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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 9 months

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in the dream i don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap ; shoko ieiri

synopsis; ever since the battle in shinjuku came to its conclusion, nothing’s been the same as it used to. but you don’t think anyone is doing quite as badly as shoko.

word count; 4.5k

contents; shoko ieiri/reader, gn!reader, canon-typical mentions of death (iykyk), angst, hurt/comfort (but not very heavy on the comfort), jjk spoilers (up to chapter 236!!), mild gore (mentions of blood, autopsies and general gore-ish imagery? nothing too bad tho), shoko ieiri deserves better, includes gojo slander (stay safe gojo nation)

a/n; first of all i just wanna apologize to the shoko girlies for writing angst when we’re already so starved of content, i have like 50 fluff drabbles planned for her but chapter 236 threw me into a mental angst pit so </3 yeah. i love my wife!!

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while.

the thought sneaks its way into your subconscious, as your feet carry you to her morgue — a rotten thought you just can’t seem to rinse away.

it’s not very hard to notice. she doesn’t talk as much, for one. not that shoko was ever much of a talker, but now the silence around her is deafening. thick and heavy like the spine of a knife. and she smiles even less.

you can’t remember the last time you heard her laugh.

the crescents beneath her eyes are darker than ever, darker than you thought possible. a murky purple that you’d find soothing in any other context, but like this it’s just revolting. her eyes are deep and dark, the same as ever, but now they’re glazed over with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

apathy, maybe.

or bloodlust.

the scent of cigarette smoke that follows her is suffocating. indistinguishable from her natural scent. you don’t know if she’ll ever be able to scrub the tobacco stench off her skin.

(you’ve given up on counting the exact number of cigarettes she smokes each day. you’re not sure you want to know the answer.)

she doesn’t even look alive, anymore. like some part of her already reached its expiration date. a spectre, wandering the hallways, filling the air with the slow, ominous clacking of her heels.

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while — and it’s so obvious. her grief is so heavy, her sleep-deprivation so severe. you’d have to be blind not to notice it.

so why hasn’t anyone said anything?

you gnaw at your bottom lip, trying to suffocate the bitterness swimming inside your veins. it’s a dumb question, really, because you already know. you don’t want to acknowledge it, because it’s so unfair, but you know. of course you do.

no one has the time to. it’s as simple as that.

no one’s doing well, anymore. not since shinjuku.

not since gojo died.

shoko’s grief is a fickle thing. always with her, tucked away within those eyebags, in the pockets of her coat. in that smell of tobacco, never-fading, always lingering. it follows her like a ghost, like something she’ll never quite be rid of.

(like something she doesn’t want to be rid of.)

shoko’s grief is a fickle thing, and it always has been. but recently, it’s been downright overwhelming. it used to be subtle, the kind of thing you notice if you look close enough. if you squint. if you even care enough to try.

but now, it’s more like a haunting than a simple ghost.

(geto. nanami. yaga. and now gojo, too.

how many people does she have to lose before whatever’s watching is satisfied?)

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while, and it’s obvious, and it’s sickening. she still does her duty to a tee, but she isn’t quite there anymore. gaze always forlorn, as if she’s trying to convince herself of something.

and yet no one says a thing.

everything is one big mess, right now. you don’t want to blame anyone. everyone’s exhausted, completely and utterly spent, but they’re still planning it all out. even in the midst of their mourning. because they don’t have any other choice.

this is not the kind of situation where you should be pointing fingers. a part of you is angry, livid even — but you know the others are doing just as badly. it’s not like you aren’t, either.

still, though. isn’t this just too unfair?

”i brought you coffee!”

making sure your voice doesn’t waver is tougher than you initially assumed. just the sight of her sends a tremor running through your ribs; sunken down in her chair, papers in hand, eyes scanning the pages methodically. papers of what, you’d like to ask — but you already know.

(she’s reading through the post-mortem examination report, again. searching for something you don’t understand. you’re not sure she does, either.)

and she looks exhausted.

try as you might, your voice ends up sounding a little stale, as it flows from your lips and reaches her ears. but the attempt is there — the attempt to sound cheerful, calm. normal. to give her something to hold on to.

shoko looks up at you, and her lips curl in a way you think is supposed to form a smile. it doesn’t. her eyes look into yours but it’s like she’s not seeing you at all.

when you go to give her the cup of espresso, your fingertips touch. only for a second, before she curls her fingers around the ceramic handle. she receives the coffee with a small murmur of thanks, but you don’t notice because you’re too busy thinking of how cold her skin feels.

