Chapter Text
“-Itadori?”
The cutting drone of the ceiling fan started sounding a bit too much like a chopper far too long ago. How long exactly, he wasn’t sure. Time was merging, twisting, snarling like vines around itself, and then melting away like Dali’s clocks. All he could see was nothing but a brilliant, cloudless, blue sky and bright red poppies in his mind’s eye.
“..Mr. Itadori?”
“Oh, shut the hell up. You don’t know jack shit,” Todo had said in response to Noritoshi Kamo’s rare, yet still stoic, teasing. He hefted his M16 closer to his chest. “I get girls! And I keep ‘em moaning all night long. Itadori is the only virgin here.”
Yuuji blushed up to his ears; thankfully the dry heat covered it. He just knew his face had to be blazing red. Gojo chuckled from behind him where they were walking in a single file. “Well~” their Staff Sergeant sang before Kamo could reply, “Not quite.”
Yuuji spluttered—certain he was so crimson now, he couldn’t even play it off like it was from the sun anymore—as Todo gasped like he’d been scandalized, spun around, and pointed a finger in the younger’s face, all while walking backwards. “What’s he talking about?! Don’t tell me you told our Staff Sergeant before me about your first time! When did that happen? Did you sneak out to meet some pretty village girl? Aren’t they just fine as fuck here? Even with the whole get up,” Todo gestured around his head. “Makes them more mysterious. Damn those eyes do something to me. Persian princesses..”
“Tell him, PFC,” Gojo prompted slyly, interjecting on the Corporal’s, honestly, quite disrespectful tangent. Bordering on pervy, even.
Yuuji merely shot a heatless glare Gojo’s way. Fortunately, they were nearing the village they’d been ordered to patrol for the upteenth time, so this conversation wasn’t going to last much longer. It could be a harmless mission, but there’d been stirrings of more pockets of Taliban near the area, and knowing how things were, it could all go to shit on a dime.
Yuuji pulled himself together, readjusting his shoulders and the rifle in his hands. It would have been easier to drive the humvee, but they were trying to keep things quiet. Less death all around if it stayed hush-hush. He didn’t kid himself into thinking that the insurgents didn’t know they were here, that there was no way they weren’t watching them right now. That there wasn’t any possibility that at least one of them didn’t have their head in the crosshairs of a sight.
“Will you guys shut your fat fucking mouths? Are you even capable of it for one singular fucking second? Can’t catch a fucking break around you bitches. Yapping like whores on their last dollar,” Zenin, their Sergeant, snapped from the front of the line, his boonie—it was a wonder he hadn’t gotten wasted by a sniper yet, not wearing the proper ballistic helmet—pulled low to shade his eyes from the unrelenting sun. Yuuji could practically see the way his little rat face—which was somehow handsome in an entitled, haughty, rich boy sort of way—must have been scrunched in annoyance. He’d say he’s never been so thankful to Naoya Zenin, but it’d be a lie. They’d all saved each other’s asses once or twice.
“Right,” the Private First Class confirmed agreeably, ignoring Gojo’s bark of laughter at Zenin’s irritation. “Let’s talk later. We’re almost there, and we better keep our heads on a swivel.”
When they arrived shortly, a mutual hush fell over them as they entered the settlement. Staggered brown adobe buildings stretched up the even browner hillside like stairs, a terrace farm of houses. The townspeople stared at them unblinkingly as they walked the thoroughfare, all of them gathered in the streets—either crowded around them or sitting on woven mats outside their doors—or peering out of blue or yellow framed windows. It was like this every time, like they knew something his squad didn’t, and it set his teeth on edge. He tried hard to keep his shoulders from tensing. Tense muscles weren’t fluid. Tense muscles cost split seconds that could save a life.
“Gotta piss, Sarge,” Yuuji murmured, careful not to break the tentative quiet too loudly. Only the sound of goats bleating, the low, hollow, clanking sound of the metallic bells on their necks accompanying them, and the distant shrill laughter of children rang the air.
“I’ll go with you,” Gojo replied, just as quietly.
“No, sir. You should stay with the translator. Corp can go with me.” Todo was as good as any, and he couldn’t go without taking someone; the buddy system was used without fail. It was a large means of their survival in this hostile environment. You didn’t want to be caught with your pants down, figuratively and literally.
