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astrotosis · 2 months ago

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Title: Tethered Summary: It starts on his sixteenth birthday—in the years that follow, Nanami slowly grows to accept the recurring appearances of a particular spirit as being synonymous with marking some of his trips around the sun, bringing some sharp thorns from his past to persistently prick into his present. Content tags: Nanami-centric (with x Reader), Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence (post-Shibuya), Introspection, Slow Romance, Getting Together, Healing, Growing Old/Growing Old Together WC: 10k A/N: Written for @nanamiweek, combining the following prompts: Day 3 (HBD Nanami), Day 4 (Beach Day) and Day 6 (Scars). Also on AO3

There is something invigorating about walking on a jetty on the beach—perched high enough to avoid the waves’ spray yet hovered low enough to hear the vibrant sound of their whispering rolls.

Perhaps it is this impression, along with the salty tang of the sea air stinging his nostrils with each strained breath, and the rhythmic creak of the weathered wooden promenade beneath his boots, that fuels this man to defiantly trudge onward.

He could hear them now, the faint echoes of his lover’s voice, the way she’d always cautioned him against going too far on his daily walks, reprimanding him for his stubbornness, in her particular outspokenness that he grew to cherish. He’d often prove her right, refusing to heed her warnings, much to her frequent exasperation.

How he misses her.

But she’s not here now.

Now, it’s just him.

Just him and himself.

It is a fierce, cold wind that has now replaced the usually gentle sea breeze, a prelude to the brewing storm that has long been approaching as manifested through gusts that ominously crash against the waves, pushing people to retreat into the safer indoors, leaving the beach deserted as a result.

The man’s brows furrow and his eyes squint in strain as the wind appears to pick up with each daring step he takes, as though to warn him with a message that is all too familiar to him.

The one that whispers that he isn’t supposed to be here.

Nanami isn’t supposed to be here.

His mind flits something of a whirlwind, shuffling through the series of successive events over the past twelve hours that have led to his current predicament: bent at the hip, ankles deep in chilly ocean water that has long seeped into the hem of his rolled up pants, practically crawling under the aged, wooden boardwalk in a frenetic search for a volleyball that was visibly tossed much further than he’s anticipated.

Today’s saga found its beginning in the early hours of that very morning, and if the strident ringer from Nanami’s phone hadn’t already entirely jolted him out of the deep sleep he was enjoying, then Haibara’s energetic voice on the other line would have completed the endeavor.

“This one’s in Kyoto, by the coast!” Haibara had exclaimed on the phone that morning, his voice vibrant with enthusiasm. “Geto-san said that they’re about halfway done with their assigned mission. If we manage to catch the next train, we’ll arrive just in time to watch them see it through, leaving us plenty of time to hit the beach afterward!”

Nanami tiredly tried to follow along as his classmate spoke eagerly of yet another mission they were called to tag along for as unofficial backup to their first-year schoolmates, an occurrence that had become all too common as of late. It was the kind of assignment with stakes that weren’t so insignificant that Yaga-sensei would officially authorize it, but low enough that he was willing to look the other way as long as the mission was cleared successfully and that his students returned in a safe and timely manner.

It was often under the ostensible guise of furthering their underclassmen’s hands-on field experience that the seniors advocated for these unsanctioned outings. But it didn’t take much long after enrolling at Tokyo Jujutsu High for it to become apparent to Nanami, that each of these efforts by Gojo, Geto, and Shoko carried a mandate that was rooted in something deeper, something of a vested interest in ensuring that they felt like they belonged.

One early morning train ride, a partial Jujutsu mission, a road trip to the beach, and what was perhaps too many matches of doubles beach volleyball refereed by Shoko later, the once-friendly competition between Gojo and Geto had decidedly reached its fever pitch, as it often did. They were both absolute menaces in situations like this, a dynamic duo of disruption, their combined laughter and mischief taking up all the space in the air as they wreaked havoc with gleeful abandon in the never-ending battle of surpassing one another.

And while Nanami certainly preferred the lesser evil of having Geto as his teammate, it also meant the ordeal of being matched against Gojo.

Case in point: An overzealous serve of the ball by Gojo sent it flying at an unreasonable speed and distance, landing somewhere right by the shore, under a wooden boardwalk in the distance.

“Ouuuut,” Shoko said, placid as ever, glancing up from her phone only for the brief seconds it took her to call the play.

“Satoru…” chastised Geto. “You truly overdid it this time!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you said you could ‘handle anything I shot your way’?” Gojo said, gesturing air quotes with his fingers. “Too damn bad. Nanami, it’s your ball!” he added, earning an irritated groan from his classmate in response.

Such is how Nanami finds himself now, circling each of the wooden pillars that make up the underside of the boardwalk, scanning the shore for this elusive ball. He’s just about to give up after nearly ten minutes of no luck when he finally spots it, just a few feet away, swaying rhythmically in the waves. He trudges towards it, the heavy weight of the water dragging at his legs, dictating a lumbering pace. Just as he crouches to grasp the ball, a forceful current suddenly surges up, forming a wave that carries the ball in its backward pull, placing it a few meters further away.

Damn it, he thinks to himself.

Nanami begins to cross the newfound distance between himself and the ball, heading deeper into the water, which now reaches just below his knee. For the second time, he bends down to lift it and for the second time, an unusually abrupt tide drags it just out of striking distance.

He stands rigid, narrowing his eyes at the water as he tries to pinpoint the source of the unnatural force that appears to be simmering beneath it. Just as he does, he feels it; first as a low hum, not entirely dissimilar to the distinctive frequency carried by cursed energy. It’s faint but palpable, as though it is being suppressed, concealed, or even protected. And right now, it feels like it’s literally hanging over his head.

Nanami peers up above his head, where the energy feels to be the most concentrated. The jetty’s tightly fitted planks block his sight, but somewhere under the gentle sound of lapping waves and beneath the chatter of the crowd above, he feels it, more than he hears it—the slight creaking of the wooden balustrade’s edge under someone leaning against it, reinforcing an uneasy feeling of being watched.