(cold like a ghost. cold like death.)

shaking away the shivers down your spine, you allow your gaze to trail over the morgue. it looks the same as always. cold, empty. foreboding. today, you think it feels just a little chillier than usual. matching the temperature of the outside world, where everything lies buried in heaps of snow and frost.

hesitantly, you plop down in the seat right next to hers. with such a narrow distance, you can smell the tobacco sticking to her clothing. it makes you want to throw up.

(you try not to look over at the couch in the corner of the room, where a certain someone used to slack off. his awkwardly long limbs would dangle off the edges, and shoko would pretend that she didn’t enjoy his company. you were more than content with silently admiring the smile she was trying to hide.)

shoko doesn’t look at you, professional in the way her eyes run across the files. cause of death: damage to central intestines, subsequent loss of blood. from a cut to the stomach, right below the liver and spleen.

you look away before your eyes can read another line.

leaning back in your chair, you exhale a tiny sigh. desperate to fill the silence with something, anything at all. you scramble for topics, racking your brain.

(what could you possibly tell her that she doesn’t already know?)

”the others are still planning everything out,” you speak, playing with your fingers idly to distract yourself. ”i think it’s going well.”

shoko hums, unaffected. ”that’s good.”

she’s speaking to you, but that feeling of unease still won’t go away. her voice sounds still, flat. empty of emotion. but you can tell she’s trying to be polite.

that’s no surprise. shoko isn’t the type to ever show how she’s truly feeling. she’s not the type to ask for help, either. people come to her for help, not the other way around. that’s all she’s ever known.

(in that sense, the two of them were alike.)

but that just makes it all the more important for you to be there. even if you’re a little awkward, and even if you can’t do much. even if it’s only for a moment or two, you want to see her smile. you want to feel for yourself that she’s really there.

looking over at shoko, you wring your hands together, the cold air of the morgue nipping at your sweaty palms. she’s drinking from the cup, one finger around the handle as her other hand flips through the papers.

”does it taste okay?” you ask, softly. if only you could ask her that under better circumstances, with cups of espresso made with better coffee machines than those at jujutsu high. ”i made it myself, so…”

”it’s fine.” shoko takes a sip. dragging her syllables out, as if mustering the will to speak. ”don’t worry.”

short sentences. almost cold, but you know better than that. she just doesn’t have it in her to pretend that everything is normal, anymore.

and it makes you uncomfortable. this silence.

a couple months ago, it would have felt comforting; a quiet, peaceful kind of solitude shared between the two of you. nostalgic, like the smell of morning dew. or the way moonlight feels on your skin when the world falls asleep.

the silence you had with shoko always felt so tender. a single moment of peace, before the other shoe dropped. just that one moment was enough to give you the hope you needed to make it through another day.

you loved being silent with shoko. you loved her silence, the way she could soothe your very soul without saying a thing.

but now it only stings your skin. you fear that you might drown in it.

there is nothing to say. you want to ask her how she’s doing, but you already know. you want to ask her why she’s still reading the files from gojo’s autopsy, but you already know.

you want to ask her if she can still keep going, like this. but you already know.

she doesn’t have a choice.

(something crumbles, deep inside your chest, like ashes cast into the sea.)

”hey. shoko?”

she hums, again. weak. quiet. absentminded, acknowledging your words but not really hearing them.

you take a deep breath.

”i think i’m going to quit being a sorcerer.”

silence.

for a moment, nothing happens. nothing moves, or speaks. the air is cold and crisp and carries no meaning, no words, nothing at all.

like time is frozen. frozen like all the bodies shoko’s had to dig inside these past few months. frozen like gojo was when she found him in the snow.

frozen like your youth, a glass marble kept in your pocket for moments when you feel as if the ground beneath your feet is about to slip away. then you’d take it out, and look deep inside it. watch the swirling of greens and blues and purples. that streak of indigo right in the middle of the glass. memories of the past, to give you comfort.

to remind yourself of why you’re doing this. to give you a reason to keep moving forward.

(south or north, it doesn’t matter. stay as you are or move forward, look to the past or to the future — none of it matters if you aren’t alive. that’s the conclusion you came to.)

shoko’s expression, too, is frozen. it doesn’t change, even as you let those loaded words fall from your tongue. you watch her carefully, out of the corner of your eye. she doesn’t even look at you, gaze still glued to the tiny letters detailing exactly what gojo’s pulse was at when he got cut.

but something flickers, in the depths of her irises, so fast you barely catch it. something you can’t identify, but it’s still something. it’s movement. it’s alive.

