Archive of Our Own ^beta

Despite Gojo's unnerving state of perpetual flippancy, Yuuji had seen his temper flare up before. Not often, and not loudly. A roll of his eyes when the higher-ups called, a crack of his knuckles when things moved too slow for his taste. Yuuji had seen him frustrated, exasperated, dismissive, snide, even a little cruel when the mood hit. Those were familiar shades that came and went like weather.

Yuuji hadn’t seen anything like this before.

Gojo looked pissed.

Light bled openly from his spine, spilling into the air in endless ribbons. Still, Shoko pushed deeper, and every thread she pulled free was chased by that same viscous tar that twisted and jerked in the air like it wanted to crawl back into him. For a moment, Yuuji thought it might, but she sliced part of it away before it had the chance.

As the hours passed, the bucket had become a familiar friend in some awful and disgusting way. There was no warning, no ceremony. Just a stutter of breath, a twitch of his jaw, and then Gojo was reaching for it again. Each time it hit hard and fast, the kind of retch that demanded more even when there was nothing else left in him. When he was done, he'd spit once and set the bucket back aside like it had personally offended him. In a sense, it had.

But not as much as the line of blood that slid from his nose.

It stood out impossibly dark against his complexion, hanging on the tip of his chin for a beat before falling silently to the floor. Yuuji's gut sank, because for all the control, all of the effort, it was irrefutable evidence that something important inside of him was coming undone. It was everything he didn’t want to admit, inscribed in a scarlet line over his lips.

Across from him, Yuuta frowned deeply and reached out with his sleeve to wipe it away.

He didn’t make it far.

Gojo caught him firmly by the wrist in mid-air. Alarm flickered across Yuuta's face, but not pain. It wasn't a grip that was meant to hurt, only to protect the pride that Gojo wore like armor. Yuuta's hand hung suspended in the air for a moment before he pulled it back, his expression shifting from surprise, then a quiet, shrinking embarrassment. Gojo didn't look at him. Only winced, sharp and involuntary as Shoko’s cursed energy surged deeper.

Yuuta didn't try again.

“Little fucker,” Shoko muttered to herself, breaking the silence. "It won't come out..."

Yuuji turned his head, peering at her through the veil of light that hung suspended in the air.

“What does that mean?”

“It means it won't come out." 

And then he felt it.

Something not quite living, but not quite lifeless either. Something that was wrapping around Gojo’s insides like a parasite, threading through muscle and soul like it belonged there. Like it knew it was being forced out and wouldn’t go without a fight. Yuuji didn't know how he knew, but he did.

And his hand tightened on Gojo's shoulder instinctively.

“Almost got it,” she hissed, sounding increasingly strained. “Shit, come on...”

Gojo's breath caught.

The pressure built.

Yuuji's ears popped.

"Got you!"

And then the door slammed open with the force of a gunshot.

Shoko’s hands jerked back reflexively, sending both light and darkness snapping back into Gojo's spine like a rubber band. His eyes rolled back into his head for the briefest second, then he gasped like he’d been yanked from underwater. On his other side, Yuuta was on his feet in an instant, katana drawn, shoulders squared and locked on the door...

...where Ijichi stood in the frame, eyes wide on them all, hunched from the cold.

“Shit,” Yuuta muttered, breathless as he re-sheathed the blade. “Sorry.”

Ijichi merely blinked at him, startled.

But then his gaze fell down to the trio on the floor and Yuuji saw the moment that recognition landed on his face, sharp and staggering. The disbelief, the quiet horror. Like his mind couldn’t bridge the gap between the Gojo he remembered and the one that was in front of him now.

And yet, some things didn’t change.

Because when Gojo finally lifted his head, panting and with blood smeared across his lip, his expression was flat. Endlessly annoyed. The same look he always wore when Ijichi walked in at the worst possible moment.

“What the hell could you possibly want?”

Ijichi swallowed noisily.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” he said finally. “But the curses outside are gaining numbers. Curse users, too. Whatever this procedure is, I think... I think it's drawing them here.”

Yuuji’s hands curled into fists.

