Archive of Our Own

This was the first and last time Sukuna would ever accept guest spots. He hadn't been interested to begin with. He didn't like traveling abroad, hated long flights, but his friend insisted the trip would be a good opportunity. Broadening his network, more clientèle, less cuts and higher rates, seeing the sights.

Well, Uraume was downright wrong. America was a shithole.

Streets were littered with garbage, transportation was awful, restrooms were unsanitary, and Americans were rude and noisy and lacked a sense of boundaries. The food was sloppy and greasy. Sukuna felt like he was choking on pure fat and sugar every time he ate, and he couldn't believe people consumed such trash on the daily. At one point he longed for something edible, something from home, so he went out of his way to an Asian supermarket only to find sushi that wasn’t fresh and onigiri that broke into sad, shitty pieces.

Then there was the actual job. His Instagram mutuals turned out to be annoying coworkers. They were chatty as fuck, loud as fuck, and as if that wasn't enough misery, his clients were even chattier and louder fucks. "I've been wanting a tattoo from you for years!" a few said, excited like gross children. "I'd been hoping you’d visit the US!" Sukuna couldn't give two shits. They talked for hours straight. And then after the studio closed, he was urged to join people for drinks and terrible food and not one of them knew the definition of the word, No.

An announcement cut through the spiraling thoughts.

"Group three," the gate agent said into the microphone.

The words were a godsend. Sukuna stood up from the airport bench and grabbed the handle of his rolling luggage. Good riddance, he thought, stepping in line at the gate desk.

Unfortunately, the respite was over as soon as Sukuna boarded the plane. He found himself squeezed between people in the aisle, his patience on the line again. He remembered why he hated flights. And he hated the teenage girl in front of him taking forever to fit her luggage in the overhead compartment.

Sukuna watched for five full seconds, then offered assistance.

“Let me,” he said.

The girl threw an apologetic smile over her shoulder. “Oh no, it’s okay,” she said. “I got it.”

No, she didn’t. Sukuna was forced to wait an infuriating extra six seconds—all the while thinking how to communicate that he wasn’t asking, he was demanding, without causing a scene—before she finally crammed the luggage inside.

When Sukuna had settled in his window seat, he was still seething. Right, he realized, the nightmare wasn’t over. Getting off foreign soil was just the first part of the obstacle; the second was to last sitting in the suffocating hunk of metal for the next fourteen hours.

Fourteen hours.

Sukuna exhaled deeply through his nose. He unzipped his windbreaker, removed his cap, and ran a hand through his hair. At the rate his luck was going, he expected his seat neighbor to be talkative or reek of shit, or worse, they could be a parent with a screaming infant. They could be all three at once. If that happened, he would consider murder or jumping off the plane.

Miraculously, a middle-aged man who smelled of fresh cologne slid into the middle seat beside him. He gave off a quiet, reserved vibe. No child in sight. Sukuna started to believe that maybe gods did exist, that maybe Shinto wasn't bullshit.

But then the man began peering over the headrests. He did it again, and again, and again, as if keeping an eye out for something. Like a cat’s hackles on the rise, catching a sense of foreboding in the air, Sukuna's shoulders stood straight and square.

"Excuse me," a voice said through the hum of the plane. It was female and fluent in English. "Do you mind switching seats with my husband? His seat is just a few rows down."

"Oh, sure!" a second voice replied, equally fluent. Young and male and far too cheery. "I'd be happy to."

"Thank you so, so much."

Sukuna kissed his teeth as the man moved to retrieve his luggage, promptly leaving. Gods didn't exist and Shinto was bullshit.

Moments later, an Asian boy walked down the aisle, scanning the letters and numbers displayed above the seats. He wore a vivid, multi-colored hoodie and bright orange pants. His hair was dual-toned, light pink at the top, a black undercut below, reminiscent of Korean pop idol hairstyles. In Japan, the style was trendy among idols too, but on the common person it generated the assumption they were a delinquent or a foreigner.

Given that the boy’s attire was a blinding eyesore, and that he sounded too friendly, even looked too friendly—his eyes were round and big, his eyebrows softly shaped—Sukuna would bet his entire bank account that this brat was the latter.

Definitely a foreigner. Definitely an insufferable American.

The brat packed his luggage in the overhead compartment, then sat down next to him. Sukuna prayed in his head.

Overhead, a sound that preceded takeoff rang out: Ding.