”not right now, obviously,” you elaborate. suddenly a little nervous, now that the words have been made manifest. ”but… you know. once all this is over.”

not sure what else to say, you trail off, fidgeting with your fingers again. voice wavering pitifully towards the end of the sentence, because deep down you know it’s not a question of once, but a question of if.

(if this ever ends. if i don’t die tomorrow, or the day after that.)

you swallow the lump in your throat, and look at her. trying to find her eyes. trying to keep her alive for as long as you can, this sequence of motion, this moment frozen in time.

trying to reach her.

”you won’t ever have to worry about me dying,” you throw in, like the words are light and not heavy as bricks. but you know she needs to hear them. ”i’ll leave, and then — and then…”

staring down at your lap, you link your hands together. exhaling, a little breathless. sheepish, in a way. ”… well. i don’t know. i haven’t thought that far ahead, yet.”

you never had the chance to. you didn’t even really think of it as a possibility, as something you could do. and you know it’s not a possibility for shoko. the choice to be a sorcerer was never hers, from the very beginning.

a user of the reverse cursed technique. capable of healing almost any wound, more power and capability than a child should ever have. invaluable. she’s saved so many lives you’re sure she’ll be reborn as a god.

but the choice was never hers.

a soothing kind of ache blooms in both your palms, as your nails dig into the soft skin. hard enough to form crescents, like the ones under shoko’s eyes, that she’ll never be rid of no matter how much she sleeps. the choice was never hers.

isn’t that just too cruel?

they don’t deserve her. none of them do. the elders didn’t, the jujutsu world doesn’t — not even the students. no one deserves it; everything she does for everyone, day and night, just slaving away in the morgue or her office. cutting up curses and old friends. every second of the day, always that same buzzing of her name being called.

shoko, someone needs healing, come quick!

shoko, i know it’s 2 am and you have work tomorrow, but there’s a curse that i need you to dissect.

shoko, i think i got a paper cut, would you mind taking a look?

none of them deserve her.

you think of gojo. a flash of white hair, a grin brighter than the sun. a bloodstained smile — one shoko had to wipe away.

something ugly claws its way up your throat.

none of them deserve her. especially not him.

what were you thinking, leaving her all alone like this? so much for being the strongest. you couldn’t even stay alive.

why would you die with a smile on your face? do you have any idea how cruel that is to her?

you idiot. don’t you know how much she missed you?

— yeah. none of them deserve her. gojo doesn’t, the world doesn’t, and neither do you. no one does.

what shoko deserves is to live a normal life.

and she never will.

it’s foolish. it’s naive, a juvenile daydream. but you wish for it so, so badly. so much that even just the thought alone feels like too much to bear.

you wish you could bring her with you.

you wish you could take her hand in yours, and run away. leave it all behind, every single thing, without caring about the consequences. you’d hold her hand and never let it go, and then you’d run and run until you were both high on adrenaline and breathless laughter.

maybe you could go somewhere, together. somewhere better. outside of japan, where there are less curses. money wouldn’t be an issue, you both have more than you know what to do with — one of the perks of having a job that’s bound to kill you. you could settle down in some smaller town, peaceful, maybe a little secluded. just to make sure no one finds you.

maybe you could open up a little shop, together. or spend all your days tangled up beneath the blankets, catching up on lost sleep. talking and whispering, like you’d do back at the sleepovers you used to have. you’d make her coffee every morning, and tea every evening. you’d spend the rest of your life trying to make her laugh as loud as possible.

there’s nothing you want more. absolutely nothing. there never will be.

— but you can’t ask her.

you can’t ask her to come with you, no matter how much you want to. that’d be the cruelest thing you could possibly do to her.

she would never agree. you’d only be hurting her more. so selfish, all of these wishes. it was so much simpler back when you were just kids. when you didn’t have to care about duties or responsibilities. when your cognitive empathic abilities were just a little more lacking.

a sigh flows from your lips. resigned, but somewhat hopeful, all the same. tainted with the murmurs of a memory that’ll never happen.