Of course they were coming. They’d caught the scent of blood in the water and were closing in, convinced this was their one chance to take down the strongest. It made Yuuji’s stomach turn. The way they circled, shameless and eager, opportunistic. And so without hesitation, Yuuji stood. His legs ached from kneeling so long, but he hardly noticed. Because at least this was something he could do. He could fight.

He could make them pay for thinking it would be easy.

“I’ll go thin them out," he decided. "I can sweep the edge of the barrier and—”

“Sit your ass down," Shoko hissed. "I need you here right now."

Yuuji blinked.

She turned her gaze to Ijichi. “Is the barrier holding?”

"I just reinforced it."

“Reinforce it again,” she instructed. “Come back only if they start getting through, understand?”

Ijichi nodded again and and slipped out with a hasty bow, sealing out the wind and the world beyond the door as it shut behind him.

But before Shoko could begin again, Yuuji caught it.

Gojo had that look again.

All of the heat had gone out of his expression, leaving behind something much colder. More hollow. His eyes were glassy and disturbingly focused, staring at the wall now like it was speaking to him in a language only he could understand. Or rather, like he was trying to avoid looking at something only he could see.

Yuuji’s stomach dropped.

“What is it?” he asked carefully. “More skeletons?”

No reply.

Shoko’s head snapped up.

“Gojo.” Her tone cut through the air like a wire. “Who is it? Tell me now.”

Another pause.

“Take a wild guess.”

"I really wish that asshole would just stay dead,” muttered Shoko, planting her palms back over his spine and sending a burst of energy into him. "Gojo, I swear, if you let him into your head again—"

"I won't," he forced out in a way that sounded final. Absolute. Then he exhaled something that could've been a laugh but didn't quite make it there. "Cheap shot, though. Low-hanging fruit..."

Shoko couldn't be bothered to reply, but as time passed, it became more obvious that something important had shifted.

Gojo had started the procedure like a fortress. Back straight, shoulders tight, every muscle locked in place. But now, it was as if all of the willpower that had carried him here was bleeding slowly out of him. His posture had wilted. His head hung just a few inches too low, hair falling over his eyes. He hardly braced anymore when Shoko pushed deeper. His body just took it.

He looked exhausted.

But he was still in there, still pushing back against whatever the infection had stirred up. Yuuji could see it in the occasional sharp pull of breath, the way his eyes stayed half-focused like he was forcing himself to stay in the room with them. But whatever was happening in his body, in his soul, it was tugging at something deeper than before. Memories, regrets, whatever it could find to dig into.

And it was working.

“Gojo,” Shoko warned after he'd been too still for too long. “Stay with me.”

A beat.

"I'm here."

But Yuuta wasn't convinced.

"No, you're drifting," he said, hand curling in the fabric of his sensei's shirt. “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. It’s not him.”

"I know."

"He's talking to you though, isn't he?" he pressed on. "You can't believe anything he says. He's not—"

“I fucking know, Yuuta."

The boy winced.

“I don’t need you to remind me that I've fallen for this trap once already," Gojo continued coldly, his voice catching around whatever thread Shoko was pulling loose. "I don’t need to be babysat, okay? I just need you all to shut up and cut this damn thing out of me.”

The words hit like a slap.

Yuuta merely knelt there, stunned into stillness, a pink flush creeping up his neck. Something in Yuuji's chest twisted cruelly as he watched it unfold. It was clear that Gojo wasn’t angry at Yuuta, not really. He wasn’t angry at Shoko, or Yuuji, or anyone in the room. He was angry at himself, his own weakness. At the rot that had invaded and violated every part of him, forced him to lay himself bare in front of them all.

But that still didn't make it right.

When the initial shock faded, Yuuta nodded once like he was taking it on the chin. Like he’d accepted that it wasn’t personal, that Gojo didn’t mean it. This was just him clinging to whatever control he had left, and in that moment, control had meant pushing Yuuta away.

The hurt was still there, but it slipped behind his eyes, shuttered and sealed off.

And when Gojo finally looked up, he saw it.

The tension in his face eased out quickly, the sharpness giving way to something smoother, almost startled. The anger was gone. In its place was a flicker of recognition, regret threading in behind it. His mouth parted, like he was about to speak. An apology, maybe, or his version of one.

But it didn't matter, because he never got the chance.