The young sorcerer backs off slowly, shifting one foot behind the other over the sandy bottom as he wades backward, keenly seeking the angle that will provide him the view he needs to confirm exactly what’s up there. As he tries to fix his gaze toward the source of energetic turmoil, the thoughts crowd into his mind, jostling each other to reach the end of the line.

What if this is a cursed spirit? Is he even equipped to take this on? Are the civilians up there in danger? Would he have the time to warn them before finding a way to reach Gojo and the others to come assist?

How did he end up in this mess, at a beach he’s not supposed to be at, after a mission he wasn’t assigned to, in a secluded zone he has no business wandering into?

As the energy signature intensifies, its resemblance to cursed energy diminishes, culminating in a vibrant yet unidentified buzz.

Nanami continues his slow march, easing backward through the water and squinting upwards as he begins to see a form coming into view with each step: the outline of a head, hair clipped short and gray, the shadow of hunched yet broad, masculine shoulders, seemingly bent forward by the weight of the passing years, an earnestly hunched silhouette, slender but not sickly, leaning still against the wooden railing.

The teen squints again, finding himself unable to make out the specific facial features of what increasingly appears to be an elderly man, but he doesn’t need to realize that whoever is up there is already watching him as if waiting to finally be noticed.

The water suddenly veers beneath Nanami’s feet and he returns his attention to it, as yet another unnatural, seemingly localized current materializes, but this time, the wave shifts inland, and the volleyball swirls and twists with its momentum, riding it downwards and settling right by his feet. By the time the sorcerer brings his eyes back up towards the boardwalk, the man has disappeared, along with the strange energy signature, faded into nothingness, as if it was never there.

Nanami scoops the worn ball into his hands and quickly makes his way towards the start of the boardwalk. The coarse wood grates against his wet, bare feet as he jogs toward where the man stood mere moments ago. Who he finds here instead is a mother carefully lifting her infant to peer up over the balustrade, a young couple taking a selfie against the backdrop of the setting sun, and an older man, shorter and stockier than the silhouette he saw minutes ago accompanying what appears to be his granddaughter, who is captivated by the endeavor of blowing soap bubbles into the air.

Whoever that man is, he is now decidedly gone.

He can’t quite tell how much time he’s spent away from his group of friends, but once he finally returns to the volleyball net, Nanami finds it to be long abandoned. A quick scan of the beach, and his eyes find his classmates a few feet away, huddled on the ground on a blanket they’d set on the sand.

The four figures he expects to see are accompanied by an additional one, and he quickly recognizes, even from this distance, the signature red and white Miko attire that has become distinctive of Utahime-senpai. And if he weren’t already sure that it was her, her familiarly indignant voice as she addresses Gojo confirms it.

“Gojo, you idiot, you’ll ruin it!” she exclaims, through gritted teeth.

“It’s not my fault you’re too weak to open it, Utahime,” taunts Gojo.

Geto is the first to spot Nanami.

“Oh, there you are, Nanami! What took you so long?” he says in a volume Nanami notices to be louder than his usual and as he not-so subtly elbows Gojo in the side.

All heads snap up at once, turning towards Nanami.

“Ah, nothing,” Nanami says, feeling a bit on the spot, coming to the unthinking decision to omit the details of what he’s just experienced. “It just took me a while to fetch the ball after Gojo sent it to Narnia.”

The rest of the group slowly huddles back closely around the object of their previous attention, from which Nanami’s view is blocked. Geto’s gaze lingers on Nanami for an extended moment before he stands to his feet. Just as he does, an abrupt, audible snap resonates through the air, drawing a shocked yelp from Utahime, a slight jump in Haibara preceding a sudden movement that sends what looks like a large, round, plastic lid flying into the air, landing right at Geto’s feet.

“You absolute bastard!” Utahime all but screams, much to Gojo’s thrilling laugh.

“Now, now, you two,” Shoko cuts in. “Nanami is here, aren’t you forgetting something?”

Haibara is the next to stand, finally revealing what they were all absorbed with: a large round cake. And as the others also stand to their feet, they all say the phrase inscribed on it in unison:

“Happy Birthday, Nanami!”

Still disoriented by the whirlwind of the afternoon’s events, Nanami is only further confused by all this. He closes his eyes briefly in an attempt to recall the date he’d read off his phone after ending his call with Haibara earlier this morning: June 30th, Friday.

“I… You guys realize my birthday isn’t for another four days, right?”

“Yes, but see,” starts Gojo, “right now it’s technically closer to midnight than not…”

“Which means we’re closer to July first which is technically the start of your birthday month,” adds Haibara, imitating the exaggerated tone Gojo has taken.

“We’ all happen to be here in Kyoto and Utahime-senpai was able to join, so we figured we could do an early celebration,” concludes Shoko.

“I know you’re not one for surprises,” Geto adds with a smile, bringing his hand up to sheepishly rub the back of his neck, “but don’t hate us too much for this, okay?”

Geto’s comment drags Nanami out of his nebulous state of confusion, which is quickly replaced by a small sting of guilt at the inadvertently tempered reaction he’s having to his friends’ thoughtful kindness.

“Of course I don’t hate you,” Nanami says quietly. “I just truly didn’t expect it.”

“Duh, that’s how surprises work, dummy!” Gojo exclaims.

Shoko pulls out her disposable camera. “Alright, picture time, everyone. Haibara, go stand next to the birthday boy and make sure to hold the cake so that the letters are right side up.”

“Careful not to drop it, Haibara,” says Gojo. “You already know Utahime has used up all of her strength for the day and won’t be able to get us another one.”

Utahime shoots him a deathly glare in response, swinging her arm and just missing a now cackling Gojo. With an exasperated sigh, Geto places himself between the two to prevent any further escalation.

Nanami uses the brief moment of distraction to turn his head around, giving one final inconspicuous glance towards the boardwalk, the man’s silhouette assuredly absent, and he feels the experience fade into something that is more hallucination than memory.

“Everyone else, huddle up,” Shoko calls out as she stands at Nanami’s side, opposing Haibara. She glances up at him, meeting his gaze with a knowing grin as she murmurs her next words. “Hey, try to smile for this one, okay Mr. grumpy face?” She presses closer to his side and flips the camera lens towards them. “Who knows when we’ll next all be gathered together like this.”

