When he wakes up, there are supplies on the coffee table beside him. A newly bought hairbrush. Hair ties. A tin of throat lozenges. A still-packaged toothbrush. His eyelids feel heavy, and his head thick, but his body is more energized than it has felt in a long time. There's also a full set of clothes, smelling faintly of chemicals, price tags still attached. Right...

Suguru's rumpled school uniform sticks uncomfortably to his skin with grime and sweat. He wrinkles his nose. Shower it is. And hygiene.

The water is scalding. He scrubs his skin red. He's not actually sure what he'll do today, he realizes, stepping out onto the cold stone-slab floor and drying down. There are no missions, no schoolwork, no curses. He slips into a loose white t-shirt and black bontan pants. The material is durable but not stiff. Good range of movement.

He'll have breakfast first, he decides, blow-drying his hair, combing it, and tying it up neatly at the back of his skull. Finally,

finally

, he looks himself again. Collected, composed. His

face

is back.

It's odd, this sudden influx of unexpected free time. He feels untethered, a little off-balance, and the realizations of yesterday still sit heavy in the pit of his stomach, but it's not entirely bad. After bringing his uniform to the wash, Suguru heads toward the kitchen.

When he arrives, though, a student is already there. She's piling ingredients onto a shiny clean counter, by the blender. Bright light from the kitchen's large windows coats everything thinly in morning-white.

Oh, he realizes, belatedly, he went to the common dorm kitchen out of habit. He would leave, but '

She's already turned around to look at him. A look of recognition tinged with something like alarm, and then her whole expression shutters down into something hard and sharp that Suguru can't read.

A beat.

"You're Geto Suguru," she says. Beneath her rectangular glasses, her gaze flicks halfway across the kitchen, where a red-handled spear rests against the wall.

He eyes her warily. "How'd you know?"

She snorts. "Gojo isn't keeping it a secret from his students," she says, "He told us that you two arrived yesterday, and to 'be nice'."

Nice

, is spit from her mouth like a mockery, like an ironic joke he's missing the context of.

Suguru hums. Then, with a light, idle tone that he does not feel: "And you are?"

She holds him with that hard, unreadable look for a couple of uncomfortable seconds, before clicking her tongue against her teeth and saying: "Maki."

He raises a brow. "No last name?"

"Just Maki."

It's impolite to press, he

knows

, but her face is still that hard mask, and he can't help but ' "Disowned?"

Maki's face tightens, lips thinning, brows pulling. Her jaw sets. Aha. A reaction. He files it away. "None of your business."

"Sorry," he apologizes, not entirely without sincerity. It's not good to press other people's obvious sore spots, he just 'he's tired of being on uneven grounds, of that

I know something you don't

lilt that's becoming too-common in this jaunt to the could-have-been future. "I overstepped."

Maki just clicks her tongue and turns around, going back to her... smoothie making. Suguru lingers at the door for a moment longer before making his way to one of the high chairs at the kitchen's bar and settling himself down. It feels...awkward to use the kitchen, right now. He should've just gone to the vending machines.

He nibbles on an apple from the fruit bowl and watches Maki dump frozen berries into the blender. The grating sound of blades against frozen fruit makes ears ache. It's better than the thick, stretching silence that blankets the room otherwise, though. Maki seems content with this heavy awkwardness. She doesn't even look at him, determinedly focused on her smoothie making.

It's almost dismissive.

In absence of anything else to do, he studies her; the slant of her eyes, the deep black of her hair that tints green in the morning light that sprawls lazily in through glass windows, the hard set of her jaw, the way every of her movements is imbued with an almost stiff sort of purposefulness. It reminds him of something, of Kyoto goodwill exchange events and stuffy meetings brimming with clan politics, Satoru saying

god they're the worst you have no idea

, and '

The vague familiarity clicks. A Zen'in. A Zen'in that won't call herself a Zen'in.