They both spared a glance at the nervous looking Pashtun man who had taken the job of translator, his military-issued vest setting him apart from the villagers. For all his voluntary participation, it sure did seem jittery, and even reluctant at times. He’d be safest with Gojo, since Gojo was the most skilled out of all of them. Translators in particular were targeted, seen as the worst kind of traitor.
Gojo turned his attention back to Yuuji and stared him in the eyes, something intense lingering there. “I’m going with you. That’s an order, Itadori.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Staff Sergeant turned to address the rest of the squad, “Be back in five. If we’re not back in five, come looking. Understood?”
A chorus of ‘yes sir’s came in response.
As they left, Yuuji briefly looked back to see Zenin being his usual brooding self, scanning for any threat with a cigarette on his lip, Kamo doing much of the same. Private Jones, a young African American boy—just a boy, really; old enough to die, still too young to drink—was speaking quietly with Private Smith and Yuuji’s fellow PFC, Hernández, their heads bowed close together. Yet, Todo was already shooting the shit with the village elders through the translator, the only ones that had really interacted with the soldiers other than children. They were old enough not to fear death. The sight brought a small smile to Yuuji’s face. These were his brothers in everything but blood, and he knew each one of them felt the same. Even Zenin.
His commanding officer trailed behind him as they rounded the corner of a nearby outlying building. A young boy darted out, chasing after a soccer ball that just preceded him. It was all drilled in—inherent, at that point—reflex that the boy was already in both Yuuji and Gojo’s sights.
They lowered their rifles, breathing out a sigh of relief in unison, thankful it was just a child and not a hostile. Still, they were on edge at the suddenness, helpless to fight against it. They’d seen too many sent as a decoy. Too many with bombs sewn in their stomachs from the Taliban, so scared but so sure it would honor them and their family. Thankfully, this child was very obviously not a suicide bomber, but a boy they’d seen frequently on their visits. Gojo had given him that very soccer ball their second time here, in fact, and he never forgot to bring candy.
“As-salamu alaykum,” Gojo called out with his heart and chest, ‘Peace be upon you’, as you were supposed to in greeting, “Want some candy?”
The boy came to a stop near them, a grin lighting up his face, joy dancing in his pretty hazel eyes. “Salaam! Me?” He asked in a thick Pashto accent, “Me wanna candy.”
The Staff Sergeant laughed lowly, passed his rifle to Yuuji, and pulled off his pack. He took a knee on the hard packed dirt and dug through gear to pull out a handful of various different kinds of hard candies; butterscotch, caramels, lemonheads, jolly ranchers, and a few cherry flavored suckers.
He held out his large hand in offering, and the boy wasted no time bounding closer to pick out one of the suckers before nodding in gratitude.
Gojo gestured with his hand again, pushing it towards the child. “For your friends. Hmm..,” he paused, searching for the word in Pashto, “Malgari. Malgari.”
Excitement took over the boy’s features. He took the candy and shoved it into the makeshift pouch he had just made with the hem of his dirty, tattered, plain blue shirt, clutching it to his soft belly like precious cargo. “Manana!” He practically squealed.
“You’re very welcome. Taso kha raghlast,” Gojo replied softly, a fond smile on his face.
The boy spared them one last brief grin, teeth blinding white against sun-kissed skin, before continuing on his way, careful not to drop any candy while kicking his ball.
The children were innocent, sweet in a way that the adults weren’t. In a way the adults couldn’t be, not in a world like this. But the children. The children hadn’t hardened their hearts yet in biases, soft even in the face of horrific circumstances. Like that one time a kid, who couldn’t have been older than twelve, a shepherd at such a young age, had seen them walking through his fields, wading through his goats, and he ran up to them, grabbed his crotch, stood on his toes, and yelled, ‘I LOVE AMERICA, I MICHAEL JACKSON!’ So, yes, it hurt Yuuji more when seeing this innocence snuffed out. Hurt more than anything else coming back into a village they had just been in a day previously, only to see a child had been beheaded, execution style, because insurgents thought they’d squealed. It didn’t help them or anyone else to say it hadn’t been them that did it, that it wasn’t their fault. To the villagers, they may as well have been holding the machete. To Yuuji, he was damn close to agreeing.