Perhaps it’s this particular time of year that causes Nanami’s thoughts to grasp onto the sweet remembrance of that beach day whose chaotic allure has since been dulled by the passage of time and for which a newfound context of tragedy has transformed it into the memory of a halcyon evening spent among his dearest friends.

It was certainly a far cry from whatever this is.

A few cheap pizzas cut into the thinnest slices imaginable to accommodate three floors’ worth of employees who were now crammed onto one, and a cursed spirit lingering in the right top corner of the room.

It’s a small one, a wee Fly Head, but its wings are flapping about, tapping against the ceiling, repeatedly, obnoxiously, as if carrying the sole mandate of unnerving Nanami.

And yet somehow, it’s not even the most contemptible thing in the room.

“Nanamiiii,” comes the irksome voice of Nanami’s manager close to his ear, too close, as he wraps his arm around his shoulder, violating any kind of personal space deemed socially acceptable. “Loosen up, will you? We’re celebrating the end of another prosperous quarter, but we’re also celebrating you! Isn’t it your birthday around this time of year?”

“It was last Saturday,” Nanami says curtly, fighting the urge to shake off the arm of the man who is most unbecoming of the title of team lead, judging by the smell of beer on his breath in what is supposed to be the middle of a workday, among other things.

“Whaaa-aa-aat?” the smarmy man replies, his voice a staccato burst between drunken hiccups. “And you didn’t tell me? Well, tell me this then, Nanami Kento, how does one of the highest performing up-and-coming banking analysts in Tokyo celebrate a trip around the sun?”

Nanami feels himself growing more irritated by the second, wanting nothing more than to tell this man to piss off, but unlike his boss, he knows to employ a modicum of decorum.

“By staying home and enjoying my peace.” The words come out clipped and strained, despite Nanami’s best attempts at concealing his acerbity.

“Now that’s unacceptable. As your boss, I order you to let me take you out to make up for your failed birthday. Have you ever been to Club Opal? The chicks there would kill one another to get to someone like you believe m—”

Whatever constitutes the rest of that unsavory rambling goes into one ear and out the other, as Nanami settles for a distraction, turning his attention towards the Fly Head, fixing it as it taunts, mocks, and wiggles about just above the office’s door frame, opting to contend with the unpleasant vibes of a cursed spirit over the unpleasant vibes of the man next to him.

The strangeness of the moment does not take away from its familiarity. It’s the usual sentiment of dissonance that orbits around Nanami every so often, particularly in moments like this, when he’s pushed to literally face a world he’s tried so hard to leave behind.

A pivot, is what he’s told himself for so long, towards something better. He’d repeat it to himself as he made his monthly checks on his brokerage account, mentally calculating the number of years he had left before he could turn the page on all of this, before he could start earnestly living.

Surely this is better.

Later that evening, Nanami finds himself in a near-empty office. For as much as his manager likes to boast about the firm’s outputs, he certainly does not grant commensurate attention for the inputs they require. The ‘team morale’ activity he’s subjected the firm to for nearly two hours earlier that afternoon has eaten into so much precious start of quarter productivity time. As nice as it would otherwise be, money doesn’t sleep, and now Nanami finds himself suffering from his own success, saddled with a number of newly assigned clients he must onboard before the markets open overseas.

With still a few more hours of work ahead of him and in the face of what increasingly looks like some much-dreaded overtime, Nanami stands up, grabbing his jacket from where he’d draped it over his chair, and decides to head out on a much-needed break.

While there is undoubtedly no way to fully recapture the lost time at lunch when he would usually decompress, this is the next best thing, Nanami thinks as he exits the convenience store he’s stopped by, with a specific cod roe onigiri rice cake in hand, his go-to whenever he finds himself out and about past the operating hours of his go-to bakery, one introduced to him by Haibara, years ago, when he’d been in a similar conundrum—a second choice that has come to grow on him over time.

Well on his walk back to his office, he reaches a crossroads at a major boulevard, waiting at the pedestrian light. From this juncture, Nanami typically opts to take the more scenic route, lounging the river right where it cuts through the heart of the city, making the extra ten minutes it adds to his journey well worth the time.

Nanami thinks it to be an illusion when he first spots him.

Right across the way, waiting at the opposing light, stands a strangely familiar figure. Though he’s only seen him once before, Nanami immediately recognizes him, even from this distance, both by his uncanny allure and, perhaps more importantly, by the unique, uneasy, barely detectable buzzing aura he carries, the exact same as the one from the beach all those years ago.

In the moment, it is a visceral reaction, a shuddering recoil of rejection that shakes through the former sorcerer.

He turns away briefly, for the short time it takes him to glance at the light on the perpendicular street—an eight-second countdown until it goes red—before facing forward once more. Despite the number of people who have moved up ahead towards the sidewalk, Nanami’s view of the man is only slightly blocked, and not enough to see that he is fixing him directly.

Hell no, are the words echoing through his mind.

The light goes green.

Nanami shifts directions and crosses towards the other path, the one that will get him back to his office quicker; what had felt like a prison to him a mere moment ago now spells his freedom. He takes long, quick strides, passing, practically shoving past a few slower pedestrians along the way, and despite every fiber of his being compelling him to do so, he doesn’t turn back once.

It’s only after he badges through the various security checkpoints of his office building and enters the empty elevator leading to his floor, that he looks down at his hands, finding his once perfectly shaped rice ball, reduced to a sad, flattened shadow of itself, its seaweed wrapped slightly torn, a testament to how tightly he’d been clenching his fist.

When Nanami crosses the threshold of his office door, it happens in a blink, his reaction so instinctual, so reflexive that he only registers it after it’s done.

When the grating sound of the Fly Head’s wings tapping away, having since lowered itself just by where Nanami’s head enters the doorway, penetrating directly into his ear, it finds a deep-seated fire he’d thought to have long since buried, triggering an ingrained response from him.

And with a swift slash of his bare hand, he exorcises the curse out of existence.

It’s an act that immediately taps into something that invigorates him, answers the call of instinct, reestablishes order.