Suguru glances at the cursed weapon leaning against the wall. Last night, Gojo had said '

"You're the Zen'in reject," he realizes out loud, "the nonshaman."

His words burn between them, leaving smoldering coals that smoke the air and make everything just a bit harder to breathe. It's stifling, the weight of them. So

this

is the monkey

student. The one that might be able to pay her due of living. She turns half around, meeting his eyes evenly over the kitchen bartop.

"Yeah," the nonshaman says, lips curling in an almost-sneer, "'you got a problem with that?"

The root of the weed. Suguru can't see it, because the concentration is too small and he doesn't have six eyes, but she's dribbling cursed energy from her skin, leaving it in inky, putrid trails all over the place. If he concentrates, he can pick its taste out from the air, sharp and pepperish and so faint it could be imagination.

Fuck, it's disgusting.

The college 'it's supposed to be a place for

shamans

. Before highschool, life was a shuttering film, an endless parade of repetitive scenes that quickly wore out their message: they do not understand you, they will never understand you, they can never understand you.

What are you looking at?

There's nothing there.

Confused classmates.

Are you sure you don't want another medication?

His mother. Then,

finally,

the college: a place for him, for his kind, a place that's

supposed

to be for his kind.

And now '

"No," he lies, trading faces: eyes thinning, brows raising just a little, smile stretching over his face. An attempt at reassurance, or maybe just habitual courtesy. "Of course not."

Maki scoffs. "You don't need to hide it. Don't be concerned about my

feelings

," there's a sarcastic lilt to her tone, a sharp edged anger. Spite. No hurt, though, nothing like hurt.

Now, why would she assume that? Suguru isn't bad at lying. They can't have interacted enough for her to truly know, so 'a habitual assumption? Something she has encountered so often that she reads it naturally? Probably.

"I'm sorry that's your assumption," muster empathy. She grew up in the Zen'in clan, borderline-infamous for how they treat their nonshamans. Empathize, empathize, empathize. Empathize! "I didn't intend to come off insincerely."

Another scoff.

She returns her attention to the smoothie. That thick, awkward silence seeps back in. The blender switches on. It's a light pink color, now. The nonshaman swipes her finger over the blender's rim and licks a bit off her finger. Grimaces. Reaches for the blueberries, and dumps the rest of the bag in. And Maki may be content with this itching atmosphere, but Suguru '

"What are you doing?"

The nonshaman doesn't even look at him. "Making a smoothie for my girlfriend." Tone clearly dismissive.

He ignores it. "Having difficulty with the flavor?"

This time, she glances at him, eyes narrow. A moment of deliberation, and, "She likes things sweet."

"Add syrup," he says easily, reclining a little in his barseat and abandoning his almost-finished apple on the counter top. "Maple, maybe."

Her lips pull downward. "Why do you care?"

"I like to be helpful."

"Sure."

He sighs. Lets his face drop, just a little. "Add it or don't, I don't care. It'll fix the sweetness issue."

Maki clicks her tongue, heads for the fridge, and pulls out maple syrup. She adds it into the smoothie wordlessly. Switches the blender on. It rumbles the air. Switches it off. Opens the lid, swipes a taste from the rim, and '

"It's sweet," she says, sounding almost surprised.

"I always make them sweet because Satoru prefers them like that," Suguru says, pauses, half-grimaces. A fading memory of sickeningly-sweet smoothie flickers over his tongue. "Though, sometimes he adds more sugar anyway."

Her expression flicks briefly with something he can't quite place. "Hmm."

There's silence. He begins picking at a carton of strawberries. Glances at the clock. Late morning. Absentmindedly thumbs his earlobe. Is going to do something 'put on a kettle for miso broth, maybe, but '

"

Suguru!

"

Satoru crashes into the room in a rush of motion, all messy hair and soundless footsteps. He stumbles when he pulls to an abrupt stop in front of Suguru, almost crashing into the counter, before pressing himself half onto Suguru's barstool, elbow digging into Suguru's stomach. Suguru wheezes a laugh, wrapping his arm around Satoru's far side to stabilize their precarious position.