Yuuji shook himself out of that thought, one that had begun overlaying a headless bloodied child on top of that, blessedly, very alive one. He waited until his officer had gotten his pack back on to give him back his M16. Turning toward the side of the building, he rested his own M4 carbine on its butt against the wall, and unzipped his pants. He felt the burning of eyes on the nape of his neck, and shot a look over his shoulder to see Gojo standing there watching him, his eyes smoldering with that unnamed emotion Yuuji had seen earlier. Snowy white locks of hair, now covered in sweat and dust, were peeking out messily, prettily, from underneath his ballistic helmet. In a fleeting thought, Yuuji knew that it had to be, without a doubt, violating regs.
Another peel of laughter nearby broke the magnetic spell, and Gojo turned his back to Yuuji, now facing the rolling hills in the distance behind the large poppy field they’d just been walking through, as Yuuji pulled out his dick to relieve himself.
He heard Gojo shuffling around behind him, kicking rocks here and there, then saying softly, “It sure is a beautiful place for all this violence.”
“Mr. Itadori!”
Yuuji jolted in his plush, emerald green, velour armchair; coming back to the present in a disorienting swoop, like water rushing down a drain, his brain a turbulent whirlpool. Like that one scene in that one movie. That movie that came out in 1994. The one starring Elijah Wood, The War. When that one group of boys, dirty and rough, bullies full of impoverished desperation, The Lipnickis, dared Stu to swim across the water tower when it emptied, and whoever won got to keep the tree-fort. The big Lipnicki chickened out, but Stu swam it anyway, and he won the fort in his own right. But a few days later, during the groups’ big fight, little Billy Lipnicki—all sweet innocence, unlike his brothers—returned to the tower to retrieve the key to the fort, which his brother had thrown on the rusted-out rotten-planked roof out of spite. The roof caved under his minuscule weight and he fell in, unfortunately right as the tower started to empty. He got stuck on the drain underneath all the swirling white water, and Stu jumped in to save him, fighting so hard against the overwhelmingly powerful current, only to pull Billy out when he was practically blue, half-dead from breathing in so much water. Due to Stu’s—and Billy’s brother’s—quick action, he lived.
“Huh?”
He lived.
He lived, but he was awful close to dying.
Afterwards, The Lipnickis called a truce between their ragtag gangs. The saving of their youngest brother’s life inexplicably more important than their childish feud. A debt they couldn’t ever hope to repay.
But, Yuuji. Yuuji felt a lot like little Billy Lipnicki right then. Stuck on a fucking drain. Drowning under crushing weight.
“Are you alright?”
He ran a hand down his face, the other coming up to join the first in order to scrub at his eyes, gritty from the lack of sleep. “Yeah.. yeah, I’m alright. Just.. lost. You know how it is. What were you saying?”
“I asked, ‘How does that make you feel?’ The bomb, and the subsequent loss of your leg?”
Glaring down at his tan-brown standard issue tactical boots—he rarely wore any other shoe—he flexed his toes. Gripping his knees in a white-knuckled hold, he felt the hardware of the left instead of soft muscle and bone. “Shit.. I don’t feel shit.”
The government-provided therapist merely hummed and wrote something down in his notebook. Yuuji had been trying to stay away from drinking, he’d heard stories over and over again about veterans like himself turning and losing themselves to it. What was left of themselves, that is. But that moment, right that moment, when the man who was supposed to help him treated him like just another fucking number, a task to check off his to do list, Yuuji decided to fuck it all and get himself a damn drink that night. He deserved it.
Fuck. He deserved this.
“I’ll write a prescription for a low dosage of oxycodone. We’ll increase it gradually as needed.”
Just what I need, Yuuji thought dryly, Percs. “I’m already taking Abilify, Zoloft, and Klonopin, sir..”
“Yes, Mr. Itadori, I am aware. You can take the Percocet and Abilify together, wait six hours, then take the Zoloft and Klonopin. Not to worry, I’ll put it in the directions.”
Yuuji nodded mutely, the fight had been gone from him for a long while now. The wind had been taken from his sails in the height of the storm, leaving him like he was a battered wet rag.
“Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Alright, then. That’s all the time we have for today. I’ll see you next week, Tuesday at 2 pm?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, I’ll see you then. Have a great day Mr. Itadori.”
“Thank you, sir. You as well, sir.”
Once he exited the office and stood on the sidewalk, he huffed in frustration, in unreasonable anger. Burning so hot in him, he wanted to go back in and beat the living daylights out of that quack of a therapist. That fucking liar, a cheat. Instead, he took a deep breath—three seconds in, six seconds out—and lit a cigarette, then walked to his battered truck to make his way home.