”maybe i’ll open up a bakery, or something.” you tap your fingers against the desk, smiling a little to yourself at the thought. or trying to. ”then you could come visit.”

shoko looks into her cup of coffee. watching the swirling of the vortex, the abyss that gazes back at her. she doesn’t look at you but you can tell she’s listening. then she puts the cup down, and you glance at her now-empty hand.

shoko’s hands have always been pretty. even when they’re covered in grime, or stained with blood. thin, a little bony, smooth skin obscuring clear blue veins. moles litter her hands like stars in the sky; one right beneath her pinkie, another by her wrist. the more you look, the more you find.

tentatively, you broach the distance between you. curling your fingers around her slender ones, where they rest on her lap. linking hands. it’s a slow movement, drawn out and careful, accompanied by the heavy beating of your heart.

(her skin is cold to the touch. your skin buzzes with unease, but you don’t let go.)

then you smile. a small thing, not really optimistic, but the attempt is there. something for her to hold on to. looking deep into her eyes, admiring the hazel glow that never quite left them.

”i’ll give you free pastries.”

a moment passes. shoko’s fingers squeeze around yours — weakly, but it’s there. movement, motion, life. a way of reaching out. a way to hold on.

her eyes continue to trail over the page, but you know she’s not reading any of the contents. you’ve caught her attention. a small victory, but you’ll take what you can get.

”i don’t like sweets,” she reminds you, leaning back a little in her chair. allowing her eyes to flutter shut, at last — and it’s not much but it’s something. a moment of relief for those tired, tired eyes. more tired than any 29 year old’s should be.

”i’ll change your mind,” you promise, mustering up enough will to sound smug. ”my pastries will be out of this world. you’ll get a sweet tooth in no time, sho.”

she exhales a breath, vaguely amused. your smile widens, hopelessly. her happiness was always the root of yours, wasn’t it?

then she looks at you, one eyebrow raised in lazy scepticism. ”can you even bake?”

”nope,” you deadpan. ”but i’ll learn. you’ll see.”

this time, shoko almost chuckles — and it’s more than you’ve gotten out of her in recent memory. god, you missed that sound. a little raspy, from all the cigarettes, but still so honeyed and smooth. hearing it makes you feel as if everything will turn out fine, in the end.

(what a powerful thing, for a voice to do. one so lovely it anchors you to the earth.)

a faux pout curls its way to your lips, and you squeeze her hand lightly. ”don’t laugh, i’m being serious!” your pout shifts into a soft grin, a little teasing. ”i’ll get you addicted to sugar instead of nicotine.”

”haha…”

shoko laughs. shoko laughs and it’s beautiful.

shoko laughs, a genuine laugh, and it’s so beautiful that you almost don’t notice the tears in her eyes. almost.

and then you realize your mistake.

a memory comes to you, then. you recall a hushed conversation, beneath a cloudy summer sky. the air was heavy with the scent of lilacs and cigarette smoke. two people were beside you, and all you cared about was listening to the tilt of their voices. that, and nothing more. a time before everything and everyone went south.

(”you know, shoko. you really should drop those death sticks of yours.”

”i don’t want to hear that from the guy who needs 40 grams of pure sugar every day just to function.”

”rude! and as far as addictions go, sugar is a cut above nicotine, don’t ya think?”

”whatever. just worry about yourself, gojo.”)

by the time you realize, it’s already far too late. the tears have already begun to fall. little droplets of grief, sticking to her skin.

they trickle down the contours of shoko’s face, and fall onto the paper in her hand, smudging the letters. she clutches it tightly, crinkling it, just to make the damage worse. her other hand is still holding yours, chipped nails digging into your skin gently.

but she keeps laughing. low, hazy laughter — pained. she sounds like she’s in pain, and that’s because she is. even if no one ever cares to mention it.

(how cruel, for her to be born with the reverse cursed technique. capable of healing any physical wound; leaving her with too many mental ones to count. never to be healed or acknowledged, in this life or the next.)

you can only stare. helpless to her sadness. her eyes are a little red, and she’s biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood — a drop of scarlet falls onto the paper, and you think of gojo again.

you think of shoko finding him. running to his side. doing all she could to heal him, to patch him up — getting blood all over her hands and clothes. red everywhere, staining the pure white of the snowfall. like something out of a painting.

she did all that she could. pressing down on his chest, positive cursed energy pouring out from her fingertips in tandem with the snow. pressing two shaky fingers to his pulse point, just in case. just to find any sign of life, absolutely anything. hoping so tenderly that she’d feel the flutter of his pulse. that he’d get up, and laugh obnoxiously, and ask her if she really thought he’d leave her behind so easily.

you’d never seen her look so scared. so desperate, a primal kind of fear you’ve learned to associate with self-driven survival. the way some animals can claw their way out of a predator’s stomach if they’re swallowed whole. but she did that to save him. trying to claw him out, herself. from the belly of the beast.

she did all that she could.

but gojo didn’t do anything. he just laid there, split in two. frozen in time, eternally young. watching the sky. smiling.

