Chapter Text
Death was not the eternal void of nothingness that you thought it would be.
No mysterious hooded person beckoning you to a boat bobbing up and down by a pier, no angels fluttering about and the grandiose symphony of trumpets, and certainly not hellfire licking at the tips of your toes while layered screams of agony echo in the distance, even if you did feel incredibly warm at the moment.
The next thing you noticed was the dampness of your shirt as it sticks to your collarbones, sweat dripping off your face as if someone had doused you with a glass of water seconds prior. When you brought a hand up hoping to fan yourself with the front of your shirt, you found them violently trembling.
Soon after, you realized your grip strength is non-existent. And after a few pitiful attempts to grab at your shirt to no avail, you dropped your hands back down with a frustrated sigh and closed your eyes.
Deep breath in.
Then out.
You did not know how long you were repeating this cycle. But slowly, ever so slowly, a small pocket of calm starts forming in the mess that is your mind. A much needed reprieve from a vacuum where only a sharp ringing assaulted your hearing for hours on end.
This peace you found was small but grounding. Enough for you to pull yourself out of the sheer overwhelm that enveloped you.
You noticed then, that you were staring at the only light source in this place. A sizable window with gently swaying curtains in see-through white. You could hear cicadas now, loudly buzzing outside, and then the ring of a bike bell as it whizzed by. Kids were playing too, their laughter carried through the window and into this space you're in.
A gentle breeze lightly brushed against your cheeks. Somewhere, muffled, you’re sure a wind chime was ringing.
Okay, you thought after a few moments.
Let’s try this again.
Right now, you can most definitely confirm that there was no overarching abyss encroaching in the distance. You do not remember having passed through a light at the end of a tunnel either.
You don’t know what you expected of such an abstract concept like death, but whatever was going on right now, it was nothing like what you read online. Not in any video, or comment thread, not even in the accounts of near death experiences you read on online forums during one of your late night curiosity kicks.
No.
To your surprise, death for you was quite… mundane.
And it came in the form of a small room with beige walls and an off-white ceiling littered with the muted light of a handful glow-in-the-dark stars.
Belatedly, you noticed that the ringing in your ears has stopped. The trembling in your hands was gone too. You could also finally feel the rough texture of cloth under your fingertips. Time felt like it was moving again.
You realized then, that you’re sitting on top of a single bed pressed against the wall, a gingham green duvet strewn over your legs.
There’s a closet wardrobe by the foot of your bed. And across it, a desk tucked in a corner next to the opened window you were starting at not too long ago. A swivel chair completes the corner ensemble, with a jacket thrown over one of its arms, one of its sleeves nearly touching the wooden floors below.
Though the desk was somewhat organized, the floor next to it was a mess of educational paraphernalia. You’re pretty sure one of the opened notebooks displayed a sizable collection of mathematical formulas, before the pages are flipped from the low setting of a standing electric fan nearby.
The place looked like the typical bedroom of a student, if the uniform hanging on the wall next to the door was any indication. It’s a pretty set, you mused. The dark blazer and a matching pleated skirt contrasted well with the walls and the ceiling. On the right pocket of the skirt, you spotted a strip of fabric spilling out of it—a ribbon to complete the look perhaps?
That’s odd, you thought.
While you’ve never been here before and you had no recollection of wearing such a uniform back in your high school days, there’s an undeniable feeling of comfort that has settled in your gut. And you would soon note that this feeling has only grown with each passing moment that you spent seated in this place.
Something about this bedroom was both foreign and familiar.
Like how inside the closet you’d find an orange sweater laying in a sad heap at the bottom. How if you opened the desk drawer, there’s going to be a crumpled up receipt for a chocolate parfait tucked under the cover of a composition notebook. The school bag on the floor would have a black pencil case in it, and there’s an untouched box of juice somewhere in there too.
You’re sure there’s also a purple highlighter somewhere littering the floor under the desk, even as the swivel chair obstructed your view of the area.
Details like these, lots of them.
And though you made no move to check and confirm these thoughts. Somehow you just knew.