The percs could fucking wait.
Choso was still at work whenever he got there, so the house was quiet. And he could never quite decide whether it was better for him to have noise or no noise at all. This day, however, his brain decided for him, decided that the quiet was too much. Eerie in the stillness, much like that of the desert right before things went to shit and people died.
It made his hair stand on end, certain that around every corner, there could be a terrorist lying in wait.
Logically, he knew this wasn’t true. Wouldn’t be true for the foreseeable future, unless he found himself in some cheesy spy film. No matter, his brain didn’t care.
He learned pretty quickly that in order to combat these irrational thoughts, he had to keep busy.
Immediately, he went to his room. It was like a time capsule. It no longer suited him or represented who he was after it all, but he was afraid to change it out of fear that the last tether to normalcy, his last tether to the innocence of who he once was before his deployment would be gone forever. That boy had died, but Yuuji could honor him this way, emulate whatever he could this way.
Various different college and professional football posters covered his dark green walls, along with a few from different bands, and some pilfered street signs. Trophies and medals from sports he played over the years were still neatly lined on his bookshelf; basketball, track and field, baseball, and obviously, football. A basketball hoop hung on the back of his door, a dartboard on the door of his closet. His twin sized bed was pushed in the back corner and beside it sat a large, darkly-stained, oak desk which was situated in front on his only window, a bamboo window shade covering it. On the top of the desk, it held his computer, his record player right beside it on the left, a blue lava lamp on the right. Next to the desk, there was a small shelf that held so many records, it was bowing under the weight. In the large steamer trunk at the end of his bed, he knew without looking that it was filled to the brim with even more.
The only things that were different was the Purple Heart that had joined his trophies, still sitting prettily in its display box. Propped on the side of his desk was a thoroughly-loved crutch for whenever he needed to give his leg a break, and he refused to use a wheelchair. He was a fucking amputee, not a paraplegic. Using a wheelchair, no matter how convenient it might be in some instances, made him feel like he was giving up. His bed, that would have otherwise been messy had Yuuji never been graced with the company of a drill sergeant, was now so tightly made that he knew for a fact he could drop a quarter on the navy plaid comforter, and it would bounce. Maybe even three times on an extra good day. He’s checked. On a hook he had put in on the wall next to his closet door hung his blue dress uniform, chest candy—ribbon bars—still in place, marksmanship badges polished to a sparkling sheen. His shoes—shiny, black, and polished as well—were sitting neatly right beneath it, his pristine white hat above it.
Breathing out in strictly hard exhales, he put his boots he had taken off at the front door in his closet, dropped his wallet and keys on his desk, and started in on his push ups. He continued until he physically couldn’t anymore, bathed in sweat and shaking from exertion, unable to lift himself up from the floor for the last time. As soon as he was finished, he went into sit ups, until he was left in the same state as before. That prickling feeling still on his neck, he peeled off his damp jeans, and removed his prosthesis to begin his pistol squats—it wasn’t like he could do regular ones with a fucking blown off leg—dutifully ignoring the mangled stump that twisted his stomach in guilt.
By the time he was done with the strenuous circuit—his brain finally blessedly quiet, the hair-raising sensation gone—the sky was darkening outside. With a groan, he reached over to grab his crutch, and hobbled to his bathroom across the hall to take a shower.
When he got out, he swiped the condensation off of the mirror in his steamed-filled bathroom, only pausing long enough to look at the letters over his heart, to trace a soft touch over them. ‘Semper Fidelis’. Always Faithful, the Latin motto of the USMC.
He went back to his room and took special care to moisturize the end of his missing leg where the new sock would go, and secured his prosthesis back into place. He stared at the gleaming metal for just a moment, full of self loathing, choking on it, at the flash of selfish pity that ran through him at the sight of it. You little fucking bitch. Ingrate. At least you’re alive.
He wasn’t looking for company, wasn’t sure he would ever look for any company ever again, so he paid no mind to his outfit; choosing a loose, black cotton, thermal long sleeve—he always liked how the tiny little squares felt against his skin—and some baggy jeans, a chain connecting his wallet to his belt loop. He kept his hair in a perpetual high and tight, so he never had to worry about to do with it until it was time to cut it again every two weeks. As he was accustomed to, he pulled his tactical boots back out of his closet and put them on once he reached the door. Once he freed his dog tags—which he never took off—from his shirt, he was good to go.