"Welcome aboard, passengers," the pilot announced in English through the speakers. "This is your captain speaking. Our destination is Tokyo, Haneda Airport, and the flight time is approximately fourteen hours and twenty minutes…"

The pilot repeated the standard speech in Japanese, then crackled the intercom off, and the seatbelt signals lit on, locking all passengers in their chairs. The brat looked at the empty aisle seat.

"Wow, just us then," the brat said. He turned his gaze to Sukuna. "That's lucky."

Sukuna's nightmare was coming to life: a seat neighbor prone to small talk. He deigned to respond, to nip the bud early.

"No speak English," Sukuna lied, emphasizing his accent.

"Sorry, sorry," the brat said in fluent Japanese, and Sukuna nearly thrashed about in his seat. Everything was going wrong. "I was saying it's lucky to have an empty seat. More space for us to use. I can put your bag under it if you want more leg room—"

"No thanks," Sukuna said sharply.

The brat didn’t catch Sukuna’s tone because he moved his backpack under the empty seat, retrieved a pack of gum from it, and held a piece out to him. "Want one? For the ears."

Begrudgingly, Sukuna accepted the offer without a word.

The plane rumbled and tumbled and then flew into the air. The seatbelt lights turned off, allowing passengers free roam of the plane. As it was early in the flight most stayed seated, checking texts and opening laptops and flitting through movie selections on the headrest screens. The brat was among the lattermost, to Sukuna’s relief. He selected a shitty-looking horror movie and plugged in his earphones, a promise that he’d be occupied for a few hours.

Sukuna relaxed, and pulled his tablet out from his messenger bag. Plentiful work awaited him.

He specialized in abstract blackwork tattoo flash. Frankly, drawing up designs didn’t take long. Concepting was second nature and lines came together seamlessly on the canvas. The real obstacle was perfectionism, which meant the fine-tuning of little details. There was much to consider: how a design would look wrapped around an arm, how it would distort if the client bent or stretched their limb, how thick or thin the skin was depending on the placement. How to draw the eye along the body part, how to arrange it around other tattoos. The composition on the body mattered; it was part of the craft.

Currently, Sukuna was adjusting one of his large designs for a client who wanted it placed from their thigh to the ankle, and had to interweave the flash along a number of tattoos down the leg. The challenge was welcome, but the client’s tattoos were so hideous and troublesome—the silhouettes were weak and the linework was low quality, affecting the negative space and overall presentation—that he closed the files.

Sukuna rubbed his eyes. He’d been staring at the screen for a prolonged time and his brain needed a break.

He checked the time on his phone. It’d only been three hours. Eleven more to sit through. He sighed deeply and massaged his temple, feeling a headache form.

"Are you okay?" The brat took off one earphone, looking at him. "I have ibuprofen."

Sukuna rubbed his temple harder. It was irritating that the brat was useful. "Fine."

The brat paused his movie—a childish animated one now—and rummaged through his backpack. He handed two tablets and Sukuna palmed them in his mouth. “I’m Itadori, by the way.”

"Thanks," Sukuna said, ignoring the introduction. He hadn’t asked.

"I couldn’t help but notice you drawing," Itadori said. "What you were making, it looked really cool. It seemed like a tattoo?"

"Headache," Sukuna hissed.

Itadori blinked, surprised, then smiled sheepishly. "Right, sorry. I’ll leave you to it. Feel better." He plugged his earphones back in, finally getting the message to shut the hell up.

Sukuna lowered the window shade and reclined back in his seat. Shutting his eyes, he allowed himself to doze off to the dull humming of the plane.

That sound was the only nice thing about flights.

What wasn’t nice about flights was waking with a cramped neck. Sukuna cracked his neck and scowled. He didn’t dare recheck the time. His headache subsided, and it might return if he knew how much longer he was trapped in this constrictive seat, or worse, he might punch the brat out of impulsive, murderous irritation.

Thankfully Itadori remained silent. He was focused, gaze absorbing an action scene on the headrest screen. From his profile, a dark circle under his eye was visible, perhaps noticeable now because of his neutral expression. He looked tired, which made him less annoying to look at.

Peace and quiet. And Itadori’s movie marathon made an adequate, vague indicator of time.

Sufficiently rejuvenated, Sukuna continued his work. He finished the altered flash with no hiccups, swift and flawless. Then with impeccable timing, as if he was rewarded for his endurance and good work, the flight attendants started carting service trolleys down the aisle to pass out meals.