Almost like he’s supposed to be doing this.

It supports a long-suppressed echo of an idea, a truth heavy with implications he’s painstakingly avoided confronting thus far, one that now settles as a weight settling over his chest.

He sinks into his office chair, and suddenly the entire situation seems upside down, and makes no sense, like a spreadsheet with misaligned cells, pulling the wrong data into the right formula. The pile of neatly stacked folders containing the largely coveted, prosperous accounts that would inch him one step closer to an early retirement feels inconsequential now.

As he bites into his crushed rice ball, the taste taking him back to an era he’s long convinced himself could neatly stay in the one corner of his mind relegated to the past, without interference, Nanami tangibly feels the sentiment firmly ensconce itself into a queasy sensation in his upper abdomen.

The idea that perhaps he should have taken the second path.

B5F.

In his mind’s haze, the mental order of operation Nanami attempts to hang onto becomes increasingly nebulous as the seconds tick by, with priorities shuffling in his mind like musical chairs.

A single evening, five grueling hours, divided into what feels like a million pieces.

Through it all, one objective stands out in the form of a single term.

B5F.

Nanami tries to focus his intent on this purpose. It’s his ticket out of this mess. The names frantically flash through his mind like a rapid kaleidoscope whose pacing is attuned to his heartbeat’s tempo.

Gojo. Ijichi. Kugisaki. Zenin. Fushiguro.

Haibara?

No, it’s Itadori. Or, Haibara, then Itadori. Or no, Haibara pointing at Ita—

The world tilts, suddenly.

“Ah, thanks for the coffee, Nanami! I can really use it today!” comes Haibara’s cheerful voice, slicing through the fog of Nanami’s muddled thoughts. With a grateful look in his eyes, his friend expectantly holds out his hand.

Nanami looks down at his own hand, shocked to find a metallic can of chilled coffee instead of the familiar grip of the blunt sword he swears he’s been holding until now. Hesitantly, he offers the can, already feeling the cold condensation dampening his palm, and he watches as his friend pops the can open, the soft fizz of cold pressure releasing vividly palpable in the otherwise still air. His eyes wander, as he’s drawn to survey the environment.

Familiar benches. Distinctive uniforms. Tokyo Jujutsu Tech.

“This is unusual,” Nanami’s confusion deepens as he hears his own words tumble out of his mouth so effortlessly, their sound so strangely detached from himself before his body moves to sit next to Haibara, as if he’s watching a movie of himself.

“I need to stay awake for our exam later. I barely slept last night…” comes Haibara’s reply as he takes a sip before letting out a satisfied sigh. “You know when you’re having a vivid dream, and then you get into some trouble, say you’re falling or something? You feel the imminent danger, but then, right before impact, right as you think it’s all over… Bang!” He emphasizes the last word with a hit of his nails against his coffee can, the sound resounding louder than expected to Nanami’s ears, before he dramatically concludes, his voice dropping a few octaves “And then you wake up.”

Nanami can only stare at Haibara, taking in the detail of his signature popped-up collar, of his distinctive bowl cut, of the liveliness of his eyes.

“Hypnotic jerk, I think, was what Ieri-san called it?” Haibara says, finding his jolly tone once more. “Or was it a hypnic jerk? Something jerk, right, Geto-san?”

He leans to look over and across Nanami, who follows his glance and nearly jumps when he notices Geto Suguru sitting on the bench on the other side of him.

Was he always sitting here?

Geto looks a bit haggard, disturbed, distant. His hair is down, his eyes are sullen and fixed ahead, and he carries a dispirited allure that is unlike him. If Haibara notices this, he doesn’t show it; Nanami, on the other hand, sees it clear as day.

“Geto-san?” Nanami starts, his words appearing to be the only thing that pulls his upperclassman from his apparent stupor and almost instantly, his demeanor transfigures, eyes softening, mouth twisting into a wistful smile.

The world tilts again.

Geto looks different, a bit livelier now. When did he tie his hair? When did he change into his uniform?

“That’s our call, so we better board our flight. Ready to go, Nanami?” he asks gently, with a simple flick of his wrist toward his left.

Nanami glances over in the direction towards which Geto is pointing, his eyes finding the polished chrome of an illegible sign reflecting a harsh fluorescent lighting. In the background, the low, distant hum of a jet engine thrums.

An airport gate.

Nanami is already half standing when he hears it, in a voice that rings distant yet familiar.

“He’s not ready,” comes the voice, as though to respond in his place.

Nanami scans the area to find the only other presence in the largely empty seating area—a figure now eerily recognizable to him, the mysterious, seemingly inescapable, man.

Not this again.

Enough.

“The hell I’m not!” Nanami shoots back, indignation and bewilderment coalescing into an energy that jolts him as it courses through his veins.

“It’s okay, Nanami,” says Haibara in an unusually contrite tone that immediately draws Nanami’s attention. “He can catch the next one and meet us later, right, Geto-san?” He adds, as he turns towards Geto and stands to join his side just by the gate.

“No, I’m ready now,” Nanami calls towards Haibara, as he tries to move, but he finds his legs unable to budge, as though his feet are cemented into the ground.

“You are not,” the man says again, his voice louder in volume but no less calm in tone.

“Enough,” Nanami hears himself saying, jerking against the resistance of his unresponsive feet.

The world tilts, forcefully so.

Dagon and Pain.

Jogo and Burns.

Mahito and…

B5F.

He’s back at Shibuya Station.

Mahito’s arm is reaching towards him. No. It’s already there, his synthetic, stitched-up hand already on his chest, already touching him and Nanami feels himself being ripped apart in a pain that is so shattering, in an invasion that feels so violating, a blow that hits the deepest part of his soul, brimming with an ultimate finality.

Sand and beach. Novels and peace.

I need to be on that flight. The flight will take me there.

His muscles strain as he channels the remainder of his energy, a desperate gasp building in his chest before the words, tight with grim resolve, are rasped out, “I’m read—“

“No,” says the man, his voice the loudest it’s been yet, resounding in Nanami’s mind. “Not here.”