He knew Choso would be getting home soon, and he contemplated leaving a note on the fridge for him, but chose better of it. His brother would only worry if he knew that Yuuji was going to buy something to drink.
At first, he had debated on just going to the gas station or local liquor store, but knew if he did, and he had a full bottle at home, it really could spiral into a problem. Minuscule, was his self preservation at this point, but there nonetheless.
On a whim, he decided to try out the new bar on the town square instead of Old Gilligan’s. O.G’s was the go-to hang out spot for anyone his age, and fuck if he didn’t want to see too many familiar faces tonight.
When he arrived, he was surprised to find that the bar, Malevolent Shrine—a pretty unhinged name, if he did say so himself—was less dark and grimy with sticky countertops and graffiti, and more low-key industrial. As soon as Yuuji walked in, he was greeted by Deftones’ ‘Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)’ playing lowly in the speakers overhead. Loud enough for ambiance, yet still quiet enough for conversation. The black, sturdily-squared, full-bodied bar was on the right hand side, situated perfectly to oversee both the far end of the room and the door. The interior was a dusty red brick with an open ceiling, pipes and HVAC system bare. The lighting was dim, but not dark, most of the illumination coming from a row of Edison bulbs screwed into metal piping above the bar, along with a strip of red LED lights running the border of the shelf holding the alcohol, the underbelly of the counter itself, and various red paper lanterns above each round table and booth. Behind the bar was a large red and purple neon sign in the shape of an oriental dragon, curling in and around itself. It was positioned above the shelf where the wall met the ceiling, canted to the point that it seemed like it was looking down at those who sat at its bar.
He faltered for a second, unsure of the setting. He hadn’t been to a bar ever, really. Sure, he’d drank with his buddies in Afghanistan for his twenty-first birthday, and frequently after that, but never in a bar.
He almost walked to the furthest table, but he grabbed himself by the fucking balls and made himself sit at the counter. Nobody is going to attack you from behind, and you are not here to do recon.
Sliding into the barstool, which was harder than he thought it would be, he drummed his fingers on the shiny black surface. He wasn’t sure he really needed to do this, knew for certain it wasn’t good for him either way.
Though, he was broken from his reverie when the door behind the counter—that led to what must be a staff room—opened and revealed one of the largest men he’d ever seen. And he’d seen plenty, being in the military, like Todo or Bogdanov, a burly Corporal in Delta Company. And even outside it, taking Megumi’s dad for example. He was strong—Yuuji could tell it at first glance, having an eye for measuring things up—and disciplined in the way he moved. Seemed to be early to mid-thirties. Tattoos decorated his angular face, but it was too dim, and too red for that matter, to really see what color his slanted eyes were. He could tell he was Asian, but what, he couldn’t know until he asked. And he wasn’t invested enough for that.
The man sidled up to the opposite side from where Yuuji sat and asked in a deep voice, “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey, neat.”
“Oh? Someone’s got their big boy pants on tonight, do they?” The bartender chuckled, reaching for a bottle from the top shelf.
“Cut the shit,” Yuuji replied calmly, used to the jeering and jabbing from his fellow devil dog brothers. The hint of familiar humor that colored him was surprising.
A laugh greeted that in a low timbre. “What brings you here tonight…? I didn’t catch your name?” He asked while he popped open the bottle and filled a six-cut tumbler.
“No reason in particular.”
“Well,” he slid the glass over, “No-Reason-In-Particular, welcome to Malevolent Shrine.”
Yuuji took a sip, relishing in the heat in his throat and nose, ran a finger around the rim of the glass, and took a look behind him at the room. Maybe it was too early in the day, but it was empty. It was a Tuesday evening though, so Yuuji would give it the benefit of the doubt “It’s nice.”
“Thank you. It’s mine.”
His eyes travelled back to the large man quickly. “Yours?”
“Yup,” he looked away, surveying the place, puffing up his chest in what Yuuji guessed could only be pride. “Saved up for a long time to buy a place. There were a few options, but this one.. This one had potential, and here we are. Bumfuck, Nowhere. But that’s besides the point.”
At that, Yuuji couldn’t help but chuckle back. It was a rusty rattle due to disuse, but a laugh all the same. “You’re right about that.”
