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The first time it happens, Yuuji desperately writes it off as coincidence.
As an athlete, he’s very familiar with his body and its capabilities. He knows his muscles, heart, and lungs, and even his new unwelcome demonic roommate can’t take away the rapport he has with his body. Except when he does, but Yuuji’s gotten familiar enough with that feeling to recognize it. He knows when Sukuna is about to appear on his cheek before the first signs even show, and can almost always stop him before those lips peel open. The feeling of full-body possession is horrific and unpleasant, but at least it’s instantly recognizable. Sukuna can’t take over his body without his knowledge.
So when his heart races for no reason on a break from their morning endurance run, Yuuji has no reason to think it’s Sukuna doing it. That would be ridiculous. But he still goes quiet and tense for a moment, because he remembers how his nails felt when they pierced through his ribcage like a hot knife through butter. His heart is a sore subject when it comes to Sukuna.
Fushiguro looks back at him over the shoulder with a hint of annoyance in his gaze. They’re finally in summer uniforms, which means their training is done in tight t-shirts and shorts, and Yuuji is afraid that Fushiguro can see his heart trying to pound out of his chest through the thin fabric. They’ve barely been training for half an hour, but Yuuji’s cheeks are already flushed red and his palms sweat.
They’re close. Fushiguro’s shirt clings to the lean muscles of his back, and his shoulder blades stick out. Fushiguro is all sharp angles, like a mountain far from the sea. He’s not paying Yuuji much attention, or at least he looks like he isn’t.
Yuuji takes a deep breath and calms his heartbeat, just like he always did during track practice.
It’s not Sukuna. It’s definitely not Sukuna. He just overexerted himself.
(Yuuji thinks he hears laughter from between his ears.)
They’re sitting in Kugisaki’s room, sprawled across her bed. Fushiguro is sitting upright against the headboard, Yuuji is curled against his side, and Kugisaki is awkwardly leaning against the both of them with Fushiguro’s arm draped across her shoulders as she animatedly recounts her last trip to downtown Tokyo with Inumaki and Maki.
“—and then the guy asks him what he wants, so of course Inumaki says salmon. Then he gets the salmon onigiri, and just looks at it really sad, and Maki translates—guys, get this, Inumaki doesn’t even like onigiri!”
“He doesn’t like onigiri?” Yuuji repeats incredulously. He doesn’t get any further before he bursts out laughing.
Fushiguro sighs, sounding aggrieved. “He makes no sense to me.”
Yuuji buries his face in the crook of Fushiguro’s neck—he smells like ginger and Axe body spray—and cackles. Inumaki doesn’t even like onigiri! He just speaks in ingredients all the time for no reason! Maybe Panda has been a dude in a fursuit the whole time.
He looks up at Fushiguro to see his reaction. Fushiguro is hard to read, but Yuuji’s better at it than most. An outsider might describe Fushiguro as bored or disinterested, but Yuuji knows better. Fushiguro’s eyebrow is quirked just so, and Yuuji knows that means he’s trying not to smile, because Fushiguro is allergic to showing emotion. Like he’s afraid that any expression will paint a target on his back.
It’s probably a good instinct to have around Sukuna.
Well, no matter. Yuuji likes Fushiguro’s understated expressions and deadpan tone, even as he urges Fushiguro to open up more. He makes a good counterbalance to Kugisaki’s vinegar and Yuuji’s own exuberance. Talking with Fushiguro feels like stepping from a busy city street into the quiet of a public library, and Yuuji can catch his breath.
Suddenly, his stomach bubbles like champagne and his lungs flip in his ribcage. Yuuji’s breath catches and his heart thumps faster than it should. He spots it right away—he might not have noticed the increase in pace if he hadn’t been tracking his heart rate during cursed energy training with Gojo that morning. Yuuji’s hand drifts up to his neck. His fingers feel his blood tha-thump like a rabbit’s pounding feet, and when his palm brushes his neck it leaves behind a bit of sweat. He’s afraid that Fushiguro can feel the burning heat where Yuuji’s cheek touches his slim neck, so Yuuji adjusts his position a little.
He’s not exercising. He’s not scared. He’s not sick. It’s not painful or anything, but his body is definitely out of whack.