Another soft rustling sound has you looking for the source—eyes finding purchase on a wall calendar not too far from the desk.
2005. The top of the page read, in bright red.
A slightly smaller set of letters below it made you squint, the black text nigh unreadable as the light from the window didn't quite reach half of the room.
It took you a few seconds, but you’re sure that it read September.
September 2005
You could not help the deep furrowing of your brows as you stared at the words. The date did not change even after a minute passed, not even after you ran a hand over your face and rubbed at your eyes. If anything, it just looked clearer as your sights finally adjusted to the dim lighting.
Okay, now you’re even more confused.
Setting the year aside—you’ll worry about that later—you could have sworn it was still February.
Didn’t Valentine’s Day just pass? There was a whole situation with one of your work friends that happened last week. The one who came barreling into your arms by the break room on a groggy Thursday morning, nearly toppling you over and giving you a heart attack as you steadied your styrofoam cup of freshly brewed coffee. It was a miracle the contents didn’t spill over you both.
She was excitedly telling you about how her boyfriend proposed on the couple’s holiday, and how she was thankful to you because you’d essentially introduced them together years ago. Her smile was incredibly glowing that day, as did the glint of several tiny diamonds on her finger. She was waving her hand around in delight, gushing about how pretty her two day old engagement ring was.
You could only laugh in amusement, telling her you didn’t do much. He was a friend all the way back in university and she was your first ever friend since entering the advertising firm. It was purely by coincidence when you arranged their first meeting.
You could still remember her playful chiding and the firm grip of her hand on your arm as a show of her genuine appreciation, then the pluck of the coffee cup out of your hands. Fifteen minutes later you were standing inside a bakery a few buildings over, having lost an argument about how her cupid deserved something better than instant coffee.
Other than that, there was also the case of the office party everyone would not stop talking about. Not a single lunch break has gone by in the last two weeks, without someone on your floor mentioning it.
A fancy office party held in an even fancier hotel restaurant. Though to be honest you much preferred the usual barbecue place two blocks away, you would never oppose to new dining experiences, especially when you didn’t have to pay for it.
A celebration, they said, for the successful conclusion to a year-long project fueled by a revolting amount of overtime hours and cups of coffee.
You remembered scrambling out the revolving doors at the front of the massive five star hotel with a few coworkers, joking about a topic you don’t recall anymore. The evening chill was biting as you walked them to their cars parked a street away from the hotel, refusing the group’s invitation to drive you home.
”I already have a ride home.” You said, then you shout back that you’d see them all again in a week, all smiles and laughter as they drive off and you’re left to stand under the awning of a flower shop.
It was a lighthearted start to a much awaited week off from work. Such a drastic shift from the collision that would happen some twenty or so minutes later.
There was no doubt about it that you died.
It felt weird to be so adamant about it, but what other conclusion could you draw?
You gave the room another once-over before you trained your gaze back onto your lap. The ringing was starting back up again, and this time a couple deep breaths barely did anything to settle the nerves. You pressed the pads of your fingers to the sides of your head, massaging in slow circles to ease a headache that had made itself known.
Although the specifics of time and how exactly your last moments went down evaded you, the chaos of it all was difficult to forget.
Just, you were on the way home, comfortably settled in the passenger seat of your childhood friend’s car. She was visiting you from a few cities over, taking advantage of your scheduled day-off to catch up.
You were having fun listening intently to your friend prattle on about a plethora of topics surrounding her eventful life. There was something about a weekend concert, a new bag she saw online, about how her new colleague allegedly hated her guts.
She was in the middle of divulging the latest gossip between her boss and a rival company’s new manager, when all of a sudden the world felt like it toppled over.
The thought brings you back to the present, hands immediately scrambling across your sides, eyes scrutinizing every expanse of skin and limb. When you confirm that nothing was missing or bent out of shape, you all but deflate.
You doubt you could ever forget that searing pain as you slammed across the windshield like a ragdoll. And you shuddered violently at the memory of hearing a sickening snap that was quickly followed by a blooming pain somewhere on your left arm.