The 7:3 sorcerer feels himself suffocating with a potential energy that stretches beyond anything he feels his body can possibly sustain.

Bang!

With a gasp, a jolting sensation travels through his body, coursing from his heart, back and up through his spine, up into his head, and Nanami jerks upright, his back hitting a hard, wood-like surface behind him.

And then you wake up.

It takes Nanami a moment to gather and reorient himself to his whereabouts. His vision is slightly blurry before reality bleeds into focus, revealing an ornate bush that stretches a few feet before him, running parallel to the bench he finds himself seated on, adorned with the hydrangeas he now remembers idly counting before he must have dozed off only to wake up just as he was about to…

A young woman appears in the distance ahead, trudging around the corner, leaning on a walker for support as she makes her way down the paved path. Following closely behind her is another woman donning the scrubs worn by the specialists on staff.

Nanami is back at the physical rehabilitation center, the place he’s been calling home for the last six weeks.

Physically, he’s on the mend, if the specialists are to be believed, with every day bringing him closer to recovery. Slowly he’s regaining sensation in his nerves. His burn scars remain, but they’ve already begun to fade, thanks to the unparalleled restorative elements of Shoko’s arduous RCT sessions. “lucky”, “favorable”, and “miraculous” were some of the words he’d heard her say, and he knew her well enough to know that she would never employ such words so lightly, if at all.

And yet, they’re not exactly the words he’d employ himself because mentally, he’s a yo-yo, at best, with every thought taking him anywhere up towards the respite granted by gratitude before dropping him down towards the darkest sentiments of guilt.

This time around, Nanami’s feet do respond when he stands to walk. He crosses the distance out of the garden area, back into the facility, and straight to the reception area, slowly but assuredly, determined to be undeterred by the throbbing pain in his left hip, and the slight limp that creeps into his step.

“Hi. I’m here for my physiotherapy appointment. 2 PM,” he says, a refrain he now utters on autopilot, thanks to having repeated it three times a week for a little over a month now.

“Sure, can you confirm your last name, first name, and birthdate for me, please?” the receptionist says, barely looking up from her screen, her tone monotone, her typing carrying a robotic cadence.

“Nanami, Kento. July 3rd 1990.”

“Oh,” she says with a little more life to her tone as she glances up towards him. “That’s tomorrow, isn’t it? Happy early birthday.”

To this, he winces and oddly finds himself struggling to formulate a basic response. Fortunately for him, she appears to be as unconcerned as her bored expression.

“The doctor is ready to see you,” she says, moving on. “He’s not in his usual office, so you’ll want to turn around the first corner on your right. Ward B, room 6F. If you’d like me to get you a walker to help—”

“No, I’ll be fine. Thanks,” Nanami cuts in, before turning around and heading towards his assigned room.

B6F.

Perhaps this too is fate signalling her message—that much like the natural sequential progression of numbers, life goes on.

If your first meeting with Nanami Kento goes better than you’d expected it, then the first argument you have with him is a stark contrast to your initial impression of him.

In all the time you’ve been around him, you’ve never felt such levels of disquiet.

Not the first time you nervously introduced yourself as his assigned partner when he first joined your team at work in a newly established compliance department, a joint venture between Jujutsu society and the government, formed as a result of a commission on the lack of accountability that led to the catastrophes at Shibuya.

Not weeks later, when he was sifting through the Kyoto Jujutsu high reports about the Shibuya incidents, you surreptitiously watched as his jaw tensed and his breath hitched as he read through some previously withheld, gruesome details of what some of those student sorcerers witnessed and were subjected to.

Not even a few months after that, when you saw the flip side of his contained demeanor, triggered while on a joint assignment together when a representative of the Jujutsu higher-ups was giving you both the run around on a field report for a major operation whose compliance you were tasked to oversee. At least in that outburst—which consisted of direct, incisive commentary on the rep’s lack of integrity—had been justified and aimed at the right target.

A far cry from what had occurred just now.

The events of October 31st marked several individual tragedies for virtually everyone in the city. Each has had a loved one, a friend, a neighbor, a teacher, or someone in their lives who was somewhat impacted by the incidents of that evening.

For you, it was your best friend, the one you’d shared everything with since childhood—you lived on the same streets, went to the same schools, and shared countless memories. On that ill-fated Halloween, it had happened so quickly; you’d suddenly gotten separated by the panicked, thickening crowd and in the blink of an eye she had been locked inside just as the veil formed, leaving you on the other side. She perished, and you survived. No rhyme, no reason. Just one very tragic night.

Your grief took many forms as you processed the events of that day, and as the reality of the world as the once-secret Jujutsu society was forced to unveil itself to the public. When the government announced the new department of Jujutsu compliance and their intent to staff it with a coalition of sorcerers and non-sorcerers alike, you didn’t think twice about leaving your old career behind and signing up for the training they offered.

Since the day you were paired with Nanami, you’d been what some might call snoopy, others diligent—sifting through over a decade’s worth of recently declassified Jujutsu society records, searching through the mentions of Nanami Kento, an attempt to learn more about your recluse colleague. The impact of a particular mission gone wrong, involving one Yu Haibara was felt by you almost as soon as you finished reading up on it, both in the understanding it brought to your reserved colleague and in the similarities it drew to your own recent loss.

Perhaps it was a certain shared pain anchored in a degree of survivor’s guilt that provided the avenue for you and Nanami to bond, after working that one particular assignment together, the one that successfully exposed a seminal flaw in the Jujutsu mission assignment system, sorcerers cutting corners in a communication protocol that could make or break the safety of a mission.

It was this tricky, intricate assignment that you’d been working on for weeks on end, one that had granted you a unique proximity to Nanami. Your skill in information-gathering skills as a trained information systems expert proved to be a great complement to Nanami’s extensive Jujutsu knowledge as a former active sorcerer.

Together, you crushed the assignment.

Together, you formed a good team.

Aided by the pretext of idle discussion between work partners, the conversation became easier after that job. At first, you often found yourself taking the first tentative steps, offering bits of yourself with lighter topics like where you were from and where you were headed, before the tragedy, before the world changed.