“You all right?” Fushiguro asks.
Yuuji opens his mouth to tell him, and then closes it again.
Sukuna hasn’t done anything like this before. His takeovers are obvious and bombastic, so Yuuji had assumed that Sukuna couldn’t tweak the balance of his body. He now realizes that was a foolish assumption. He can’t put anything past the king of curses. This could definitely be Sukuna. If Sukuna is messing with his heart rate, then Sukuna might be able to stop his heart. If Fushiguro knew that…
Well, Yuuji’s sure as hell not letting himself get used as a hostage again. The expression on Fushiguro’s face as he died is one that would probably kill Yuuji twice over if he had to see it again.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Yuuji says.
Kugisaki gives him a look filled with even more disgust and irritation than usual. She nods at Fushiguro and raises her eyebrows, and Yuuji shrugs. She rolls her eyes and looks away.
What was that about?
Sukuna’s definitely trying to get a rise out of him.
Yuuji cares about Fushiguro. A lot. When he goes to sleep, he’ll sometimes wake up gasping and clutching at his chest, remembering the resolved sadness in those dark eyes as Yuuji died from a missing heart. He’s not letting Fushiguro go through that ever again, but of course Sukuna is too cruel to let him move on.
Every time Fushiguro’s mouth turns up in that small, secretive smile that only Yuuji can reliably spot, Sukuna reminds him of his sadness by making Yuuji’s heart pound like a footrace. Every time Fushiguro gives Yuuji a calculated, small touch to the inner elbow or shoulder blade, Yuuji’s hands sweat like Sukuna aches to swing them at Fushiguro in fists. Every time Fushiguro fixes him with concerned eyes and asks if he’s all right, Yuuji’s stomach flip-flops like a threat.
It’s not even torture, is the thing. It might be easier if Sukuna actually hurt him. The hostility would reaffirm that they are distinct entities. It would be easier if Sukuna gloated and claimed these little cruelties as his own. Instead, Yuuji’s left with these constant reminders that his body does not belong to him, and Sukuna refuses to own up. He’s just silent, like a horror movie killer lingering just beyond the doorframe. He’s not visible, but the audience knows he’s there.
“What’s up with you?” Kugisaki pokes Yuuji in the side, and he squeaks in surprise.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“You just went all blank for a second.”
Fushiguro looks up from his book with a raised eyebrow. He’s wearing reading glasses that make him look quite distinguished. It’s kind of adorable. He makes quite a show of not liking Yuuji and Kugisaki hanging out in his room, but always leaves the door unlocked.
“It’s nothing,” Yuuji says. He hasn’t told Kugisaki yet. He can’t admit that he zoned out because Sukuna saw the little bit of scrunched-up skin between Fushiguro’s eyebrows and made his heart do things that Yuuji can’t even put a name to. Over his long lifetime, Sukuna probably found plenty of things to do to a heart, and now he’s using Yuuji as a lab rat.
Maybe he should stop looking at Fushiguro.
He tries to stop looking at Fushiguro. It doesn’t work.
Fushiguro hands Yuuji a soda from the vending machine. Yuuji doesn’t meet his eyes, but their fingers brush for just a moment, and the champagne bubbles in his stomach return in all their heady strength. He bites his lip. It’s actually quite a pleasant feeling, and that’s why he hates it so much. He could get used to this. It’s a problem.
He avoids Fushiguro the next day, but misses him as he goes to bed. He thinks about Fushiguro’s carefully schooled blank expression, and wonders if Fushiguro has noticed that something is wrong. He hopes he hasn’t, but also the thought of Fushiguro being totally oblivious makes Yuuji a little bit sad.
Yuuji’s cheeks get hot, even though the room is cool and well-ventilated. Yuuji grits his teeth, but he doesn’t give Sukuna the satisfaction of a response. He won’t ask Sukuna to stop, because all Sukuna will do is laugh and do it more.
Apparently all he has to do to provoke Sukuna’s torture is think about Fushiguro. He’s never safe, so he may as well just hang out with Fushiguro again. It’s not like it’ll make things worse.
Training is the worst.
Fushiguro needs work in hand-to-hand, and is often paired with Yuuji as a sparring partner. Yuuji loves and dreads it in equal measure. Usually he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t.