"You left without saying

anything!

Not even a note! I woke up alone, you jerk!"

"Sorry sorry," Suguru coaxes, indulgent. "You found me easily, though, didn't you?"

Satoru huffs. "

Jerk

."

Suguru rolls Satoru an apple. "Breakfast?"

Satoru perks at that, but entirely ignores the apple, just how Suguru expected him to. Instead, he leans halfway over the counter, gaze honing in on the pink smoothie. At this angle, Suguru can see the way his eyes flick to Maki. "Hey hey, gimme?" Grabby hands. Voice hopeful and pleading.

"No," Maki says.

Satoru draws back, mouth falling open, looks like he's going to protest, but '

"

No

, Satoru," Suguru says, lightly flicking the side of Satoru's temple. Exasperation colors his tone. "She's making it for her girlfriend, and besides, I can't let you ruin another innocent drink in good conscience."

"I do not

ruin

them! It's called improvement!"

Suguru grimaces. "Adding so much sweetener that it becomes sugary goop is not improvement. I don't know how you stand it."

"I don't wanna hear that from

you!

" Satoru pulls away, face twisting with offense. "You and Shoko drink

black coffee

." He spits the word like an insult, like something he doesn't want to let linger on his tongue.

"I don't drink coffee for pleasure," Suguru blandly tells him, "and Shoko doesn't even like it black, she only does that to spite you."

"You're both

horrible

."

"I know, I know." Suguru pats him sympathetically. From the corner of his eye, he can see Maki watching them. Can see the slight frown that tugs at her face before she turns around to dig through the cabinets.

"No, you '"

Satoru stops abruptly, jaw slamming shut with a low clink of teeth. Without any movement at all, in the way that can only signal the activation of limitless, Satoru's warmth and weight disappears from his side. Instantly alarmed, Suguru twists to look at Satoru more fully, but Satoru's whole focus has honed in on the entrance way. Suguru follows the gaze, and '

Feels his own heart stutter in his chest.

Toji is in the doorway.

Boiling hot bubbles of molten hatred rise in Suguru's throat from the cold fear pooling in his chest, his stomach. Red. Riko's brain splattered against the stone. A shark smile. Swampy-black eyes.

Except, except Toji is

dead

. Satoru brought him to the corpse, and even though half that bastard's body was obliterated, Suguru cut the neck with the claw of a curse, just to be

sure

. He's dead, undoubtedly dead. And besides, the person in the doorway, now that Suguru is looking closer '

The curve of his jaw, the shape of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the dark abyss of his irises 'those are the same. But his face is younger, smoother, flatter. Where Toji wore his hair in a messy mop over his skull, this one's hair has more shape to it. And perhaps most of all, Toji would never,

never

wear that expression. Under Suguru and Satoru's combined, undivided attention, this Toji-lookalike appears unsure, uncertain, cautious and apprehensive.

"Who," Suguru manages, words feeling ripped from his throat, low and edged, "are you."

The boy takes a half step back.

Ah, right. What face is Suguru wearing right now? It's not the right one. He has to 'but when he tries to trade faces for something friendly and approachable, it won't shape right. He can form the lips, but his eyes won't crinkle. It all feels too numb, too stiff. He gives up on smiling, and settles for flat blankness.

"I think," Satoru says, realization in his tone, eyes still glued to the boy, "that's Megumi."

The boy startles. Suguru takes a moment to place the name, to remember slippery bathroom tiles and Satoru's soft hair under his hands. Lavender shampoo. Uniforms discarded on the floor. Fingertips brushing the silvery spot of too-smooth scar tissue by Satoru's hairline.

I finally found that kid Toji told me about

. /

Oh.

What are you gonna do?

/

I don't know

, pause, and:

his name's Megumi

.

"Toji's kid," Suguru says.

"Yeah." Satoru's warmth, the weight of his body, returns to Suguru's side. Suguru breathes in sharply.