Airplane food was of low quality, but Sukuna was starving and picked the obviously superior option of chicken curry over vegetable stir fry. Itadori had neither and opted for a cup of water. Sukuna couldn’t understand skipping a meal on a flight, that seemed like torture on top of forceful confinement, but that wasn’t his problem.

As he chewed, Sukuna raised the window shade and looked outside. The sky was clear of clouds, endless and light blue, a sight that was soothing to his cabin fever. He felt better, enough to envision himself back home enjoying real food.

Soon.

Inevitably, he had to use the restroom. Itadori was drinking water when Sukuna turned to him.

“Excuse me,” Sukuna said.

Itadori took a moment to swallow. “Sorry,” he said, bringing the empty cup down on his tray table. The only other things on it were a napkin and the bottle of ibuprofen, opened. He threw the napkin in the cup, capped the bottle, then removed the items and closed the tray table. He moved out into the aisle to let Sukuna exit.

Sukuna was relieved to get on his feet and stretch his legs.

But the restroom was fucking disgusting.

Upon return, Sukuna found that Itadori had reopened his tray table, resting on it with his head face down on his arms.

“Excuse me,” Sukuna said again.

Itadori perked up and began moving to get out. “Sorry, sorry.”

They repeated their maneuver around the seats. Once Sukuna settled, Itadori reopened the table and rested on it the same way as before.

It was obvious the brat wasn’t feeling great. His headrest screen was even turned off. The movie marathon must’ve contributed to his ailment, in the same way drawing for hours straight had done a number on Sukuna earlier. 

Sukuna took out a paperback book from his messenger bag, unconcerned. He was only (very, very) mildly sorry for his callous emotion. It was nothing personal. If it were any other stranger, he would feel no different. A subdued seat neighbor was beneficial and it was rational to want an easy time on the long flight home after a week of garbage food and unbearable people.

Moving on, Sukuna flipped to the first page of the book. The premise was about a young man embarking on a quest to reconcile with his old high school friends. The group of friends had coldly ghosted him, and he was still deeply scarred by their rejection over a decade later.

This wasn’t a book Sukuna would choose to read; his friend lent it and urged him to give it a try. Uraume shared his taste in memoirs and historical fiction, but as of late they were delving into introspective literature, the pretentious kind that unnecessarily droned on and on and made zero sense. Such was the case with this story. The details were tedious and repetitive, the choice of dialogue was strange, and the character actions were nonsensical.

Absorbed in criticism, Sukuna didn’t catch Itadori leaving to use the restroom. He missed Itadori’s unsteady tread back in their row, too. When he finally noticed, it was too late—the brat toppled across the seats like a falling tree and crashed his head against Sukuna’s with a hard thud!

Sukuna cursed and his head stung and immediately he moved Itadori to make him upright, but it was a struggle. The brat was dead weight and the armrests were awkward obstructions. He might’ve protested louder, been meaner, but the passengers in the opposite aisle were staring at them. This was karma for his callousness. He pushed the call button and took off his seatbelt to properly get Itadori in the chair.

Itadori just barely regained consciousness, blinking in a disoriented daze, when the flight attendant arrived. Sukuna leaned over him, but then hesitated on which language to communicate in. The flight attendant was Asian, but her features didn’t look obviously Japanese.

“He fainted,” Sukuna said in English.

The attendant looked at Itadori with mild concern. “How do you feel?”

The noise of the plane swallowed Itadori’s response.

Leaning back in the chair, Sukuna crossed his arms over his chest. He was not relaxed, like a bird that just fixed its feathers but a few were still out of place. He lost the motivation to read, the book laying closed on his lap.

The flight attendant left Itadori with a cup of water. This was the cue an average good person would take to ask if he was all right, but Sukuna struggled to be good, so he said nothing and packed the book away.

Itadori turned his head to Sukuna ever so slightly, as though afraid to look at him.

“Um… did I fall on you?” he asked.

Sukuna held back an irritated sigh. He supposed the brat would be confused. “You did.”

“I’m sorry,” Itadori said. He sounded and looked exhausted. His face was pale. “I caused you trouble.”

Sukuna also held back his tongue. “You should eat something,” he suggested, neutral as possible. Then he realized the flight attendant was a suitable target for his annoyance, to assign blame for all the inconvenience. She left the brat with just a measly little cup. Useless.

Itadori made no indication to take the advice, merely taking tiny sips from his cup. Sukuna allowed a minute of his pathetic sipping before he pulled a protein bar out of his bag. He tapped Itadori’s arm with it.

“Eat,” Sukuna demanded.