(what a wonderful way to die. what an awful thing for an old friend to find.)

before your mind can catch up, your body acts. muscle memory, in the way your arms curl around her midriff to bring her close. tucking her into your side while she sniffles and cries. still laughing, like she’s still trying to convince you that she’s fine. like she’s isn’t falling apart at the seams.

the dam breaks. the ice shatters. everything comes crashing down — and you’re there to pick up the pieces. despite everything.

it’s not enough, it never will be. but at least it’s something.

it’s heart-wrenching, the way she clings to you. like you’re the only thing she has. the dry laughter that spills from her throat devolves into sobbing, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, nails clinging to the fabric of your clothing like she’s trying to anchor herself. broken sniffles fill the space between you as she hides away, in the crook of your neck.

(the sound makes you feel like someone drove a knife from your sternum down to your stomach.)

all you can do is hold her. quietly, delicately. as if she could break if you squeeze her too hard. as if she’d shatter like a sheet of glass if you were to say the wrong thing again.

you hold shoko like she’s fragile. because she is, regardless of what anyone else says. because she’s a human being, and she’s grieving, and she needs this.

eventually, she musters up the will to speak — and it’s awful, raspy, broken syllables she has to force out of her throat.

she chokes on the words like they’re poisonous. like she’s been carrying them around for decades, bubbling beneath the surface, waiting to be let out.

“don’t — don’t end up here,” shoko pleads, voice wavering through the syllables. full of fear. “please.”

you know what she means. she doesn’t have to say it, because you know.

don’t end up in my morgue. don’t end up on my autopsy table.

shoko sounds meek. she sounds close to falling apart. you’ve never seen her like this before, clutching onto your sleeves as if begging you to stay.

“you’re — you’re the only one i…”

she doesn’t finish, cut off by a broken sniffle. but she doesn’t need to.

you’re the only one i have left. i can’t lose you, too.

please don’t die. please don’t leave me behind.

a shaky inhale. your arms tighten around her waist, tugging her closer. praying that she’ll feel the steady beating of your heart, the undeniable proof that you’re alive. that you haven’t left her yet.

you blink away the tears in your eyes, grasping for control over your wavering voice.

“i won’t.”

and maybe it’s cruel, maybe it’s the cruelest thing you could do to her — making a promise you know you might not be able to keep. but you do so anyway. helpless to her sadness. at the complete mercy of her grief. you’d do anything to stop the tears from falling, to soothe the turmoil in her chest.

“i won’t let you be alone, shoko,” you murmur into her hair, with all the comfort you can possibly muster. ”not now, or ever.”

three words yearn to be spoken, resting on the tip of your tongue. three little syllables, desperate to be heard after living in the back of your throat for so many years.

and for a second, you think you might say it.

you think you might say it, breathe life into the statement. you can almost taste it, can almost hear it. can almost see what her expression would look like.

but shoko sniffles, and hugs you tighter. protective, like you’ll leave if she doesn’t. so tightly that it hurts a little.

and you swallow the words, once more.

right now, this is enough. it’s enough that you’re alive, that you’re here. that’s what shoko needs, right now.

she doesn’t need your love. she just needs you to stay alive.

so you will. you decide that you will, no matter what. you’ll leave, and you’ll open up a shitty bakery that won’t get any customers — and you’ll give her free pastries for the rest of your life. you’ll get her so addicted to sweets that she’ll have no choice but to come back for more.

shoko cries like a child. filling the silence of the morgue with her shaky breaths and quiet sniffles, little hiccups and whimpers. the tears never seem to stop, and you wonder how long it’s been since she last let them fall.

you hold her in your arms, smoothing a palm down her back, counting the bumps of vertebra — and don’t say anything. there’s no need to.

for now, the soft patter of your heartbeat is enough.

ijichi stands just outside the morgue, unmoving. not saying a thing.

it’s muffled, hushed and quiet, but still audible. the sound of childlike crying. the kind all sorcerers do their best to keep to themselves.

in his arms lie a bundle of papers. the final pages of gojo’s autopsy report. it’s important that shoko sees them — vital, according to her. something about the six eyes, the possibilities they hold. the hope that maybe, just maybe…

— he clutches them tightly, and then walks away.