“So, you military?”
Immediately, like a switch flipped, he stiffened and narrowed his eyes, humor gone like a wisp in the wind. “Why?”
“Relax. Haircut, physique, dog tags. A callous on your trigger finger. The story really tells itself,” he placated, his hands up in a calming gesture. “It’s my job to know people. That’s why I didn’t ask for ID. Figured I could let a soldier get away with a drink if he wanted to, it’d just be negligence on my part.”
Yuuji downed the rest of the glass and slid it back across the bar. “Another.”
The man nodded, “Coming right up.” As he was pouring the second round, he continued, “I was right, right?”
After receiving the drink, and gulping it down once more, Yuuji said, “Yeah. You were, but not anymore. So let’s just shut the fuck up about it, yeah?”
“Yeah, fine with me. Gotta say though, I gave you the good stuff. So if you’re not used to it, I think you’d better slow down before you get hammered.”
“Your mother.”
The bartender cracked a smile, the childish insult seeming to roll off of him. “Yeah, yeah. But listen to me, brat. I know what I’m talking about.”
Yuuji knew he was right, but damn him if he was going to sit here and be infantilized. He was a grown ass man. “Hit me.”
He sighed and took the glass again, “You keep this up and I’m going to cut you off for real. I don’t deal with sloppy drunks in my bar.”
“You’ll get no trouble from me.”
“Seems like you’re already enough trouble as it is,” he argued, rolling his eyes.
Taking the advice, because he really wasn’t that much of a jackass, he sipped his way through half of it enjoying the music and woody spicy notes of his drink, and the undeniable numbness of his lips, when he heard, “Yuuji? Yuuji Itadori?”
Yuuji whipped his head around to the door and saw a boy he went to high school with, hell, every school with. They even played ball together. Jason Adamson.
Upon seeing Yuuji’s face, he exclaimed, “Holy shit! It really is you!” He made his way over and clapped Yuuji on the back, “What’s up my man?!”
This was exactly what he wanted to avoid. Yuuji gave him a tight smile, replying curtly, “Not much. How are you, Jason?”
“I’m good! Fuck, I’m great! You? You just get back?” He beamed, hand clutching Yuuji’s shoulder.
“Yeah. Yeah I did.”
“You get to kill some Iraqis? Light ‘em up good?”
Afghanis.
He only gave a mirthless chuckle, because what was he supposed to say? Yes, I’ve killed seventy-six men and I know each one of their faces. Twenty-three more children I didn’t kill, but might as well have.
“What was it even like over there? I bet it was crazy, huh?”
And yeah. Yeah, it was crazy. It was crazy seeing your friend die, watching his head get blown off mid-sentence right in front of you and getting his brains all over your uniform. Then you gotta get back on base, and you gotta hold that shit together, brain matter and blood soaked all over you and dried on your face. You gotta keep that shit together. You gotta be like, ‘Don’t you dare, don’t you dare fucking cry.’ And then you hurry to the latrine to wash your shaking hands. You gotta really scrub ‘em, get up under your fingernails and ignore all the pink water washing down the drain, the remnants of your buddy that was just standing next to you. Then you gotta start on your uniform, on your boots. And you gotta really scrub then, because these are due for inspection this week on Wednesday at 0600, real fucking early, and they gotta get clean, gotta get clean, gotta get fucking clean, but the blood just won’t come out. Then all of a sudden, you’re angry. So angry. Fucking livid at anything and everything and you wanna fucking scream at him, yell at him like it was his fault. Like he wanted to fucking die. You wanna be like ‘You stupid fucking bastard. You selfish motherfucker. Had to go and die all over me after you got me to care.’ And then you can’t help but cry like a fucking baby. Like a little fucking bitch because your friend is gone and your boots are red and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. And you go out, keep it fucking moving, ignore that one stain you know isn’t camo, and do it all over again. Just hope the blood doesn’t get all over you next time. Yeah, man, it’s fucking crazy.
Unable to read social cues, after what Yuuji felt like must have been a painfully long silence, the spiraling quickening exponentially, the tactless questioning continued. “Damn, I just remembered. How the fuck does it feel with one leg? That shits tough. I read about it in the papers, yknow. People were talking.”
Grinding his teeth, he downed the remnants of whiskey, locked eyes with the large man behind the bar, and forced out, “Feels like I’ve got one leg. You wanna feel it too? Probably don’t got an IED, but I’m sure they have a knife somewhere.”