As Shoko reached forward to sever another cluster of rot from the air, the cursed energy in the room split open with a sound like shrieking metal, high and unnatural. Before anyone could move, a dozen tar-black tendrils snapped forward and buried themselves back into Gojo’s spine in perfect, horrifying unison. Like claws sinking into flesh.

Like it was reclaiming territory it had no intention of surrendering.

Gojo’s whole body arched against it, breath catching mid-throat, eyes going wide as it forced its way back into the hollowed-out channels Shoko had carved, like it had been waiting for the chance. It disappeared back inside him in an instant, and a ragged, broken gasp tore from his lungs.

For a second, it looked like he might pass out.

Shoko cursed, sharp and breathless, and slammed her palms against his back again. The boys caught him by the shoulders as he jolted forward, her cursed energy surging with a merciless burst meant to drive it back out. Nothing happened. She swore louder, light blooming so bright at her fingertips it was almost blinding.

And then, Yuuji was knocked on his ass.

Cursed energy surged outward from Gojo in a violent, overwhelming wave. Not controlled, not clean, just raw instinct. It threw Shoko back several feet and slammed both Yuuta and Yuuji flat against the floor, the air around them crackling like shattering glass.

At the center of them, Gojo was nearly doubled over, trembling slightly, breath dragging too fast through his nose. He looked close to vomiting again, eyes wide and stuck on a point on the floor like he was trying to process what had just happened to his body.

Whatever he'd done, he hadn’t meant to do it. That much was obvious.

Shoko pushed herself up, muttering under her breath as she brushed herself off. “Well,” she said dryly, “at least now we know we’re making progress.”

The words didn’t land the way they should have. Not for Yuuji. He could still see it, that split-second image of the infection reaching for Gojo’s spine like it knew exactly where to go. Like it remembered him.

Like it owned him.

Shoko made her way back over, settling to her knees behind Gojo again. “I can’t get through with that up,” she said. “You need to drop Infinity.”

Gojo didn’t move. His eyes were still too wide, too distant. After a moment, his brow furrowed faintly like he was trying to remember how. Like the command made sense, but his body wasn’t following.

Then, finally, a slow exhale left him, and Infinity thinned out like a dissolving fog.

“Sorry.”

Yuuji’s breath caught in his chest.

It wasn’t sarcastic, it wasn't dry. It wasn’t anything Gojo had ever said before, at least not to Yuuji. It was something raw, an admission that he’d lost control. That something had reached a place in him he couldn’t brace for.

Behind him, Shoko's expression softened just slightly. “Never thought I’d hear that word out of you,” she said. “Don’t ever say it again.”

Gojo didn’t respond, eyes too wide, blinking too little. She observed him carefully for a moment before reaching out with loose hand against the back of his neck. Not working, not pushing cursed energy, just contact.

“Try bringing it back up," she said after a moment.

He blinked once. Then nodded, slowly.

Yuuji felt him move, the tiniest shift under his palm. His brow creased with focus. It wasn't effortless like it used to be. There was work in it. Real, visible effort in something that used to happen as easily as breathing, something that had once been second nature.

And still, nothing came.

No hum of cursed energy.

Nothing but the silence pressing down on all of them.

Shoko’s hand brushed once through his hair, then withdrew. “That’s enough,” she said quietly. “Don’t force it, save your energy."

There was a long moment where he didn't listen to her, where the crease in his brow got even deeper, his hands curling once again into fists. Then, he exhaled slowly, and let his head tip forward a little more. Not from pain. Not from fatigue.

From disappointment.

But Yuuji wasn't about to give into it.

“Hey,” he said quickly, his grip on his sensei's shoulder tightening. “You still got it to work. Even if it was just for a second. That’s important, right? That has to mean something.”

Gojo turned to look at him. Then, the corner of his mouth tugged upward. Not quite from belief, but in reassurance that he was still in the fight.

In that silence, they heard it.

It was faint, so soft it could’ve been the wind whistling through the eaves. Then it got louder. A keening, high-pitched wail that sent the hairs on the back of Yuuji’s neck up straight. Twisted. Inhuman. Hungry.

Too many. Too close.

“Itadori,” Shoko ordered softly. “Go check on Ijichi.”

Yuuji didn't need to be told twice.