Put it back on,

he almost says,

remember what happened last time?

But Satoru hasn't shed limitless, he's just let Suguru through.

Slowly, Suguru closes his eyes and flattens his expression. Breathes in, and out. Calm. Opens his eyes, and slips on a friendly face. Now, he notices Itadori just a half step behind Toji's son, and behind that, Gojo coming up. Thin lipped.

"Apologies for our rudeness." Cursed energy is still coiling in his muscles, knit tight and ready to release. Suguru only just barely manages to withhold his lip from curling. "You look like someone we knew."

Gojo leans against the door frame and chirps: "No worries!" Itadori yelps '

Sensei, when did you get here!?

"I'm sure there's no hard feelings! And wow, oh man, it's such a shame that this kitchen seems

occupied

. Luckily, Jujutsu Tech has plenty of other kitchens! So how about we just..." Pointedly, he pushes the boys out. Especially Toji's son. Mostly Toji's son.

Suguru almost grimaces. For all his genius, apparently Gojo still hasn't learned

subtly

. He never needed it.

Satoru is having none of it. They've barely gone two steps before he vanishes from Suguru's side, and reappears in the hallway with a rippling snap of rotten-strawberry cursed energy, blocking their exit.

"Hey kid!" Satoru's expression is more teeth than smile when rocks on the balls of his feet, completely ignoring Gojo and Itadori in favor of Toji's son. "What's your last name?"

"Don't call me a kid," Toji's son replies, snappish, "I'm only two years younger than

you

."

"Yeah whatever," Satoru sighs, waving his hand dismissively. "Just answer the question."

Pause. Suguru slips from his seat, glances at Maki, who's turning around to silently watch, and returns his attention to the doorway. He makes his way over quickly, hovering a couple steps away.

"...Fushiguro," Toji's son finally answers.

Not Zen'in.

"Huh," Satoru says, after a beat, straightening. His face scrunches a little. "I guess I did do something about your piece of shit dad's last words, then."

Gojo winces so slightly that Suguru almost doesn't notice. Upon closer examination, his fingers are beginning to thread, flicking through half formed structures.

Fushiguro is very, very still, and when he speaks, there's an edge of something close-to but not-quite disbelief in his voice. Unease curls in Suguru's gut. "Last words?"

"Yeah," says Satoru, "y'know, what he said before dying."

Gojo's hands stop fiddling and shove into his pockets. Fushiguro doesn't respond immediately. From here, Suguru can't see his expression. That cold fear and molten hatred that pooled and bubbled in his chest earlier has slid away, leaving behind something hollow and disoriented. Silence stretches, and stretches, and,

"My dad's dead?" Fushiguro asks.

Oh.

Satoru abruptly stops rocking on his feet. "What?"

"What do you mean

what?

" There's a line of indignation to Toji's son's voice now.

Oh

.

"Holy shit," says Satoru, mouth falling open a little. He twists his attention to Gojo, who's now standing still, lips pressed tight. Satoru's expression is purely just 'taken aback, incredulous, maybe. Suguru is feeling the same way. "You never told him?"

"To be fair," says Gojo, "I

tried

to, when we first met, but he cut me off saying he didn't care about that bastard at all, and didn't wanna know."

That does

not

justify letting the boy go until

now

without even knowing his father is dead, but Gojo seems to know that. The beginnings of a headache bloom between Suguru's temples. Slowly, he raises a thumb to his forehead and digs a nail in. What a mess.

"Even though '"

"I told him to ask me if he ever wanted to know."

"Oh," says Satoru, "yeah, okay, but '"

"

What

," Fushiguro cuts, voice icy, "are you guys talking about?"

Not just a mess 'a train wreck. Suguru is watching it crash in slow motion.

"Right," says Satoru, "Jeez this is awkward." But he's already regaining balance, straightening, smiling wide, unbothered;

deciding

to be unbothered. There's a certain flippancy to his posture, now. Uh-oh. Satoru is callous on the best of days,

shit '

"Well basically: I killed your dad!"