“I got you,” Fushiguro says matter-of-factly.
He’s got one knee on the small of Yuuji’s back, and his delicate pianist’s hands are holding Yuuji’s wrists so he can’t move his arms. Yuuji tries to respond, but he hasn’t been able to breathe quite right since Fushiguro pinned him. The wind definitely isn’t knocked out of him—Fushiguro’s very careful when they spar, like he’s afraid that Yuuji will snap in his grasp, to the point that sometimes Yuuji’s victories feel unearned. No, this heat in his cheeks and loss of breath is not because of this fight.
They fought in that prison yard, and it was Sukuna who came out on top. It’s all Yuuji can think about, and that was definitely Sukuna’s intention when cutting his breath short.
“All right, all right,” Yuuji finally squeaks out. “I yield!”
Fushiguro steps off of him and offers him a hand. Yuuji takes it. Fushiguro’s hands are so nice. It makes sense for someone with the divine powers of shadow puppetry to have nice hands with long, delicate fingers.
Yuuji lets his hand linger for a second too long once he’s on his feet, and he doesn’t know why.
“You’re zoned out lately,” Fushiguro says. “Did something happen?”
Yuuji desperately wants to tell him. But he remembers his heart, muddy on the grass. He remembers Fushiguro’s grief. He remembers his words.
Fushiguro saved him out of genuine care, and Yuuji had never seen him so afraid as when Yuuji’s body was being held hostage. He doesn’t want to see that face again. He doesn’t want to see what kind of fear Fushiguro would show, knowing that Sukuna might be able to make Yuuji’s heart stop at any moment.
Fushiguro will find out eventually. Fushiguro can read him like a book, and Yuuji doesn’t want to keep secrets. The regret of letting his friends think he was dead still stings him keenly.
“I need to go talk to Gojo,” Yuuji says.
“What’s on your mind?” Gojo asks. He’s got his feet up on his desk. His office looks surprisingly professional, but Yuuji gets the feeling that Gojo was doing something unprofessional before he walked in.
“Sukuna’s messing with me,” Yuuji tells him. “He’s been making my heart race, making breathing kinda hard, and giving me a weird feeling in my stomach. And sweaty palms. Don’t tell Fushiguro. Can you make him stop? I can’t have Fushiguro finding out.”
There’s a picture of a little boy with spiky black hair pinned to the corkboard. He looks thoroughly unimpressed. Is that Fushiguro as a kid?
Gojo’s mask hides his eyebrows, but Yuuji just knows that one of them is raised. He’s wearing his eternal enigmatic smirk, of course. “That’s a weird set of symptoms.”
“I told you, he’s messing with me. He’s making my heart beat really fast around Fushiguro to remind me of the time he tore my heart out that time. I’m afraid he might be able to do more. Like he’s holding me hostage again.”
Gojo holds up his hands. “Wait, wait, wait. Hang on. Slow down. So you’re telling me that this just happens around Fushiguro?”
“Yeah, or even when I think about Fushiguro.”
“How do you know it’s Sukuna?”
Yuuji stares back at him, confused. Gojo doesn’t treat anything with the gravity it deserves, so Yuuji was prepared for a certain degree of nonchalance, but his teacher’s current expression resembles barely suppressed glee. It’s hardly appropriate for the situation.
“What else would it be? It’s not like I’m exercising when it happens, and just a heart condition wouldn’t give me these other weird feelings. He hasn’t said anything, but I think that’s him being a dick. I’m not taking the bait.”
Gojo’s face stops suppressing its glee. He looks like Christmas came early.
“Oh my God,” Gojo says. “Oh my God.”
“Sensei,” Yuuji pleads. “Please just make him stop.”
He’s scared. He’s scared of what Sukuna will do now that the lines between them are blurred. Yuuji is terrified that his body will never be his own again, and his teacher is refusing to take him seriously, even for Fushiguro’s sake.
He finally feels his cheek peel open into lips, but doesn’t suppress it. The cat’s out of the bag. May as well let Sukuna gloat.
“I truly was saddled with a foolish host,” Sukuna sneers. “How can you hope to keep your own body if you can’t even recognize my influence? Or lack thereof, as the case may be. Brat.”