#the wlw urge to leave everything behind and start a bakery together……#idk how to feel abt this i just!! needed to get some shoko thoughts out!!! she’s my fave jjk girl and i love the way her grief is portrayed #i just hope gege does her justice but i have a good feeling that he will!! if not its on sight #she’s so special to me. the airport scene hurts sm because she really is all alone now :(( its so fucked up i SOBBED into my pillow #well i mean. she still has ijichi. and i love him dont get me wrong but like. STILL #im delusional tho so i think next chapter shoko will use her rct to heal gojo #and then we’ll get a scene of him leaving the airport with shoko. trust me gege and i are like this🤞#sorry for basing all my titles on siken poems. anyway go read ’i had a dream about you’ its so shoko #shoko ieiri #shoko ieiri x reader #shoko ieiri x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk #jjk spoilers #jujutsu kaisen spoilers #jjk 236 #jujutsu kaisen 236 #…. i think. thats all the tags…….

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fiendishartist2 · 1 year

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guilty of your innocence– mp100

“It’s very nice to finally meet you, Ms. Serizawa!”

The man on her doorstep was holding out a very sweaty hand. When she took it, she was treated to the clammiest handshake she had ever experienced.

Her boy– lovely, sweet, naive Katsuya– was smiling at her, eyes wide and imploring. Despite the grin pulling at his lips, his hands were shaking where they were clasped in front of his chest. Poor Katsuya looked like he was on the brink of collapse. The nervous tilt of his eyebrows were screaming at her to accept the man.

She didn’t know whether to spare his feelings or tell the truth.

Katsuya had called her earlier in the day, asking if she was free for a visit after work. For her son, she would always be free, she told him– but she accepted anyway. Despite their previously strained relationship, Katsuya was one of her favourite people. She loved when he swung by her residential area, coming for lunch or dinner whenever he made time in his busy schedule.

He told her he had a surprise for her– someone he wanted her to meet. She was ecstatic, of course; still overwhelmingly proud of her son for getting out into the world. And now, he was meeting people and making friends! She baked snacks with vigour, fueled by the need to impress whoever their guest would be.

Now she wished she hadn’t broken her back over those little cakes.

The man Katsuya presented her with was incredibly underwhelming– if not downright concerning. He spoke with a certain degree of smarminess, like he was trying to sell her something. His smile glinted– sharp and intelligent, but much too disarming. The man’s arms pinwheeled around as he spoke at a mile a minute; the lack of self-awareness was another red-flag raised with the others. Adding to his persona, the man’s hair was an unnatural shade of blond, the colour of box bleach done in the middle of the night in a cramped bathroom. On his strung-out frame, he wore an oversized– yet puzzlingly too-small– suit. It crinkled, thin fabric bunching up around his waist and shoulders. The pant legs didn’t quite reach his ankles, revealing unprofessional magenta socks. He was trying to distract her with his big, showy smiles and empty niceties– and she was already suspicious.

With narrowed eyes, she sized him up. She instilled as much distrust into her glare as her 5’3” stature could manage. Judging by the beads of sweat gathering under his bangs, the man was rightfully intimidated.

Katsuya led them into the house, passing by his mother to plant the man in her living room. He left him alone with a squeeze of his shoulder. The man looked like he was trying desperately to not throw up on her carpet. He smiled around his clear nausea– she wanted to laugh at the way his face was nearly green, like a cartoon character, but alarms were going off in her ears. She didn't like this disingenuous man who had swept up her Katsuya at all.

As Katsuya puttered around the kitchen, collecting mugs and tea bags as he set water boiling in the kettle with his powers, she sat on the armchair opposite the man, cornering him.

She levelled him with another icy look, crossing her arms. The man straightened, steeling himself like he was getting ready for an argument.

"Who are you?" She asked bluntly. He barely faltered, crossing his legs and leaning in. He still had that sickly-sweet customer service smile plastered on his face.

"Reigen Arataka," he stopped, like he was about to continue that sentence, but decided against it at the last minute. Pink dusted his cheeks and he cleared his throat, "I'm Katsuya's… business partner. It's nice to meet you Ms…?" He reiterated. She didn't return the sentiment.

She hummed, brushing him off, "And how do you know my son?"

Clanging sounded from the kitchen, causing her to startle– Katsuya must have dropped something. Concern flashed across Reigen's face as he peered into the kitchen, eyebrows drawn in a look that conveyed worry where she expected fear. It had been a long time since the sound of something hitting the floor in her home was cause for light concern instead of anxiety. Reigen relaxed when a bright "I'm okay!" floated in from the kitchen.