The train crashes.

"What the

fuck

," says Fushiguro.

Gojo winces. Itadori makes a strangled noise of surprise, looking immensely awkward.

"Yep!" Satoru confirms, popping the 'p' and returning to rocking on his feet. "'Totally deserved it, by the way. Seriously! That guy was so annoying! You know he almost killed me? And then '"

Suguru pinches shut his eyes, tuning Satoru's voice out. This fucking dumbass. He opens his eyes and drops his hand from his forehead, squares his shoulders, and pushes his way through the doorway, squeezing between Itadori and Fushiguro until he's face to face with Satoru.

"

Satoru

," he says. "Shut

up

."

Satoru shuts up. For about two seconds.

"What? Why would I '"

"Be

polite

," Suguru says, nudging against Satoru's side and elbowing his ribs. "That's 'Satoru, you're being so

rude

."

"Oh no," he says, shifting his head in that way Suguru knows indicates an eyeroll. "I'm being

rude

."

Suguru resists the urge to dig a thumb into his forehead, and instead breathes in deeply, and breathes out in a sigh. He can't be angry at Satoru, especially not for this 'both his parents were quietly killed before Satoru even hit a year old. For fear that they would monopolize him, for fear of their possibility to influence him.

So, more gently now: "For most people, their parents are a sensitive subject," he explains, "the death of one,

especially

if they were killed, can cause deep upset."

"Oh," says Satoru, considering. Then: "What about you?"

Suguru frowns. "What about me what?"

"Would you be upset?" Satoru tilts his head, fixing attention solely on Suguru with an offhand sort of curiosity. "If your parents were killed, I mean."

And Suguru '

Suguru doesn't know how to answer that.

Of course

, he wants to say, but the words stick to his tongue. It's not that he won't lie, but he doesn't

know

if it's a lie. His parents are nonshamans, are weak and ignorant, never understood him,

couldn't

understand him, because he is a shaman and they are not. But they love him, he thinks, they love him. They still send him cards every month even though he hasn't visited them in

more

than a

year

.

Of course

, he wants to say, but the words taste chalky and bitter where they sit uncomfortably on the back of his tongue, like a pill. Like a litany of medications and therapy rooms, because his parents love him, so of course they would pay the too-large bill in order to help their only child from the delusions that plague him. They were kind, and they were kind to him, but they weren't kind

for

him.

(They never had the capability to be.

In the end, they are nonshamans, and ')

"Stop changing the subject, Satoru," Suguru says, perhaps a couple beats late, tone feeling odd. "Apologize to Fushiguro for the callousness."

Satoru actually straightens in indignation. "What, no way!"

Honestly, normally he wouldn't really bother. Satoru causes train wrecks often, and they can be fun to watch;

are

fun to watch, usually, but he just hasn't 'isn't in the mood, right now. It's all too much. "Please just be considerate of the people around you."

"You're so mean! It's not like I knew that was inconsiderate!" Suguru's head throbs dully at the noise. Satoru jerks him close and pouts, facing them both outward towards the others. "Don't be fooled by Suguru's sugar words and pretty face! He's actually really mean!"

Suguru sighs, deeply. "That's rich, coming from you."

Satoru cocks his head forehead knocking against Suguru's, weight leaning all over his side. "Hm?"

He contemplates shoving Satoru off. Doesn't. "You're like, the definition of an asshole with a pretty face."

Satoru draws back, as if shocked. God, what a drama queen. "If

I'm

the asshole with a pretty face, then what are

you?

"

"Someone with bad taste," Suguru says, dry.

Out of habit, Suguru glances to sideways, to the others. Fushiguro stopped paying attention to Satoru a minute ago and is hissing lowly to Gojo. Gojo is responding, but probably has his eyes on everyone in the room. Itadori hovers awkwardly on the side, attention split between Fushiguro and them. Maki...