“Sukuna, my man, you gotta be nicer to the kid,” Gojo says. “Surely even a thousand-year-old curse remembers the thrill of first love, huh?”
Yuuji blinks.
“Wait. What?”
“He’s unbearable,” Sukuna complains. “I cannot believe he had the audacity to come to you for help. He’s not the one who has to share a body with an oblivious idiot. I should be the one asking you to make him stop.”
“Honestly, I’m not going to argue with you,” Gojo tells Sukuna. “But I think we’re gonna need your help on this one.”
“I am right here!” Yuuji protests.
Sukuna sighs. “I do not have the power to affect your heart, lungs, stomach, or hands when you are in control of your body, and if I did, I certainly would not use it for such petty purposes.”
“You’re trying to manipulate me!” Yuuji accuses.
“He’s not,” Gojo says.
“Then what’s going on?”
“You’re in loooooove!” Gojo sing-songs.
“I wouldn’t call it love,” Sukuna sniffs. “He’s merely infatuated. It’s pathetic. Surely even you should be able to bed whoever you desire, and the fact that you haven’t acted on your feelings is a disgrace to me. Before you ask, no, I’m not helping you seduce him.”
Yuuji laces his hands behind his neck. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Whoa. Slow down. Sukuna, shut up. You’re not helping.” Now that he’s reassured that Sukuna isn’t the cause of his mysterious ailment, he fuses shut the mouth on his cheek. “Gojo. You don’t mean…”
Gojo drums his hands on the desk. “Oh, man. This is gonna end badly. It would probably be more responsible to not help you, huh? I mean, you are kiiiiiind of scheduled for execution.”
Realization hits Yuuji like a bus.
“I have a crush on Fushiguro,” Yuuji breathes. “Holy shit. Holy fuck. I have a crush on Fushiguro.”
“Sure seems like it,” Gojo says cheerily. “I’d give you a shovel talk as his guardian, but I’m pretty sure I made my point when I nearly killed you at our first meeting.”
“I have a crush on Fushiguro,” Yuuji repeats, stunned. “Fuck, I didn’t even know I liked guys!”
“The Fushiguros tend to have that effect,” Gojo muses. “His dad was a total DILF, you know. Kinda regret I didn’t tap that before I killed him.”
“You killed his dad? Does he know?”
“Yeah, he doesn’t give a shit. Anyway, what are you gonna do about your little heart going a-pitter patter?”
Yuuji throws up his hands. “No idea! I thought it was Sukuna messing with me until like just now!”
“You’ve had a crush before, right?”
“I mean, I had some girls I liked, but they didn’t make me feel like this. I’ve never felt like…like…”
It should be easy to put it into words. His crush on Fushiguro should manifest as a handy little list of symptoms, just like it did when he thought it was Sukuna’s interference. Nothing’s changed, but no words come to his tongue.
“Like you accidentally gave half of your heart to someone else, and they have the potential to totally destroy it?” Gojo supplies.
Yuuji points at him, snapping his fingers into finger guns. “Yeah! That’s totally it! Fuck, no wonder I thought it was Sukuna! This is terrifying!”
His heart is in someone else’s hand all over again. This time, though, it’s held tenderly, caressed by long and delicate fingers.
“Gojo,” Yuuji pleads, “what do I do?”
“Well, you can either confess or pine. If you confess, one or both of you will likely get hurt in a single spectacular incident. If you pine, you either get over it or it’ll slowly eat at you like you’re being burned alive.”
“I’m going to confess,” Yuuji says immediately.
“You’re a real go-getter, aren’t you?”
“I think I’d like to kiss him,” Yuuji says slowly, figuring out the truth of his words as he says them.
“Oh, absolutely. In fact, you should go tell him right now.” Gojo stands up and claps him on the back. He’s probably messing with him, but Yuuji is too buzzed on emotional whiplash to care. “Go get your man, tiger.”
Yuuji practically sprints out of Gojo’s office. With luck, Fushiguro will be back at the gym. His heart is racing again, but this time it’s a good thing—it gives him energy that thrums through his legs, spurring him onward. He runs down a hallway, skids around a corner—and runs straight into Kugisaki.
“Watch where you’re going, dumbass!” she berates him, catching herself on a windowsill. “Jeez, what’s gotten into you?”