The last thing you remembered of the incident, was your name being called amidst a slurry of expletives and pleading, your friend’s frantic voice ringing in such desperation before black spots started filling your vision.
When you came to, here you were.
—
It took nearly two weeks before you started getting the hang of this “new life.”
Almost immediately after waking up in that beige room, you accepted that this whole situation was probably that—the ever so popular transmigration or reincarnation trope you’ve read about so many times before. Though at the moment, you were still unsure which exactly of the two this was.
There was only one thing you were certain of. And that was the fact that you’re here now, and you had memories of a past life.
Your life working a corporate advertising job was just far too detailed for you to chalk it up as some overly elaborate stress dream brought on by academic pressure.
But, while you do remember dying and then waking up here two weeks ago, it also felt true that you had always been here too, living this life in tandem. As if two versions of you had always existed in their own respective timelines.
Now-you was currently fifteen, a typical student in their last year of middle school. In this life you had loving parents, both of whom work in marketing. You had an equally doting older sister as well. You later found out that she moved out five years ago, to finish up a second degree abroad. Though you’ve never met these people in your past life, in this one they were only ever family to you. It felt wrong to even consider thinking of them otherwise.
Now-you lived in Kyoto, and has also never left the city.
Now-you lived in a two-story home situated in a peaceful residential area, a leisurely twenty minute walk away from school. There’s a small yard at the back, with a sorry little vegetable garden to one side that you were told had been your fixation many months ago.
Like family, your friends were also different from the ones you made in your old life. Your birthday was different too. Now-you lived in a different country and had a different mother tongue. But you tried it the other day and could confirm that you retained fluency of past-you’s language.
Things were different. But at the end of the day, it was just undoubtedly you.
Same name, same face, albeit younger this time.
It still felt weird how seamlessly you seemed to fit into this place, but you supposed it was better than everyone thinking you’d lost your mind. Even if you asked a lot of questions to fill in the gaps of your disjointed memories about this life, most would just humor you and answer them without suspicion.
The most scrutiny you got was a school friend’s comment about how absent-minded you seemed to be this week, but it was more curious than accusatory. The topic didn’t last long either, before she’s got a magazine splayed out on your school desk, opened to a page of plush bag charms every middle schooler must have.
By that point you’d gone past the confusion and the stages of grief brought by the untimely death of past-you. You’re in the acceptance phase now. This is your new reality. You don’t dwell too much on how you know the magazine your friend is raving about, despite never having seen it until now.
Before you knew it, another week had passed.
It’s a sunny Wednesday afternoon in October, and you stared out the massive windows of your classroom, humming a newly released single you heard on the radio. For the first time it’s something past-you did know, as the song was a part of your nostalgia playlist in that life. You noted that the sky was a nice blue with a generous smattering of fluffy white clouds.
At this point it has been a month since you woke up in this world.
There were still so many things you had to figure out, the most pressing being which piece of media your current life is on, or if this was even based on something in the first place. Your working theory was that this was the world of some obscure slice of life anime. That remained your most promising lead for weeks, until it was thrown out the window when you woke up one day to hazy black mists in your peripheral vision.
An occult anime then? You wondered, as you stared at the black mist wavering close to the entrance of the first floor washrooms.
The first day it happened, all it took was you blinking a few times before your vision cleared up again.
However, you found that whatever these mysterious things are, they lingered more and more with each passing day. And you were pretty sure they were becoming more tangible too, like if you dared to reach out you’d be able to feel something solid.
Your school had a few of them. Usually easy to ignore since they never went near you, until one day while waiting for your friend by the vending machines, you could have sworn that one lingering mist manifested an eye and was looking at you.
Soon after the mists, you also began feeling a low thrumming within you. It was as if little currents of electricity were circulating alongside your blood. It didn’t feel unpleasant at all. You’d even argue that it felt right. That it was always supposed to be that way.
More and more you kept thinking back to the idea that this was a parallel universe. The best explanation you could come up with, without falling into some existential crisis, was that perhaps your consciousness from your old life got wrestled into this one and caused a momentary disruption.
