Chapter Text
“Why are these things always so stiff?” Yuuji mutters under his breath, shifting in his seat.
“It’s a ceremony, not a sleepover,” Nobara replies dryly from his left, legs crossed, posture impeccable. Her gaze stays fixed on the stage, her voice clipped but firm. “Deal with it.”
Megumi, seated on his right, doesn’t look up from the glossy program brochure. “Because it’s not for us. It’s for the board, the sponsors, the press,” he says flatly. "Don’t slouch.”
“I’m not slouching,” Yuuji lies but then immediately straightens his spine, rolling his shoulders back like he’s been caught.
Yuuji exhales, smoothing a palm over the lapel of his navy blazer. The tailored fabric sits neatly on him again, the collar crisp, the buttons sharp. Around him, the hall gleams — rows of polished chairs, brass fixtures glowing under soft lights, cameras quietly being set up in the back. Every school participating in the Golden Inter-Academy Cup is here, all lined up in full formal uniform.
It’s the first time in years that their school has hosted the tournament. The faculty seems determined to make it a spectacle.
Yuuji thinks it’s overkill. It’s just sports, after all, so why all the ceremony? But then, he hadn’t attended one in a while so maybe this is normal.
“I agree,” Toudou booms from the row behind, clapping a massive hand on Yuuji’s shoulder hard enough to make him jolt. “This ceremony would be far more interesting if my brother and I were out there instead of those two.”
At the front, in the honorary athlete section, Gojo Satoru lounges in his seat like the stage belongs to him, one long leg crossed over the other, the very picture of effortless arrogance. Beside him, Getou Suguru sits with composed elegance, his polite smile at odds with Gojo’s performative showmanship.
The two of them are the faces of their school’s basketball team. Talented, untouchable, undefeated on home ground.
Yuuji chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “Right. What would we do if we’re there, Toudou-senpai?”
Toudou slams a fist to his chest. “With my strength and your good looks, we’d dominate both the court and the cameras!”
“You’re delusional,” Nobara mutters without missing a beat.
Before Yuuji can reply, Nobara nudges Maki who sits on her left subtly, tilting her chin toward the far right aisle. “Hey,” she murmurs, “isn’t that your cousin?”
Megumi looks up too, follows her gaze, and scowls instantly.
Zen’in Naoya strolls into the hall with Kyoto High’s delegation, cream blazer sharp under the lights, posture effortlessly confident, and a faintly smug smile curling his lips.
“Yeah,” Maki says flatly, her eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately.”
Yuuji follows Nobara’s line of sight briefly, spotting Naoya’s familiar sharp profile and slicked-back hair. He exhales softly, shaking his head. “Haven’t seen him since last winter,” he mutters.
“Let’s keep it that way,” Megumi says with his voice clipped.
Before Nobara can press for details, Megumi’s tone shifts, low and even: “Last school’s here.”
Yuuji glances toward the tall double doors at the far end of the hall, and the atmosphere shifts immediately.
A hush ripples through the audience. Not complete silence, but something subtler. A collective awareness, the kind of instinctive stillness before something significant enters the room.
Then Kamihara Academy walks in.
Their delegation is a vision, midnight-black blazers with gold buttons, crisp white undershirts, ties perfectly knotted. Every movement is sharp, disciplined, purposeful. They don’t just walk; they arrive.
Leading them is a student with razor-straight posture, hands tucked neatly behind his back.
Ryoumen Sukuna.
And just like that, the whole room seems to narrow.
His presence is magnetic, but not loud. It’s a gravity people lean toward without meaning to, quiet, inevitable, inescapable. Eyes turn without command, whispers start without cause.
He looks the same as always: striking, immaculate, unreadable. The kind of composed you only learn from years of family dinners where emotions are carefully hidden behind wine glasses and expectation.
Yuuji sits up straighter without meaning to.
He watches Sukuna lead his delegation down the aisle, unhurried and unshaken, like the entire room belongs to him. And then, mid-step, mid-glance, Sukuna’s eyes flick toward him.
Just once. Clean. Subtle.
But they meet.
And Yuuji feels it.
A flicker of recognition sharp as a silver cufflink catching the light. A silent acknowledgment, born from childhood dinners and stiff etiquette lessons, from matching tailored suits they never got to choose.
It lasts no longer than a heartbeat before Sukuna looks away, expression perfectly unchanged.