"Well, that's actually a funny story," he started, uncrossing and crossing his legs again the opposite way. It was like he couldn't stop moving, "Katsuya and I actually met at his old uh– 'job'."

Her heart stopped beating.

The last time a man in a suit with a fake smile and hollow words took her Katsuya, she lost him for three years. To hear that they met through the abusive man her son had just barely escaped from was a punch to the gut.

Already, Reigen was trying to explain himself. His hands flailed around like restless hummingbirds and if she hadn't been lost in her own fear and anger, she would want to bat them away.

"Not- I mean, it was after his old boss was arrested and- and I am not part of Claw or anything like that-!" He swiped a sweaty hand across his sweaty face, laughing shrilly, "You see, my kids– well, they're not really my kids but- but anyways!"

Was Katsuya in a bad place again?

It seemed like he was getting better– he had his own apartment that he paid for with his own money. She thought he had a real job, since he earned a consistent wage and spoke highly of his new boss– even quite affectionately at times. Katsuya went to school, he had friends; he was finally experiencing the world in a way she never thought possible. Nothing like the closed off, frightened boy she had known his whole life.

But, had he just been passed from one controlling force to another? Did she fail to see her son was struggling again?

Katsuya returned from the kitchen. His bubbly presence cut off Reigen's flustered ramblings, attention drawn solely to him. In his hands, Katsuya carried two steaming mugs of tea; behind him, a third cup bobbed lazily in the air, suspended in a shimmering cloud of magenta and black. She tried not to stare at the obvious and carefree display of psychic powers– but after so many years of it being just a depressing background hum in her home, it was still surprising to see it expressed so openly.

He handed them each a mug, sitting next to Reigen and letting his own settle gracefully into his cupped hands.

"Watch out, it's still hot," he murmured, earning an unimpressed pout from Reigen. Katsuya giggled into his tea and she nearly choked on her own– it had to have been years since she heard him sound so happy.

"So, what were you guys talking about?" Katsuya asked innocently. Reigen winced, turning away and rubbing the back of his neck.

"Just- ah… how we met." He confessed sullenly. In the tense silence, Reigen sipped his tea at an obnoxious volume. He set it down seconds later with a yelp.

Katsuya pursed his lips, carefully avoiding eye contact with his mother.

"Oh."

She cut in with a stern tone, "Katsuya," worry settled just under her words, "I thought you were done with that whole organisation. Are you…" She cleared her throat, but her voice still came out as nothing more than a whisper, "Do you need help, sweetheart?"

Her son looked absolutely stricken.

"Wh- Mama, what do you mean? Of course I'm not part of Claw anymore. I told you, they disbanded," his hands hugged his cup tighter as they started trembling, "A-and… um, I like where I am now."

His free hand wrapped around Reigen's arm, wrinkling the cheap fabric. A blotchy red blush spread across Reigen's entire face– just the sight of it gave her second hand embarrassment. Then her son's words caught up with her.

This is the man her son chose? This annoying, two-faced, car-salesman-esque man? A man who had power over him as his boss– and wasn't that just like his old 'employer'? Wasn't Suzuki just another person with too much control over her Katsuya– her poor son who would flock to anyone who could point him in the direction of normalcy–

Beeping filled the air; her cakes were done in the oven.

She set her mug down harshly. Tea splashed over the edges, staining her nearly spotless coffee table.

Ms. Serizawa stomped into her kitchen, breathing angrily through the tightness in her chest. Her heart spasmed with each intake, sending her head spinning. She propped herself up against the counter.

She balled her fists at her sides; her shoulders hunched as she squeezed her eyes shut. The tightness in her chest spread to her throat.

She failed again. Katsuya was going to be taken away from her again and it would be her fault for not noticing again. What was wrong with her? How could she be such a horrible mother? Was she just that negligent that he felt like he couldn't come to her for help? Was she not reaching out enough? It had to be her– there had to be a reason that her Katsuya kept falling into the hands of so many controlling men– it was a clear pattern and all signs pointed to her failure as a parent.

Soft footsteps shuffled up to her. He held his breath in anticipation, but didn't try to start the conversation.

"Why?" She mumbled, voice strangled. Katsuya sighed, shuffling closer to her side. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted him lift his arm– as if he was going to snake it around her shoulders– and then let it drop as he averted his eyes.

"Is it me?" She asked, again with no explanation, "Am I a bad mother, Katsuya?"