It was as if a pebble was suddenly dropped into the lake that is your current life, and over time the ripples it caused have finally begun to settle. This, you thought, best explained the whole idea of why you felt so at home in this life and why the black mists or the mystery electric feeling didn’t phase you—it’s because you had always been here, not entirely some foreign object that just got dropped in.
This theory was later confirmed when you tried asking your mother about the weird mists, but she seemed keen on avoiding the topic all together.
“Honey, not this again.” Your mother’s voice sounded tired as she made quick work of dicing an onion. “You used to draw them a lot when you were five… those ugly imaginary monsters you said would cling onto people’s heads.”
You couldn’t say anything more when you were promptly shooed away from the kitchen after her response.
It’s nine days after that conversation with your mother, and exactly two months and eleven days after waking up in this world, when you finally get the answers you so desperately wished for.
It was early morning on a humid Monday in November when things started making sense.
That day, when you woke up, things felt calm. It felt normal. Like you had been living inside a bubble all this time and then it popped, revealing a world without a filter that you didn’t even know was applied in the first place. Like you were a rogue puzzle piece that’s been found and finally pushed in its rightful place.
You were waiting at the intersection close to school, shifting in your heels as you scanned the streets for Miya—a school friend that you’ve supposedly known for two years.
On Friday, she was excitedly rambling about how she’ll be going to Tokyo over the weekend. She said she was visiting her older brother for his birthday. Somehow, plans were also made about you two walking to school together more often.
“Like we used to do last year!” Miya said with a bright smile on her face.
You agreed, waving the comment off with a laugh as you tried not to think about the sudden guilt that jabs at your conscience. You were thankful the topic naturally died when your homeroom teacher arrived not long after, signaling the start to a long school day.
Your wait by the intersection ended abruptly when you heard your name being called in the distance. You perked up, eyes searching for the source of the sound. When you see a familiar silhouette, you raised your hand to wave back, feet headed your friend’s direction before you stopped dead in your tracks.
Peaking over Miya’s head, was quite possibly the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen so far, in both of your lives combined. It was a creature of sorts—some kind of bug? It had wings and eyes that looked far too human, jutting out of its face at odd angles. When it smiled at you after a brief moment of eye contact, you couldn’t help the shudder that violently shot up your spine.
You don’t think a normal bug would have rows of teeth like that.
It takes a few seconds of staring, feeling the gears in your head whirring, straining to make sense of what you’re seeing, before a light bulb finally flashes through the mess of thoughts bouncing around your head.
That’s a fly head.
When Miya caught up to you with a tired smile on her face, it’s like a switch just flipped inside you. And as if on autopilot, you feel a surge of something electric rush up the tips of your fingers as you reach out.
“Go away,” you said under your breath. It was so faint you don’t think Miya would have heard it. Under the guise of a head pat, you swatted the offending curse away. And then you watched intently as the fly head disintegrates the very moment you made contact.
You also noticed something akin to flames dancing on the pads of your fingers before they fizzled out. It was gone too fast, but it was a pale shade of amethyst.
“I’ve had a stiff neck since Saturday.” Miya commented, as she brought a hand up to massage her neck.
You could only hum in response, head still processing this new bout of information.
Soon after, you watched as Miya began rummaging through her school bag. She was drumming up excitement for your promised souvenirs, excitedly telling you about how she painstakingly had to wait in line for some of them.
You waited patiently, still awestruck.
As you stood next to Miya, you couldn’t help the excited smile that bloomed on your face when realization finally dawned on you.
You were in the world of Jujutsu Kaisen.
Later in the day, the very moment you slipped off your school shoes by the front door, you’re running up the stairs to your room, heart pounding fervently against your ribcage. You were sure you heard your mother’s exasperated calls for you to not run up the stairs, but you only offered a halfhearted apology as you slammed the door of your bedroom open.
You didn’t even bother changing out of your uniform before you’re seated by your desk, pen in hand and a new notebook on the other—one of Miya’s souvenirs from Tokyo. Your school bag and the homework inside, both forgotten after you tossed it somewhere on your bed.