He takes his seat with his delegation, hands folded neatly, jaw tight.
The whispers begin almost instantly.
“Was that Ryoumen?” someone murmurs behind Yuuji.
“He’s even colder in person,” another says.
“They say he’s a prodigy. Top of his class, star on the court.”
“I heard his family owns half the city.”
Nobara snorts loudly, leaning toward Maki. “I bet he uses steroids. No one gets a build like that naturally at this age.”
Maki raises a brow, unimpressed. “More likely he’s just genetically superior.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t trust people who look that perfect,” Nobara mutters.
Those two keep bickering, but Yuuji tunes them out.
He’s not surprised Sukuna’s here. He knew Kamihara was participating. He just didn’t expect him to… show up like this.
So composed.
So distant.
So exactly who their families always wanted him to be.
Yuuji swallows, the knot in his throat unfamiliar and unwelcome. It hits him then, heavy and quiet: Sukuna is going to be here. In these halls. Walking the same paths as where Yuuji’s daily life unfolds.
So close.
And yet, not close at all.
-
The cafeteria hums with a soft undercurrent of voices, trays clattering faintly against polished marble counters. Sunlight streams through the tall glass windows, spilling warmth across pristine tables and catching on the sharp lines of pressed uniforms. With the Golden Inter-Academy Cup underway, the room feels fuller than usual. Students from several schools are scattered among Jujutsu High’s own, their distinct blazers adding streaks of unfamiliar colour to the crowd.
Yuuji sits at one of the long tables, surrounded by his closest circle. Gojo and Getou, recently freed from athlete obligations, have rejoined them. Their presence pulling more than a few glances from nearby students. The air around their table hums with easy conversation and laughter, their group drawing attention without meaning to.
Yuuji leans back slightly, an easy, charming smile tugging at his lips. He’s effortlessly at ease here, elbow propped on the table, posture relaxed despite the tailored navy blazer that fits him almost too well. “So,” he begins smoothly, voice low but warm, “Gojo-senpai, Getou-senpai, what did you think of the ceremony? That opening speech lasted far too long, didn’t it?”
Gojo lets out a dramatic groan, throwing his head back. “Don’t remind me, Yuuji-kun. My legs went numb halfway through. Do you know how hard it is for someone this beautiful to sit still for two hours?”
“You weren’t sitting still,” Megumi says flatly from Yuuji’s left, barely glancing up from his tray.
“I was fidgeting artistically,” Gojo counters, lips quirking into a pout.
Nobara nearly chokes on her drink, snorting. “If ‘artistically’ means looking like a toddler trying to escape daycare, then sure, Gojo-senpai. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Getou hides a small smile behind the rim of his cup, while Toudou suddenly slams his palm against the table with enough force to rattle the utensils. “WHO CARES ABOUT SPEECHES?!” he bellows, making Maki jump and nearly drop her fork. “THE REAL BATTLE IS ON THE COURT!”
“Do you ever shut up?” Maki mutters, rubbing her temple with obvious restraint.
Nanami sets his utensils down neatly, sighing. “The real battle is our hearing versus your voice.”
Yuuji’s laugh ripples softly around the table, the sound carrying just enough to draw a few passing looks from students nearby. His charm isn’t loud; it’s easy, lived-in, the kind that slips under the surface before anyone notices.
He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm. “Anyway,” he says lightly, “what about the other schools? Did you watch any of them play after the ceremony?”
Before anyone can answer, a soft voice interrupts him.
“Itadori-kun.”
Yuuji turns, blinking as a student from their school approaches, holding out a small packet of snacks with both hands. Their cheeks are faintly pink, eyes darting nervously between Yuuji and the floor.
“Oh,” Yuuji says, smiling warmly as he accepts it. “Thanks.”
The student nods, seemingly satisfied by the exchange, and slips back into the flow of the cafeteria. Yuuji unwraps the snack without thinking much of it.
Gojo leans over lazily, peering at the packet. “Another one? You’re collecting fans, Yuuji-kun.”
Yuuji waves him off, cheeks faintly warm. “It’s just a snack, Gojo-senpai.”
Getou smirks faintly. “Mm. Just a snack.”
Their conversation slides back into easy chatter, spilling into discussions about upcoming matches and rumours about rival schools. Around them, the cafeteria buzzes with energy—voices rising, footsteps echoing, trays clinking—but within their circle, time feels comfortably slow.