This is, apparently, the last straw for Maki. Her expression to pinches, she grabs two large jars of smoothie, and walks right up to the doorway. "I'm leaving," she announces, "do whatever you want with the rest of the smoothie. Nobara doesn't need to see this circus." And then she pushes right past them all, and strides away down the hallway.

There's a breath of quiet.

"Huh," Itadori says, laughing a little. "I guess it kind of

is

a scene."

"Because of

Gojo,

" Fushiguro grumbles.

Itadori shifts on his feet. "I guess he must have a habit of not saying important things...? Like how I didn't know about the grade system till we went on that mission with the special grade! Or the summer goodwill exchange!"

Suguru barely to the last of Itadori's words. He's hung up on

mission with the special grade

. "You didn't know about the

grade system?

" Suguru's tone is a little too sharp, and, "

Special

grade? You're a first year."

"Yeah," says Itadori, "I mean 'Sensei didn't know. It was an assassination attempt. The others almost died, too 'but it's fine!"

Of fucking course it was an assassination attempt. Of course the other students almost died, too. Of course the higher ups are still throwing shaman bodies around like playthings. Eleven years hasn't changed that, apparently.

"Okay," he says, "but 'the grade system? Seriously? You didn't know

that?

Gojo didn't tell you?"

Itadori shrugs.

Last night, at dinner, Suguru had initially thought Itadori was a shaman from a nonshaman family. He thought someone would

understand

that utter isolation, those helpless feelings. That hope shriveled up, but Itadori 'he was still thrust into the world of shamanism all at once, suddenly. At least Suguru had grown up with curses when he was found by the world of shamans, but Itadori knew

nothing

. It's not the same, but it is...

"Wow," Suguru says, still taken aback, "next you'll tell me that he didn't tell you about Sukuna."

Itadori blinks at him. "What about Sukuna?"

"You know," Suguru makes a vague gesture. "His history, origin, effects on the jujutsu world. So on."

"Oh," says Itadori, then frowns. "I don't know any of that."

What, he thinks, and then grimaces. Something burning and venomous tickles his teeth. Not even

that?

"What about textbooks?" Another shrug. "

Seriously?

" And now he really does level Gojo with an accusing glare.

Gojo raises his hands in a mock attempt at easing the tension. The cursed energy that's begun coiling up in Suguru's fingertips doesn't dissipate. "I

have

been teaching him important things! Just, you know,

other

important things!"

A mean noise escapes unwillingly from the back of Suguru's throat. It's not exasperation, is too

ugly

for exasperation, but it's not quite anger, either. "You just forgot it wasn't common knowledge, right?" His own rotten cursed energy sours on his tongue. He doesn't wait for a response before continuing: "I forget sometimes, how ignorant you can be of those that didn't grow up in a clan like you 'it's not your fault. It's just upbringing."

There's an inexplicably horrible feeling building in his chest. Derision? No, not with him; never with him. Maybe it's just 'all of it, the nonshaman girl, then Toji's son, and now someone similar to

him

, left to stumble in the dark.

"Hey '" starts Gojo, but,

"Okay!" Itadori interrupts, taking a step forward, almost wedging between Gojo and Suguru. He reaches out and clasps Suguru's hand into his own. "How about you show me?"

Suguru almost takes a step back. "I 'what?"

"Show me the things you think I should know!" Itadori replies, earnestly. "There's a library around here somewhere, right?"

"Yeah there's a library," Suguru answers, and Itadori grins at him. "But '"

Itadori is already tugging him down the hallway. "We're going to the library!" He calls to the others. "See you!"

"What!?" Fushiguro sputters, genuine alarm in his tone. "Wait!"

Satoru, on the other hand, just frowns, brows creasing when he looks at Suguru getting half pulled away. They both know that Suguru could easily slip out of Itadori's hold if he wanted. So Satoru doesn't chase, and Suguru... he waves haphazardly in goodbye.

It's somewhat of a relief to leave.