forward under the light of the fridge, clutching the empty container with both desperate hands. The fridge beeps a warning note that the door has been open too long, a sound going unnoticed by the hungry thing below it. Beady eyes stare, wide and hungry, back at him. It’s an awful, crouched, hairless monkey. A gangly, starving thing which is going to rip him apart.
He jolts to his feet, hands shaking on the container, and almost throws it into the sink. Kicks the fridge door closed, breaths coming faster. He turns to the empty dish, and it seems to stare back at him with wordless accusation. He throws the hot water on before he can think about it, steaming water pouring across his hands until they turn red while he scrubs them. They’re out of hand soap, but dish soap works better anyway, scrubbing under his nails and between his fingers, going until his knuckles throb warningly with abused skin, steam rising up from the metal basin. He scrubs Fushiguro’s container afterwards, too, and tries to think of something to say to explain the absence. Tries to calm his racing heart, the pounding in his ears.
He avoids looking back at the oven, to the reflective surface and starving thing in it.
“Yo, Fushiguro, your pork was rancid. I tossed it for you.” He says later, over breakfast, voice rehearsed. He shrugs apologetically when Fushiguro’s eyebrows furrow, turning to Kugisaki to say he only bought that pork two days ago. Kugisaki rolls her eyes and says that’s so typical, in the same way she says everything else. So typical, grocery stores around here suck such ass.
Fushiguro makes a frustrated noise of agreement, and Yuji nods along. He offers to help buy more, and says he’s got a craving for pork anyway.
He wishes he felt guilty, but all he can feel is the aching satisfaction of finally having his stomach full.