Itadori’s gaze lingered on the protein bar, then flicked up to Sukuna’s face—which must’ve looked pissed off because he snatched the bar right away. “Thank you.” He tore the wrapper, bit the bar, and chewed slowly.

Silence planted itself in the space between them. There was only the hum of the plane, drowning out the few murmurs of other passengers. Sukuna’s leg began to bounce. The current circumstance should have made him feel at ease, relaxed, this was the ideal, but instead he felt restless, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. He didn’t want to draw nor watch movies.

His leg bounced and bounced. A minute passed.

“It was a tattoo,” Sukuna said.

Itadori paused mid-bite. Then he swallowed. “Huh?”

Sukuna stared at Itadori. He wasn’t the sort to repeat twice. He watched Itadori’s expression turn nervous under scrutiny, and his brown eyes flitted up in wonder, his brows knitting together. The brat was thinking so hard his mouth dropped slightly.

Then Itadori brightened with realization. “Oh! You mean from earlier. Are you a tattoo artist?”

“Obviously,” Sukuna said, but that sounded too curt; he amended, “Yeah. I am.”

Itadori smiled a little, and though the change was small, it looked like he gained some life back. Color was returning to his cheeks. “Makes sense. I wanted to tell you that I like your tattoos.” He gestured around his own face, remarking on Sukuna’s facial tattoos. “They're really cool."

Sukuna grunted his thanks.

“You have an Instagram?”

Sukuna shut his eyes briefly, vexed. He didn’t want to connect the brat to him, but he had invited the conversation. “Ryoumen tats.”

Itadori crunched on the last of the protein bar as he unlocked his phone and searched for the account. His eyes needlessly widened in shock. “Whoa! Your work is so cool! You’re so talented.”

The gushing reminded Sukuna of his annoying clients. He exhaled through his nose and reminded himself he couldn’t be mad. “It seems you’re feeling better.”

“I am, thanks,” Itadori said without looking up. “I take it your headache went away?”

Sukuna almost said “Obviously” again. He hummed in affirmation.

Itadori flashed a brighter smile. “I’m glad.” Then he showed his phone screen, pointing at an elaborate tattoo of flames as if Sukuna had never seen his own fucking post. “I really like this one.”

“…Thanks.”

“I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo for a while.” Itadori withdrew his phone and continued to explore Sukuna’s account. “Maybe I could get one from you.”

“Sure, but my rates are high,” Sukuna said. The cost might keep the brat from booking with him. “And only if that’s the style you want. There are many styles.”

“I’m sure,” Itadori said, conclusive. “I know tattoos are expensive, and I really like your style. I meant that.” He grinned widely, looking too happy. “So, your name is Ryoumen? Nice to meet you.”

Sukuna wanted to grab his mouth and smush that smile like a kid would with slime. “Yeah.”

“Thanks again for the food,” Itadori added, tucking the bar wrapper into his pocket.

“You need to eat more than that though,” Sukuna said. He didn’t want to deal with Itadori passing out a second time. “Something wrong with you?”

For once Itadori hesitated. His smile softened, but not in a way that was good. “Um, if I’m honest, I haven’t been feeling well. Can’t sleep much nor have I had any appetite. Because… my grandpa passed away. I’m flying over for his funeral.”

The air went still. The hum of the plane seemed to change tune.

Sukuna shouldn’t have asked.

Itadori glanced at him nervously. “That was a bit heavy, huh?”

Pressing the call button, Sukuna forced himself to say something normal. “You’re fine. Sorry. About that, I mean.”

“What are you traveling for?” Itadori asked, changing the subject. “Going home? I saw your post about going to the States.”

“Yeah, home. I traveled for work.”

Itadori looked at him expectantly, probably for elaboration on the trip.

“I’m not coming back,” Sukuna said instead. Itadori chuckled, but he meant it.

The flight attendant who (hardly) assisted Itadori came to answer the call.

“Red wine,” Sukuna told her in English. He needed a drink if he had to continue being decent to a grieving brat. Then he gestured to Itadori with a thumb. “And for him, his meal. He skipped eating before he fainted. It should be free.”

“Yes, of course,” the flight attendant said. She looked a little scared, the possibility of a complaint dawning on her. “We should have extras in the back.”

“Make it the curry,” Sukuna called after her as she hurried off.

“So I wasn’t imagining it,” Itadori said. He smiled differently, a secretive quality to it, as if he knew something no one else did. “You lied.”