Slowly but surely, Nanami reciprocated, allowing you to peel his layers, exposing bits and pieces of his story, of his world. Eventually, you grew closer, and the transition from colleagues to friends was marked not by a single event, but a series of moments marked by shared pains and clever quips, with one particular occasion standing out vividly: Nanami delivering a particularly caustic comment at the expense of an annoying sorcerer you’d had the misfortune of having to collaborate with, one that had you giggling into your cup of tea, despite his seriousness. You can feel it still, whenever you recall it—the brief silence that hung in the air, thick with unspoken tension before it shattered and melted away with the sound of your combined laughter.

And now, the atmosphere is quite the opposite.

By the time you’re following Nanami out the exit to Tokyo Jujutsu High, you find yourself barely able to wait before speaking, feeling your own temper simmer beneath the surface. You were here on assignment, attending a meeting with some of the administrative staff about a new protocol you were helping put in place, a meeting that went far better than the encounter that followed it.

“Alright, Kento, you really didn’t have to rebuff him like you did,” you call after him, trying to keep up as he takes long, brisk strides toward the gate. “That was objectively wrong, and you know it.”

“You knew better than to bring him here.”

“I didn’t bring him anywhere. We are at the school. Yuuji goes here.”

“You know what I mean—”

“He came to me with his idea. Came for you, for your—”

Nanami halts, turning around to face you before delivering his clipped response. “And you encouraged it.”

“Well,” you say as you cross your arms over your chest, matching his defensive tone. “I certainly didn’t discourage it if that’s what you’re reproaching me for.”

“I set a boundary, and you ignored it… You’re getting way too comfortable.”

His words contain an acerbity you’ve rarely seen him employ, especially not towards you. They both sting and shock you, leaving you nearly breathless, scoffing in stunned disbelief.

“When have I ignored your boundaries? Actually, don’t answer that just yet, because this isn’t about me, it isn’t about Yuuji, it’s not even about the three days he’s spent gleefully, desperately taking to organizing this small celebration of one of the people he cares for the most and who is still around—this is about you.”

“I explicitly said—”

“What you explicitly said was that you didn’t want anything ostentatious for your birthday, and you would have seen the lengths Yuuji has gone to respect your wishes if you’d just given him the chance to show you what he had planned. But you didn’t, and instead, you left him shattered.”

You watch as his jaw tightens, the raised lines of his left cheek catching the midday light and he averts his gaze, but not so quickly that you don’t notice the flicker of guilt that crosses his earth-toned eyes. You can feel it finally, his air of confrontation collapsing, finally a hint of perturbation. But the fuse has already been lit within you, and at the moment, all you think is to capitalize on this.

“And since we’re here, perhaps we should talk about what you don’t explicitly say. You said I ignore your boundaries? I happen to believe that there is a difference between a boundary and the big fat steel wall you like to hide behind. But if I’m wrong, then you’ll excuse me for ‘getting too comfortable’ one more time, to say this. You—”

“Enough, I’m not discussing this here,” he says as he moves to turn around and starts to walk down the path leading off the campus grounds.

“Kento, please. Don’t walk away from this too,” you say, loud and firm. Then, quieter, “Please, let me say my piece.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you almost regret them, because it is very clear to you, the litmus test underlying what you’re asking him, the question that has been plaguing your mind over the last few weeks as you felt your friendship taking a sharp, deeper, more intimate turn.

You consider it a glimmer of hope, an assumption that you’re at least in the same book if not on the same page when Nanami tenses before he finally turns around, and you watch his mouth open, as though he’s deciding between speaking or disengaging. And when he meets your gaze, his falters almost immediately, breaking once more, and it dawns on you that this is the first time that you’ve ever seen him this vulnerable.

“You don’t explicitly say that the reason you’re so averse to your birthday is because you don’t think you deserve one,” you say as calmly as your pounding heart allows you to, as you look to speak to his depths. “Instead, you chastise the people who dare commit the outrageous crime of proving the opposite.”

“That’s not what—”

”You don’t explicitly say that you regret surviving all those perilous missions,” you interject, gentle but firm, “but barring a few moments, you seem to be intent on living every day as though you’re here not by fortune but by mistake. Not understanding how much of a blessing you are to so many…”

This might have struck him because, at this, he abruptly turns away from you.

“And I get it. As close as we’ve become, the truth of the matter is that you’re a sorcerer, and I’m not. I don’t see curses and some of the horrors you’ve witnessed. I will always be incapable of seeing with my own eyes, even if I wanted to. I won’t pretend to understand the full extent of what you’ve been through. But I want to believe that we have enough in common that I could get close enough… If you let me.”

You think to stop there, to gauge if he’s going to refute or respond in any kind of way, but your hesitation is met with what feels like a contemplative silence. And so, you continue.

“I want to believe that we have enough in common in our experiences that we could find one another, somewhere in the middle and that the man I see when we crush an assignment together, the one who passionately disassembles those corrupt higher ups, the one who can barely hold back a self-satisfied smile when you pop one of your favorite pastries into your mouth after a long meeting cut into our lunch break, actually wants to be here.

That these last few months we’ve spent in each other’s company aren’t for nothing, is what you want to finish with, but you stop yourself just short. Because angry as you are, you do believe every word that you’ve said, including the fact that this isn’t about you.

To all this, Nanami does not respond, and the silence that stretches between you two as he contemplates you makes you wonder if he ever will. His face has now lost all of its miffed edges, transfiguring into something unreadable, an expression you’ve never seen him wear.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you urge, sounding exactly as desperate as you are to hear him.

“You’re wrong about one thing,” he finally says, but there’s a newfound fragility in his voice. “I’m not a sorcerer. Not actively, not anymore.”

“That doesn’t matter…”

“It does. Look at where we’re standing,” he says, his turn to interject and yet he hesitates in his next words, choosing them carefully. “I no longer have what it takes to… It’s best I don’t counsel anyone anymore. I’m not currently equipped to fill that role. I can’t be that for Yuuji anymore.”