“Chillax, my man. It’s tough but cool as shit. You’re like The Terminator or some shit.”
Yuuji learned quick that alcohol and anger didn’t mix, especially not this anger he held of disastrous proportions, a red vignette around his vision. “Look, I’m about to head out. Why don’t we just catch up some other time?”
“Right, right. Last question, seriously, it’s been eating me alive. How does it work,” he asked in a stage whisper, glancing at Yuuji’s crotch, “Y’know, down there? Does it work? I bet some chicks would dig some freaky shit like—“
Reaching his boiling point, Yuuji reared back a fist and connected it with a sickening crunch, sending him right out of his stool and crashing onto the floor.
Yuuji launched himself out of his own seat, coming around to straddle the man, bracing his weight on his good leg. He was in the middle of raining down fast blows, his dog tags clinking the whole way, when large hands yanked him up and pulled him back against a broad chest.
“Whoa there, little tiger. Any more and I’ll have to call the police.”
“Let me fucking go,” Yuuji snarled, punctuating the order with the snap of his head, sending it colliding back into his captor’s nose.
“God fucking—!”
At least the arms released him. It didn’t matter that Jason was sprawled out unconscious, his sense of justice was not yet satisfied. And this anger kept filling and filling and filling him up like an everlasting fountain, blood for water.
But as soon as he was back on him, those same strong hands lifted him again. This time, dyed hair tickled his nose from where the man’s head was tucked in his shoulder.
“Look, I really don’t wanna call the police, so can we calm the fuck down and take a breath?”
As quickly as it came, it was gone. He drooped in the man’s arms like a puppet whose strings were cut.
“Good,” the man praised gently. “That’s very good. Uraume!”
Said it like he was fucking dog.
“Yes, Sukuna-sama?” They responded promptly in a barely noticeable accent, coming out from the same staff door.
The man, Sukuna, huffed above him, “Take that asshole to the break room. I’ll be in there in just a minute.” Turning his attention back to Yuuji, he said, “Let’s sit you back down.”
“I can do it,” Yuuji growled, pushing away from him. He stumbled a bit, but was able to climb back in his stool. “Gimme another one.”
”No way, Yuuji,” Sukuna said, going back around the bar.
”And who the fuck are you? I don’t fucking know you.”
”Sukuna Ryomen. I would tell you it’s nice to meet you, Yuuji Itadori, but I don’t quite enjoy brawls in my establishment. And you didn’t apologize for my nose.”
”Whatever, man.”
”You got someone you can call to pick you up, kid?” Sukuna questioned, his tone genuinely concerned.
Yuuji thought of Choso, but knew this would break his heart to see him this way. “No.”
The large man stared at him for a moment, sharp eyes digging deep into his soul. “Well, let me deal with that guy in the back, and I’ll take you home.”
All Yuuji could do was nod, suddenly choked up at the kindness of a stranger.
——————
June 15th, 2007
You remember that one time we were all out, walking another fucking poppy field at 0500, and the sun just started to come up, rising behind those tall hills, peeking out from behind it like it was saying hello. And we had somewhere to fucking be, always somewhere to fucking be, but the orange sunlight hit the poppies just right, it was like they were their own little luminaries. Pink and pretty glowing orbs. And Naoya, of all fucking people, had said, ‘Damn, that’s fucking pretty. Wish we could take a knee.’ And you got that smile on your face. That smile each one of us knew you had when you were up to no good. And you took your pack and rifle off, and laid right on down in a field of fucking pink poppies. Being our commanding officer, of course we followed your lead. There we all were, laying in a field of pink fucking poppies, rifles in the dirt. There could have been tons of IEDs in that field, but at that moment, none of us cared. At that moment, we were just boys in a fucking field of pink fucking poppies. Looking up at this unnaturally blue sky with pink glowing everywhere. It was easy. We all laughed and we all smiled and you looked over at me and you held my hand. And I’ll tell you what, my heart marched double time in a field of pink fucking poppies. And I had to grab Naoya’s hand, of all fucking people, so we didn’t look strange. And Naoya, of all fucking people, grabbed Todo’s hand and so on and so on and so on in a field of pink fucking poppies. Like if we held on, and never let go, we could get out of that shit alive. And I’ll keep that memory until the day I die.
Semper Fi, my good friend.