Most of the night was spent writing everything you could recall about the plot of Jujutsu Kaisen. Hours later, at two in the morning, you’re crawling to bed, trying to quiet down your excited thoughts that were full of ways to steer the plot in a direction with preferably less death.
Admittedly, your writing session could have gone better. You know there’s a couple details missing in your recollection, but at least you have a lot of the major events down. You liked the show a lot, but even that interest wasn’t enough for you to memorize the whole timeline of events and every single character that appeared in the story arcs.
What you were sure of however, was how expertly it ripped your heart out of your chest with all the angst. Especially when you read that infamous chapter of a certain blue eyed sorcerer’s off-screen death. How badly you resisted the urge to hurl the manga volume across the room, before you thought better of it and instead just shoved the book inside a nightstand drawer.
Letting out a yawn, you drifted off to sleep thinking about how thankful you were that you were here.
You didn’t know how well you’d handle the violent side of it, but you’ll adjust. Thankfully, the main story was years away from beginning. The most pressing matter would be Gojo Satoru’s Past Arc, but even that won't start until some time next year.
Currently, it’s 2005.
You had time, and a whole lot of it. You’d also like to think that your knowledge of the plot was pretty solid too. To top it all off, you seemed to be a jujutsu sorcerer. One who just hours ago, successfully exorcised a fly head as if by instinct.
It’s a sizable headstart.
Nearly a year later, when you’re standing at the entrance of Tokyo Jujutsu High, you couldn’t help but think of how great the reincarnation buffs are.
You were probably a nameless background character from the show, a filler if you will. But you were still reincarnated (for your peace of mind, you settled with this label).
And as if this world was a reliable ally that wanted to prove your theory right, things went your way too. Stuff you were worried about seemingly solved itself before you. For example, your parents moved the family home to Tokyo soon after your middle school graduation. A surprise promotion, they said. Then a week after settling in your new home, you got scouted to enter Jujutsu Tech as a first year student.
There was no interrogation when you told your parents about the high school you were going into. You only received words of how proud they were of you, and that you should visit home when your schedule allowed you to.
You really thought they’d be more questioning of the sudden change in plans. After all, you were supposed to attend a different high school altogether. Ultimately, you decided that their casual demeanor was just another way the universe was helping you out.
Things would surely start to pick up soon. With your acceptance into the school, you were one step closer to your goals and there was a lot of work to get done.
Plot knowledge was nice, but you also needed to be able to live to make the changes. It would have been great if you could just tell the important characters about their futures, but that seemed to be a restriction. And you didn’t really want to test its limits yet.
Before your move to Tokyo, you tried telling your mother about the jujutsu world. One moment you were excitedly chattering, and then your throat seized up. Afterwards you repeatedly apologized to your mother as you wiped the blood off the dining table, voice hoarse as you assured her time and time again that you didn’t need to go to the hospital and that you were okay.
Now as for your first order of business, you had to get better at using cursed energy. Control and output wasn’t the best at the moment, but you’re sure it would all work out in due time.
Just like it always has.
—
Your second death came just as swiftly as the first time.
Perhaps even faster, because the pain of a fatal stabbing doesn’t even register before you’re swallowed by darkness that later dissolves to reveal the backdrop of your Kyoto bedroom. Everything about the scene was pretty much the same as you remembered: sweltering heat, childish laughter, the distant bell of a wind chime, etcetera.
You did notice however, that the headache and the ringing in your ears didn’t last as long.
This time around, instead of an unfortunate car accident, what brought you here was the talon of a grade one curse with two heads.
In your defence, you weren’t entirely at fault for the failure of your second mission.
Rookie mistake, fine.
Yes, you slipped in a puddle of your own blood and in the process dropped your cursed tool—a spear kindly given to you by the school. It’s also true that when you finally stared at the looming creature before you, you just froze on the spot. You swear it wasn’t even that long of a pause before you began a desperate scramble to pick up your weapon. You just needed a momentary rest for your brain to process the sheer monstrosity of what your eyes were seeing.