“This is the problem with you sometimes, Kento. You always impose these roles upon yourself. It is your birthday. The boy cooked a simple meal for us to share at lunch. Just the three of us. That’s it. There’s nothing more to this, no expectations other than you showing up as yourself. As Nanami. As Nanamin, as he likes to call you.”

“If I can’t be of help—”

“He’s not looking for you to help him anymore, is what you don’t get. He’s trying to help you. And frankly, I think you could use it.”

He pauses, and you can almost see the realization dawn upon him, as though it was something he’d never previously fathomed.

“Please, let him do this,” you say, breaking the silence after a minute or so. “It’s not even for him, it’s for you.”

“I’d rather not stay on this campus for a minute longer than I need to…”

“Yuuji thought as much, and he planned to have the three of us dine at my apartment. I gave him my key, and he’s been holed up in there all morning. He did all the cooking.”

“Our afternoon meetings—”

“Moved, and canceled and moved,”

Slowly, he walks forward, his eyes not leaving yours this time, and you find the Nanami you know to have returned, almost closing the distance between you before stopping right before you.

“I should go find him before he goes too far,” he says, the urgency sharp in his voice, a newfound lucidity settling over his features.

You stop him in his tracks by gently bringing a hand to his chest.

“He’s right around the corner, in the hall by the entrance. I told him to wait there. Take a minute to cool down; we have plenty of time,” you say, a slight tremor in your voice betraying your relief.

Nanami’s mind races as he fixes you, as he balances his internal feelings, which consist of the juxtaposition of both turmoil and peace. He finds himself struggling with the discomfort that comes with candor, with the mixed emotions that follow the thawing of such a heightened state of frustration.

And he sees it, in the way that it is now you who avoids his piercing gaze, in the more tempered demeanor that you take, as the adrenaline rush that has carried you so far is depleted.

You finally feel the sting of unshed tears breaching their ducts where your desperate drive to get a message across had held them thus far, your tough veneer faltering.

With a quick, instinctive movement, your second-hand joins the first, the combined pressure gentle against the fabric of his shirt, right over the rise and fall of his chest. Nanami places both of his hands on yours and slowly brings them around his waist, before gently pressing your head to his chest, wrapping his arms around you. He doesn’t say anything, not when the ball in his throat threatens to explode, not when he feels you lightly shaking in his arms; you, this anchor of his who has visibly hung a non-insignificant amount of concern onto his wellbeing.

There is a calm stillness to Nanami, an open receptiveness that feels so foreign to him, even now as he spots him in the distance of what should normally be under the impenetrable veil of protection around the school, the shadowy familiar silhouette of the mystery aged man walking off on the other side of the track field, his back turned, seemingly leaving the premises, as if carrying the magnetic composure of a task successfully accomplished.

The thoughts that strike Nanami in the moment feel like they share a single origin.

The first is more abstract, more of an opening than a conclusion, that perhaps he is, in fact, getting comfortable enough to settle into the closest he’s felt to belonging anywhere.

The second is clearer, albeit a bit more out there, an understated suspicion that whoever this man who has been tailing him is might be more harmless than not.

What you’re too choked up to say in this moment, you’ll make up for later. After the three plates that held the delicious meal Yuuji has cooked have been cleared, after Nanami returns from dropping off the young teen back at the school dorms, along with what you assume the long conversation they’ve had, judging by the long time it takes him to return to your apartment, finding you waiting for him with a two freshly brewed cups of tea. You’ll make up for it, during a conversation without boundaries, without steel walls, where you dare to get as comfortable or uncomfortable as needed to hash things out, directly but gently.

And what Nanami isn’t able to convey right now, he’ll tell you in no uncertain terms, during that conversation; words of apology, appeals of forgiveness. Later that evening, it’s in the form of warm whispers between shared misted breaths, with the earnest words of reassurance traded between you doubling as the blades that cut through the fog of your conciliatory passion, that Nanami will repeat it to you, over and over again.

Until he can’t anymore.

“My younger self wouldn’t recognize me as I am now,” Nanami says, as he slowly runs his hand through his hair, his fingers pausing around his temple where the grayest of his strands catch the light.

“Come on, don’t be so dramatic, Kento,” you respond with a snicker as you walk into the bedroom, joining him where he stands before the vanity mirror, and turning your back to him and he wordlessly obliges your silent request of helping you zip up your dress. “You just turned 60, you were bound to go gray at some point. You resisted for much longer than most of our friends if anything,” you add.

“It’s not just the hair, it’s everything…” he trails off, and you watch him scrutinize his face in the mirror with a solemn air, his eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation.

“When did you become so vain?” you ask with a teasing edge to your tone.

“I’m sure you would recognize yourself. Most would, I would think…” he murmurs, seemingly having a different conversation in his mind.

You pause to watch Nanami examine himself, as he traces a finger on the side of his face, first on the unscarred side, down and around his chin, then slowly over the ridges of skin that have long since healed but also retained their uneven texture. It’s not vanity that you see in Kento’s eyes but a quiet reflection, the kind you’ve witnessed time and time before, whenever he got lost in the more spiraling thoughts of his mind.

“Hey…” you gently say, and the light grab of your hand around his arm appears to snap him to attention. “What’s on your mind?”

He hesitates before speaking, as though searching for the right words to an elusive answer.

“I think I’ve seen him,” he says, his response reduced to a whisper, as he peels his gaze from yours in the reflection, turning his head to face you directly.

“Seen who?” you ask, naturally mirroring his quiet volume.

“I’ve seen him numerous times. I just… I just didn’t recognize him.”

Back on the jetty, the winds have picked up in earnest, but the more the seconds go by, the more the gusts converge, closer and closer until the force driving them transfigures into something of a localized cyclone of thinning air, along with a palpable sentiment of prescience hanging over it.

Amidst all this, the man trudges still, steadfast as ever.

There was a time, in a not-so-distant past, when this figure, its voice, and the invasive perceptiveness it carried would instantly provoke Nanami at the deepest part of his core. For the years and decades of being subjected to the apparitions of this man, he’d grown to live with the disquiet they brought, even going as far as to anticipate, practically seeking him out around the time of his birthday, even on the years when this mystery man would be nowhere to be found.