“Where’s Fushiguro?” Yuuji demands.
Kugisaki blinks. “Didn’t you like, just train with him? What’s the hurry?”
“I just realized I like him,” Yuuji declares. He’s confident that this will be a surprising revelation to Kugisaki. He always feels quite smug about surprising her. “Like, like-like him.”
Kugisaki stares him down, unimpressed. “Congratulations. You are literally the last person to know.”
Yuuji’s jaw drops. “What? You knew? How did I not—wait, wait, does he know?”
Kugisaki shrugs. “Probably. He’s really good at reading you. God, you’re so dense. I can’t believe I hang out with you. Anyway, he went back to his room to mope and listen to MCR or something.” She starts walking away. “If you guys make out in front of me I’m bleaching my eyeballs,” she concludes by means of a “good luck.”
“Thank you!” Yuuji calls as he runs off.
He doesn’t even knock on Fushiguro’s door. He just slams it open. Fushiguro lets out a little noise of surprise and looks up from some long and boring nonfiction book.
“What—”
“I’m in love with you,” Yuuji blurts, and immediately winces.
That is not what he meant to say.
“Uh,” Fushiguro replies eloquently. He’s obviously stunned. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. “What?”
Yuuji does not back down from his mistakes. He seizes them by the throat. He’s going to see his love confession through just like he’s going to see Sukuna’s obliteration through.
“You hold my heart in your hands,” he says, and it sounded romantic in his head and it sounded romantic when Gojo said it, but now Fushiguro looks horrified and Yuuji knows they’re both remembering when Sukuna held his heart in a clawed hand and tossed it aside. “Sorry, that was a weird thing to say.”
“This is a prank, right?” Fushiguro says. His voice is so steady that it’s unnatural. “Did Gojo put you up to this? Kugisaki?”
“No, no! Well, yes. But no. I mean, I do have feelings for you, but I honestly thought that my heart was racing around you because Sukuna was messing with my heart again,” Fushiguro winces, but Yuuji keeps barreling on, “and Gojo was the one who made me realize that I was being a dumbass. Anyway so I realized and now I’m here to confess to you.”
Fushiguro stares at him, and it is then that Yuuji remembers that confessions are not automatically returned. He really didn’t think this through.
“Should I leave?” Yuuji asks.
Fushiguro closes his book and sets it on his nightstand. “Come in and close the door behind you.”
Yuuji does so.
“You’re a little big manic right now,” Fushiguro tells him. “Are you okay?”
Yuuji laughs. “Dude, I’m feeling amazing! I thought Sukuna had control over my heart rate for like a month, but it turns out I was scared for nothing!”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Fushiguro asks incredulously.
“Well, uh, I thought he might be holding my heart hostage again? And I didn’t want to worry you.”
Fushiguro runs a hand over his face and sets aside his reading glasses. “Come here,” he says.
Yuuji does so. He sits down next to Fushiguro on his bed.
“You’re sure?” Fushiguro says softly. “You’re sure that you actually like me?”
Yuuji nods vigorously. He’s never been more sure about something that he learned five minutes prior in his life.
Fushiguro doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he leans forward, and Yuuji only has a moment to process how beautiful his eyelashes are before Fushiguro is kissing him.
It’s incredible.
Yuuji’s heart doesn’t just race—it soars. It sings in time with his lungs. His hands move of their own accord—not from demonic possession, but a far more benign instinct. An instinct to bring Fushiguro as close as possible, with one hand in his dark hair and the other hand at his waist. His cheeks feel frozen, because all his blood is in his mouth, where he can feel those lips against his.
When their lips part, Yuuji’s hands don’t leave Fushiguro. His hair is so soft. He can feel the lines of Fushiguro’s muscles through his shirt.
“Dude,” Yuuji breathes. “That was so poggers.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s English for sugoi.”
“Is that really all you’re going to say?”
Yuuji doesn’t have the braincells to come up with a coherent response, so instead he just kisses Fushiguro again. He can feel Sukuna prickling at his hands, but Yuuji rebuffs him so hard his knuckles tingle with cursed energy. Sukuna doesn’t get to have this. Yuuji does.
Fushiguro is his.