It was just so incredibly huge and grotesque that it made the anime and manga renditions of the curses look adorable by comparison. It also exuded an aura of such intimidation that your joints just locked in place for a bit.
Horrendous combat response aside, your teammate deserted—so much for their boisterous comments on how their cursed technique was supposedly rare. Something something about a clan you’ve never heard of, much better than your apparently paltry technique and even more mediocre combat skills.
Sure, let’s ignore the fact that you did pretty much all the work exorcising numerous fly heads and lower grade curses while your ever so amazing teammate only barked out orders.
All that loud talk, only to run with his tail between his legs when a tendril of cursed energy nearly blew a hole through his head. The only reason the attack missed, was thanks to you grabbing him by the collar and tossing him away from the dilapidated building you two were resting against.
It was that gut instinct again, that told you to move and so you did.
It was just to your misfortune that you strained an ankle when you slipped after landing the dodge. In the distance, you saw your teammate had used the momentum from your throw to kickstart his escape from the abandoned park. The last thing you heard him say was that you should run, and that if you died it wasn’t his fault.
The mission wasn’t even that bad, you thought retrospectively. For all his bragging, even you had to admit that your team had a fighting chance. If he at least has a modicum of camaraderie in any of his cells, then maybe that life would’ve lasted longer for you.
After all, at that point, your control on both cursed energy and technique was more reliable. Combat skills needed more polish but at least it was something. You even started learning about the reverse cursed technique, although you were still in the theory stage.
In your honest opinion, your team could have even completed the mission.
It wouldn’t be a quick job of course, but you didn’t think you guys were that bad. Sure, your abilities were laughable in comparison to your upperclassmen—especially the illustrious trio of Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, and Shoko Ieiri, but wouldn’t anyone look plain compared to them?
Perhaps it was also a bias speaking, because their friendship dynamic was one of your favorites in the series. Additionally, all their names were in your notebook too, on the list of people that deserve happy endings.
It’s the thought of them smiling together, hanging out well into the future, that effectively snaps you out of the what-if scenarios bouncing around your head. In the next second, a reverberating slap echoes inside your room, a hiss leaving your lips at the sting of the impact on your cheeks where your hands now rest.
Right, you huffed, before you hopped out of the covers and stretched your arms above your head.
Your eyes lingered at the calendar again.
September 2005
Even though you knew there would be nothing, after you peeled your sights away from the calendar, you still lifted your shirt to check the skin below. No gaping hole by your chest or a slash across your abdomen.
Getting slammed against concrete was not a fun experience, but after seeing no bruising by your hip bones, you just sighed in relief. You remembered the sensations, but now there was nothing.
It was blind confidence the first time around, you assured yourself. Now you know better.
You were going to be okay.
You’re back.
Another chance to try again.
With renewed determination, you slipped your feet into your indoor slippers before barrelling out of your Kyoto bedroom. Barely able suppress a laugh at the muffled chiding of your mother in the kitchen downstairs, who told you to quiet down and come help her brew some tea for lunch.
As you made your way down the staircase, you thought strongly about the omurice you knew your mother just finished assembling. For a while you pondered what you should draw on top this time. In the life before this one, you attempted to doodle a chibi rendition of Gojo.
Hopefully, the drawing would look more like the character this time, and not the sad wilting plant your mother said it was a lifetime ago.
Pulling out some rice bowls from the cupboard, you tried a little too hard to tell yourself that it would go much better this time around.
Of course, death still remains a mysterious concept to you. However, were you not alive again?
You might not have the tenacity or boundless optimism of a shounen manga protagonist, given how dejected you were feeling at not even being able to make it to the start of the canon plot line. But you do have this cool reset ability. Which now, you supposed, meant that your status has been upgraded from vague maybe-transmigrator-reincarnator, to regressor.
Surely, you’re not that hopeless.
Later, as you organize your school bag for the next day, you find your planning notebook. Complete with all the things you wrote in the previous reset.