Somewhere across the room, a group of Kamihara Academy students passes by, their black-and-gold uniforms crisp and immaculate. They move with quiet precision, laughter muted, their presence commanding without asking for attention. Among them is a figure Yuuji doesn’t notice, though he should.
Sukuna.
He slips through the crowd easily, his height making him hard to miss, yet somehow he draws no reaction from Yuuji at all. Their table is too alive with noise, with laughter, with warmth, and Sukuna doesn’t pause long enough to be noticed. A passing glance here, a fleeting shadow there, but nothing lingers.
By the time Yuuji finally looks up again, Kamihara’s delegation has already moved on, and the moment is gone.
He turns back to his friends, picking up the thread of conversation without hesitation.
By the end of lunch, Yuuji has almost forgotten Sukuna entirely.
-
When the final bell rings, students spill from classrooms into wide, sunlit hallways, voices echoing faintly as they head toward the parking lot or the front gates.
Yuuji adjusts the strap of his bag, walking with Nobara and Megumi toward the usual pick-up area. Chosou should be waiting with the family car like always. He’s halfway through complaining about today's lessons when his steps slow.
Because Chosou isn’t there.
Instead, a familiar pale figure stands near the sleek black sedan parked by the entrance.
Uraume.
“Good afternoon, Yuuji-sama,” they greet him, bowing slightly, their voice calm and cool as glass. “Sukuna-sama is waiting for you in the car. He’ll be taking you home today. Your driver has already been informed.”
Yuuji blinks, momentarily wrong-footed, but he recovers quickly, schooling his expression into something neutral.
“Right,” he says lightly, nodding once. “Thanks, Uraume-san.”
Nobara leans close, whispering just loud enough for Megumi to hear, “Wait. That Sukuna? He’s here?”
Megumi glances toward the car but says nothing, his expression unreadable but his jaw tense.
Yuuji waves them off, forcing a grin. “I’ll text you later.”
He makes his way toward the car, his pace steady even though his chest feels heavier with every step. Uraume opens the door for him, and the cool, faintly scented air of the vehicle wraps around him as he slides inside.
Sukuna is already seated.
He sits with one leg crossed over the other, posture sharp and deliberate, a hand resting lightly on the leather armrest. He looks up as Yuuji enters, eyes steady, face unreadable.
“Hey,” Yuuji says, trying for casual.
Sukuna inclines his head slightly. “Afternoon.”
The door shuts with a muted thud, sealing the space into silence. The partition between them and the driver closes, and the car eases smoothly out of the lot.
For a while, neither of them speaks. The hum of the engine fills the stillness, soft and constant, and sunlight filters in through tinted glass, slicing pale gold across Sukuna’s immaculate blazer. Yuuji stares out the window, watching the familiar scenery of the school slip by, strangely distant now.
“You didn’t have to send me home,” he says eventually, his tone even, almost offhand. He doesn’t look at Sukuna when he says it.
“I was already here,” Sukuna replies, his voice low, controlled in that way he always is. “I stayed to watch some of the matches. It was close to dismissal.”
Of course. Sukuna is just doing what’s expected of him. Always composed, always proper. Ever the perfect gentleman.
Yuuji nods once, his gaze still fixed on the passing streets. “How were they?”
“Fine.” Sukuna’s answer is simple, efficient, stripped of any excess.
Yuuji exhales softly through his nose, leaning back into the seat. This is how it always goes. Polite, minimal, precise. Sukuna talks like every word is weighed before being spoken, while Yuuji’s own spill out too easily, too warm against Sukuna’s cool restraint.
He tries again anyway.
“Your team looks strong,” Yuuji says, turning slightly toward him. “Are you excited for the match?”
There’s a small pause, just long enough to feel deliberate.
Sukuna hums, the sound low, though at least a little gentler.
And that’s it.
The conversation falls quiet again, stretching into something heavier than silence should ever be. Outside, the city moves as usual — streets lined with trees, the occasional shopfront, students spilling into crosswalks — but inside the car, the air feels still, contained.
Yuuji looks down at his hands, fiddling with the strap of his bag. It’s not frustration he feels, not exactly. More like… a kind of weight.
Because this is what it’s always been between them. Two names tied together by families, legacies, expectations neither of them asked for.