For so long, he’d accepted these as being part and parcel of his trauma, just another thorn from the past, pricking into the present. And yet…

The winds become increasingly louder, the closer the man approaches the cyclone, and as he does, it feels less like wind and more like something of pure energy buffeting his body as he crosses through the wall it has formed.

Once he’s inside the eye of whatever kind of storm this is, he instantly takes in just how much calmer and quieter it is here, with the swirling winds reduced to a low, muffled hum. And when he arrives within what he deems to be reasonable earshot of the man before him, Nanami finally stops.

The man watches as the slightly younger, significantly scarred version of himself, the one he’s been observing for decades, shakes slightly as he appears to hold back a mordant laugh.

And that’s exactly what this Nanami is doing because none of this makes much sense, and yet now he truly cannot deny his eyes.

Mystery man no more.

Nanami has a hard time reconciling the fact that the identity of this stranger has eluded him over all these encounters, over all these years, because it all seems so obvious now that he knows what to look for. He knows, now, to place the man not as a threat but as a kindred spirit who is also looking to align with the closest thing to a purpose.

“This is unusual,” the older-looking version of himself says, finally breaking the silence.

“I struggle to consider anything that’s transpired between us as being usual,” responds Nanami.

“Well, this is the first time that you find me, rather than the other way around.”

“If I had it my way, I wouldn’t seek you out at all. But I figure this is the only way I’ll find out what your objective is.”

“I don’t have an objective.”

“Don’t give me that. Not what with the way you’ve been interfering with my life, seemingly randomly, whenever you feel like it.”

“Not whenever I feel like it, not always. I don’t have an objective. I have more of an agenda.”

Nanami tenses at the strangeness of having his own methods used against him. “Alright. I know you—I know myself enough to recognize that you’re prevaricating.”

“I’ve had a vested interest in witnessing you not make the same mistakes I made. One in particular.”

“Giving up, back in Shibuya.”

“Neither of us was going to truly give up in Shibuya. No, my error was far worse.”

“And yet somehow, you look far better off than me. For one, you seem to have gotten out, scar-free…”

“Some of the deepest scars are invisible to the eye.”

Nanami takes an earnest look at the man before him. Perhaps it speaks to an assumption, a deeply held belief that came and distorted the signals transmitted from his eyes to his brain, one that he wouldn’t live to see this age, that it is only now that he recognizes his own features in the old man. Or perhaps it is only now that he is finally willing to see him for what he is, that the man before him finally took his shape.

Nanami would like to attribute this shift to his growth, to a deeper understanding brought on by maturity. And yet he is; alive and well in his wiser years, still feeling as vulnerable as the teenage iteration of himself searching for his volleyball under the scrutiny of a knowing presence—not a thorn from the past, but a bloom yet to open.

“I suppose you’re right about this being unusual,” Nanami says. “I’ve spent so many birthdays, for years trying to replicate some of the conditions under which you’ve appeared. This isn’t my first time trying it here, at the beach where it all started. And yet it is only now that this worked…What does that mean?”

“It means I’m at the end of my journey.”

As if to emphasize his words, the winds pick up and the modified simple domain Nanami has erected begins to falter, fraying at its edges.

“I frankly don’t have the time for riddles,” he says, directing curse energy towards the shrinking boundaries of the cyclone.

“It’s not a riddle. This is the end. I… I didn’t live past your age. I don’t and will never know what comes next. But you will.”

Nanami finds himself struggling to maintain a sufficient level of energy output. The more the seconds go by, the more demanding his maneuver requires from him.

It would give up any second now. But perhaps he has the time for one more question.

“Tell me about this mistake of yours.”

A couple of hundred feet away, white sand spectacularly spreads out around you on this quieter part of the deserted beach. It would be perfectly picturesque, were it not for what now looks like a localized dome of wind on the horizon.

You rub your eyes, which still carry the sleepiness from the mid-afternoon nap you’d slipped into and which spilled onto the better part of the evening. The last you remember, you were watching Kento’s back out the window of the beachside cabin you were staying in for July, as he walked off for his post-lunch stroll by the water. You’d told him not to stay out too long, due to the storm that was forecasted for the evening hours.

Now, after realizing that he still hasn’t returned, after your calls to his phone went unanswered, and after having jumped off your futon and rushed out of the cabin to find him, you spot his distinctive silhouette, on his lonesome, standing near the edge of the jetty in the distance.

“Kento!” you call out, the light ocean breeze carrying the sound of your words, as you break into a jog that you break into speed walking breaks, pushing your legs as far as your current fitness will take you and as much as the resistance of the sand beneath your feet will allow you.

The closer you get, the more the winds appear to reduce in intensity, and the clearer your view becomes. From the way he is gesticulating, Nanami appears to be speaking, seemingly to himself.

By the time you get to the boardwalk, the winds have slowed into a calm, odd stillness, the type to characterize the calm after a storm, allowing you safe access onto the platform which you don’t hesitate to climb onto.

When you shimmy up beside him, Nanami doesn’t turn to you right away, his eyes seemingly fixed on something on the very edge of the jetty. You follow his stare and you find water prints on the wooden planks two feet facing where Nanami is standing.

You walk around him, placing yourself in his field of view, grabbing him by the arms.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Yes, love, I’m fine,” he says, meeting your eyes with a contemplative smile. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

A warmth travels through you, and you feel your eyes misting in relief, as you take his response as confirmation of what you’ve suspected on your run over.

“So you finally did it, didn’t you?” you say, not a question but a statement.

If you can nearly see the weight off Nanami’s shoulder, in the way that he stands more upright, in the newfound sharp glint in his eyes that single-handedly takes years off his age, then Nanami feels it just as much.

It’s on another iteration of this beach that the man trudges once more, this time—and for the first time—free of his heaviest burden. If energy can never be created, nor destroyed, then his is a regret that finds its new form as a comfort, tethered to what is now the unassailable fact that somewhere out there, there is a version of Nanami Kento who has grieved and grown, who has persevered after enduring and who lives beyond surviving.

A/N: Happy (belated, lol) Birthday, Nanami Kento. In every universe in my mind, you live, and you always find where you belong, eventually.

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