He startled, looking up from his feet to stare at her in disbelief.

"What? Why would you say that, of course you're- what makes you think that?" He stumbled over his words but she could see the genuine worry on his face. She could have laughed at how relieved that made her. Katsuya believed in everyone in his life, despite the ways he had been burned by that same trust. Whether anyone actually deserved that earnest support, though, was something she often doubted.

The green number on the digital display of her oven flashed '0:00' over and over. Every few seconds, it let out a piercing shriek, reminding her that her cakes would be ruined soon if she didn't do something about it. She didn't move turn the oven off.

"I let all of this happen to you and now look!" He tensed, "You're being taken advantage of again-"

"I am not being taken advantage of." The low rumble of his voice made her finally look up at him. Her son's face was set into a disillusioned scowl; eyebrows set low and mouth puckered into a frown.

Some part of her– buried deep down since her son left for Claw– wanted to hide from that angry face. Anger meant powers and powers always meant bad things in her home.

She could never be afraid of her lovely Katsuya, but psychic powers? Her stomach roiled for the first time in a while.

Slowly, his face smoothed back into worry. A wry smile pulled at his lips.

"I'm not as naive as you think I am," he chuckled without any humour, gaze fixed on his hands as he picked at his thumbnail, "Is that what you're worried about?"

She couldn't bring herself answer him. Shame flooded her stomach.

"Reigen is nothing like Suzuki," he continued resolutely. Fondness creased his eyes, "He's helped me become someone I can be proud of. I'm grateful for all of the opportunities he's given me, but…"

Katsuya looked up at her, face sharp with determination.

"But, I'm also helping myself. Reigen is different because– well, because he makes me feel different," she wanted to argue with him, but he steamrolled over her in a way she never would have expected, "I have my own life– I set boundaries and have friends outside of the office. Suzuki…" Katsuya blinked rapidly, face darkening again, "He didn't want me going to school or-or seeing you like I do now. He didn't want me to know anything except what he told me."

"I like when Reigen's proud of me," he admitted, hand finding a perch on his neck as he smiled abashedly, "But I don't need his approval like I needed Suzuki's. I don't need him to make me feel… uhm– feel like I'm worth something."

He stared down at her, eyes glittering with untapped emotion. Hope danced between the gentle tilt of his eyebrows and pooled in the upturned corners of his mouth. All she could do was nod her head in acknowledgement.

He spoke softer now, pressing a light hand on her back, "I can take care of myself now. You don't have to worry so much about me, Mama."

"Yes I do!" She choked out, tears springing to her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her back consolingly.

"Trust me? Please?" He asked, meeker than his grandiose speech, but just as earnest. She shook her head.

"I don't know how to do that…" She admitted into his shoulder, speaking so softly she couldn't be sure he heard her. She didn't know if she wanted him to.

He pulled away and her heart twisted.

"Why not start now?" Another voice joined from the doorway. Reigen waved at her ruefully. Quickly, she dried her damp cheeks on a tea towel.

Katsuya huffed out a content laugh, shaking his head at Reigen's incredibly well-timed (and definitely calculated) entrance. She joined in, a little hysterically, after a while. She shook with the weight of her tumultuous emotions, anchoring herself with a hand on Katsuya's shoulder.

The oven timer beeped again and she jumped out of her skin.

"My cakes!" She shouted, horror wiping away all traces of the sorrow that had made its home in the creases of her face.

Armed with a pair of oven mitts and two men trying to mask their mirth with sympathy, she fished out the mini cakes she spent all afternoon baking.

They were blackened with char.

She ran a hand through her hair, tossing them out swiftly before her guest could get a good look at them. Katsuya rubbed her shoulder, still chucking a little under his breath.

"It's okay, Mama, don't worry about it." He smiled reassuringly.

"Thank you, honey, it's just… I don't have anything else to give you two other than tea."

"Oh!" Reigen dashed out of the room, rustling around the front hall. He came back with a sheepish smile on his face, brandishing a plate of cookies to her.

"They're not perfect, but I wanted to make something for you– and y'know, Teru really needed help with this baking assignment so I thought, why not, right? You don't have to take them, obviously, I made them at like midnight yesterday– and they probably have all kinds of grubby kid germs since Teru couldn't stop tasting the frosting no matter how many times I–"

"God, does this one ever shut up? Give those here." She swiped at her eyes subtly, taking the plate from a dumbstruck Reigen.

Katsuya laughed the hardest she had ever heard him.