And yet, somehow, Sukuna feels further away now than ever.
The car slows as they near Yuuji’s house, the tall gates gliding open on cue. The sedan glides into the driveway and comes to a smooth, controlled stop.
Sukuna finally looks at him, just briefly. “Let Uraume open your door.”
Yuuji hesitates, then nods. When the door opens, sunlight spills across the leather seats, and he steps out, pausing for half a second before glancing back over his shoulder.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
Sukuna’s head tilts slightly, his reply as composed as always. “No problem.”
“See you soon, then,” Yuuji adds, softer this time, though he doesn’t really expect an answer.
“Mm.”
And that’s it. No lingering goodbyes, no effort to bridge the distance. Just the soft click of the door closing and Yuuji’s footsteps fading against the polished stone.
The car waits. Always. Sukuna never leaves until Yuuji is inside.
Only when the door shuts behind him does the sedan roll forward, disappearing past the gates.
-
It’s impossible to avoid his friends after the bombshell he dropped yesterday.
The bell for lunch barely rings before Yuuji grabs his bag, but he doesn’t make it three steps out of his seat before Nobara spins on him so fast he almost crashes into her.
“You.” She jabs a perfectly manicured finger into his chest, her voice sharp but low, buried under the chatter of the classroom. “Don’t think for a second you’re off the hook.”
Yuuji freezes like a deer in headlights. “We… already talked about this last night.”
Nobara narrows her eyes. “No. You sent me a pathetic four-line text at midnight.” She punctuates each word with another jab to his chest. “That’s not talking. That’s hiding.”
Leaning casually against Yuuji’s desk, Megumi crosses his arms, his expression calm but his voice firmer than usual. “She’s right. You barely explained anything.”
Yuuji groans, dragging both hands through his hair like he wants to disappear. “I told you, it’s just… an arrangement. Between families. That’s it.”
“Uh-huh,” Nobara deadpans, crossing her arms. “An arrangement that just happens to involve one Ryoumen Sukuna?”
Yuuji flinches at the name before he can stop himself.
“The same Ryoumen Sukuna,” she presses, leaning in closer, “who’s basically a national treasure on the court? That Sukuna?”
Megumi, quiet until now, tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharp. “You said it’s an arrangement,” he says evenly. “But you didn’t say what kind.”
Yuuji hesitates. “It’s… complicated.”
“Try me,” Nobara challenges, folding her arms like she’s preparing to interrogate him.
He glances between the two of them. Megumi hasn’t said much yet, but he’s watching Yuuji closely, quiet in that way that makes lying pointless. So Yuuji exhales and starts talking.
“My grandpa and his grandfather were close. Business stuff, politics, all that legacy crap,” he says, avoiding their eyes. “They decided we’d be tied together someday, to… I dunno, keep the families aligned.”
Both grandfathers are gone now — Sukuna’s years ago, Yuuji’s just last winter — but the arrangement stayed, carried forward like an unspoken rule neither of them asked for.
Nobara blinks. “You mean betrothed.”
Yuuji winces. “…Yeah.”
Her jaw drops. “Holy—” She cuts herself off, but her hands are already flying wildly. Yuuji's thankful that the class is empty now. “You’ve been engaged this whole time and you didn’t tell us?!”
“It’s not—” Yuuji groans, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not like that, okay? It’s not romantic. It’s just… something they decided. Without asking me. Without asking either of us.”
Nobara leans back, studying him. Her frustration softens barely. “And you’re okay with that?”
Yuuji hesitates, staring down at his hands. “…I don’t know.”
Megumi looks at him sharply, like he’s about to say something, when a voice like thunder booms from the hallway:
“BROTHERRRRR!”
Yuuji jumps so hard he nearly trips over his bag.
In stomps Toudou, larger than life, his presence sucking the air straight out of the classroom. “Lunch break means one thing!”
Yuuji blinks, still halfway between panic and confusion. “Food?”
Toudou slams both palms on a desk hard enough to make the pens jump. “BASKETBALL!”
“Kamihara Academy is playing right now.” Toudou bellows, pointing dramatically toward the window like he’s directing an army. “The great Ryoumen Sukuna will demonstrate his unparalleled strength today!”
“God, here we go,” Nobara mutters under her breath, leaning toward Megumi.