Cool, you thought. Another addition to your list of otherworldly buffs.
—
It’s on your third reset when you finally manage to meet Gojo Satoru in the flesh, and he’s every bit as ethereal as you thought he would be. Not that you had any doubt about him in the first place.
This meeting occurs one late afternoon three weeks into April, after a particularly gruelling mission that twice fatally speared the chest of much more unprepared versions of you.
When you saw him at the end of the hallway, you noticed his nose scrunches a little when he sees you. Not long after that, the tiniest of frowns tug at the edges of his lips. And though you couldn’t see his eyes behind the signature sunglasses, you just knew that he was looking your way—judging you. Despite the exhaustion, the pain of your injuries, and the rather unwelcome expression on his face, you felt the violent thumping of your heart rate as it picked up.
It’s the Gojo Satoru after all, arguably one of your favorite characters in the show.
Also the person who sat comfortably at the top of your Characters Who Deserve Good Endings list.
Apart from that, he’s the second plot-relevant character you’ve had the pleasure of seeing. The first one was Yaga Masamichi, whom you greeted in some random hallway during your last reset.
Hoping you didn’t look too starstruck, you forced yourself to bow in greeting, thankful the posture hid the wincing in your features as the cut on your abdomen stung.
There’s a teasing lilt to the chuckle that meets your stuttered greeting, and then there’s a heavy hand on your head, quick, rough, painful even. Just a quick tousle before the touch is gone.
He doesn’t say anything back, but you do hear the crinkling of plastic and there’s the faintest scent of strawberry before he rounded the corner and his presence fades. It wasn’t the nicest encounter for sure, but you were more focused on that little falter when his hands first settled on your head. There was something hesitant about it. As if even he, himself, didn’t know why he bothered to acknowledge you.
Everyone around you said that Gojo Satoru was the blazing sun of the night that was the jujutsu world, but that he was also extremely self-centered and arrogant. It was nothing new for you who already knew his backstory. Still, you liked every facet of him, both this callous high school self and the reliable adult he would later become in the main story.
It took you a good minute after he left to stand back upright, cheeks flushed with heat. Though you can’t tell if the heat came from the encounter with Gojo, or because you felt like you got hit by a truck.
It’s only later, when you’re back in your dorm after the infirmary visit, when you realize the severity of your injuries. You wondered if this was the reason for the head pat from the much revered second year. Like some kind of consolation prize for a battered little freshman staggering along the hallway leading out of the infirmary.
You must’ve looked so pitiful, you thought. And you tried not to cringe as you inspected the damages you've sustained. Your skin was littered with several wounds. There’s a bandage wrapped around your head, a swollen cheek, a nasty slice around your abdomen hidden underneath pads of cotton and gauze. Even if it was a sorry sight, you looked around and noted that you were still here at your dorm room on Jujutsu Tech school grounds.
It’s still April in Tokyo.
It wasn’t September in Kyoto.
These wounds were battle scars, undeniable roof that you were making progress.
And speaking of progress, another interesting observation you made was that things did come a little easier after every reset. Like how in this life you didn’t even have to stand in front of Miya to exorcise her fly head companion. So while you still haven’t fully grasped how to make it work, it would only be a matter of time before you figure out RCT. You’ll be good as new when that gets sorted out.
Until then, the pain wasn’t too bad.
Truly.
That’s what you kept telling yourself as you sank contentedly under the covers of your bed.
Sleep would not come yet, courtesy of someone’s snow white hair and the comforting timbre of his laughter, his lackadaisical walking stance, and how heavy and safe his hand felt when they rested on top of your head for a brief moment.
And like all things in this world, you’d even dare say it felt familiar.
You groaned, willing the heat from your cheeks to go away as you shifted further under the blankets.
Tomorrow, you promised yourself that the very moment you see even a single hair from that deserter of a classmate, you’d give him your nastiest kick in the guts.
This is a favor you’re doing for yourself.
And perhaps also a favor for the last two iterations of you, who both weren’t granted the pleasure of making it back to the safety of the dorms after heading off to their second mission.