Toudou whirls on her instantly, wild-eyed. “We must witness our enemy’s power firsthand!”
Yuuji groans, rubbing his face like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.
Nobara crosses her arms, muttering just loud enough for Megumi to hear, “Enemy, huh. Yeah. If only you knew.”
Megumi says nothing, but his gaze flicks briefly to Yuuji, sharp — which is much worse than Nobara’s frustration.
Yuuji swallows and pretends not to notice.
-
The gym is already packed by the time they get there, buzzing with energy and heat. The game’s been going for a few minutes, but Kamihara Academy’s name alone is enough to draw a crowd. Everyone wants to catch a glimpse of him.
Ryoumen Sukuna.
The name ripples through the audience like static — whispered under breaths, shouted across bleachers, carried in bursts of excited chatter.
They weave through the edge of the crowd, but it’s hopeless. The front rows are crammed shoulder to shoulder, students leaning so far over the railing it looks dangerous. Up near centre court, Yuuji spots a flash of white hair. Gojo, eyes tracking every movement on the court, are looking more serious than usual. Getou sits besides him, eyes sharp as ever.
“Ugh,” Nobara mutters, scanning the chaos. “No way we’re getting close to the front.”
Megumi’s gaze lingers on the court. “Then we stay back.”
They settle on the highest bleacher, slightly removed from the noise but high enough to see everything. From here, the court gleams under the harsh lights. Sneakers squeak against polished wood, the sharp rhythm of passes and calls echoing up into the rafters.
Toudou sits beside Yuuji, taking up far too much space, vibrating with energy. Every time Sukuna moves, Toudou reacts like he’s watching a divine revelation. “Look at his footwork! Look at his precision! What a formidable enemy! That’s a god walking among mortals!”
Yuuji groans and shoves him lightly. “You’re embarrassing us, Senpai.”
“More like running,” Nobara says dryly, leaning forward with her chin resting on her hand. Her gaze is fixed on the court, but her voice has that sharp edge Yuuji recognises — the one that always comes before trouble. “So that’s him.”
Yuuji stiffens instantly. “Don’t.”
“Your little… arrangement.”
Yuuji groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Not here, Kugisaki.”
She puts it down for now, eyes glued to Sukuna’s every movement. “He’s insane.”
On the court, Sukuna commands attention without even trying. Every pass, every feint, every shot looks effortless, his movements sharp and precise like they’re carved into muscle memory. Yuuji can’t help the excitement bubbling inside him.
It might’ve been fun, he thinks, being one of the players.
Yuuji had always been good at sports. Quick on his feet, stronger than most, the kind of kid who got picked first without even trying. There were times he’d felt completely at home on a team.
Their families would’ve loved it. Him and Sukuna, side by side, golden boys on and off the court.
Yuuji doesn't want that. He wants to play for fun. Not for image, not for legacy, and definitely not to be measured against someone he’s tied to by an arrangement he has no say in.
Nobara leans back just enough to give Yuuji a sideways glance. “Damn, Itadori. You sure you’re not secretly aiming for him? ’Cause I’m seeing chemistry potential.”
Yuuji chokes. “What?!”
Toudou gasps like she’s committed blasphemy. “Chemistry?! With Ryoumen Sukuna?!” He looks between them, scandalised. “Brother, why didn’t you tell me this?”
“I didn’t— There isn’t— It’s not like that!” Yuuji hisses, shoving Toudou’s arm off his shoulder.
“Sure, sure,” Nobara says, smirking now. Her voice turns quieter. “All I’m saying is, if you’re tied to someone like that, maybe warn us next time. I almost feel betrayed.”
Yuuji slumps against the railing, silently praying for the floor to swallow him.
Through it all, Megumi hasn’t said a word, but Yuuji can feel his gaze on him every so often, quiet and measuring. It’s not judgment, not exactly. More like Megumi’s keeping track of every flicker of expression Yuuji has, reading him without asking.
The game winds down with Kamihara dominating. The final buzzer sounds, and the crowd erupts into cheers when Sukuna lands the winning shot. Students surge toward the exits and railings, phones out, desperate to get closer, but Yuuji doesn’t move.
He keeps his eyes on the court until Sukuna disappears into the locker room, towel slung around his neck, surrounded by teammates and trainers. Untouchable.
The bell signalling the end of lunch break finally drags them out of the gym and back into the buzzing halls.