Sukuna stared at him, waiting for an explanation, but Itadori just stared back with the corner of his mouth quirked up in a cheeky way. Itadori waited too—for Sukuna to figure it out, a mirror of Sukuna's prior behavior.

So this one’s a shitty little brat, Sukuna thought. He made no change in expression, keeping his cool.

"Yeah,” Sukuna admitted. “I lied.”

"You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Itadori said. “I get it. You’re not into small talk.”

“I'm talking now," Sukuna pushed, picking a fight just because he could.

The flight attendant returned with a cup of red wine and a meal tray. Itadori thanked her warmly, but once she was gone he stared at the packaged curry in the same manner he had stared at the protein bar. With hesitance.

“You didn’t have to request food for me either,” Itadori said.

Sukuna kissed his teeth. “You are so ungrateful,” he chided, unable to hold his sharp tongue anymore. And as he took his first gulp of wine, he heard Itadori sputter laughter. He put the cup down and glared. “What’s so funny? Rude little…”

“No! No. It’s nothing bad. I’m thankful, really.” Itadori stopped laughing and, for some reason, looked at the curry like it was a precious thing. “It’s just, I think I’ve grasped the kind of person you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you’re not as mean as you look. You're more kind in action than in words.”

“Rude and presumptuous,” Sukuna said, bringing the cup back to his lips. It wasn’t kindness. It was preventing Itadori from burdening him again. “Brat. Eat your food.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Itadori said, dismissive, like Sukuna was the nuisance between the two of them.

Sukuna opened his mouth to clap back, but then he saw Itadori smiling fully, a sincere kind, as he opened a packaged biscuit. Itadori looked less tired with a genuine smile, the flesh beneath his eyes folding in and hiding the dark circles, and any half-formed criticisms on Sukuna’s tongue translated out into a single tut.

The brat fainted, lost his grandfather, and wasn’t in good health, so Sukuna let it go. And when Itadori started conversation back up, he also, very graciously, let him yap away.

Itadori was not originally a foreigner, Sukuna learned. In the next five minutes, Itadori narrated his whole damn life story: When he was fifteen, his mom wanted to accept a promising job opportunity in the States. His dad chose to stay in Japan to care for Itadori’s grandfather, but pushed Itadori to go with her, to “see the world and broaden your perspective.” Dad was right, Itadori said. He went on to talk about his initial culture shock, how America emphasized individuality, how that enabled him to focus on sports over fancy universities—“because you know how Japan is,” Itadori added—and that, ultimately, led to discovering his passion in fitness—all to which Sukuna downed his wine to cope with the overwhelming blabber.

Sukuna ordered a second cup.

Unsurprisingly, Itadori asked Sukuna about himself. Sukuna loathed personal questions, but the alcohol worked its magic, winding down his mind and loosening his lips. He said some shit. Stuff that he never even told Uraume. Like how in elementary school, he aimed to outperform his classmates and make the best drawings in the class, and that was when he found he liked wielding a pencil. How he followed that interest all the way to high school and disappointed his mother and teachers with his final career choice, giving no fucks in the end. He just wanted to draw, make some dough, and do as he pleased. Read and work out.

Itadori perked up. “You lift, dude?”

Sukuna gave him the side-eye. Innocent or not, the question struck a nerve. It reminded him of the part he deliberately left out, the one where his junior high school classmates hurled the word otaku at him and shredded his artwork. They thought he could be pushed around for being a “wimpy” artist.

Well, those idiots were taught a valuable lesson.

As if he were in a spotlight at a grand, important show, Sukuna coolly shucked off his windbreaker. He’d dressed himself in a turtleneck that hugged his upper body, pecs and delts and biceps and triceps all snug against his skin, pressed tightly against the black fabric. Even his traps stood out beneath the polo neck. Sukuna had seen in the mirror, so he knew he looked good, and a smug smirk danced across his face as Itadori’s jaw dropped.

“Holy crap.” Itadori’s eyes roamed downward. “You’re ripped.”

“I know,” Sukuna said shamelessly. He tipped his cup back and drank a generous amount of wine, as well as the feeling of Itadori’s admiration. It tasted tart, and pleasant.

Itadori’s gaze darted back to his face, an honest question in them. “If you don’t mind my asking… how do you manage? I heard that weight equipment is lacking in gyms in Japan.”

“You haven’t been to Japan in years, brat.” Sukuna frowned at his cup. Nearly empty. “You have to go to the right places. Commercial gyms are full of old geezers.” He gestured his cup to Itadori. “Now you. Let’s see how big you are.”

Itadori’s brows shot up. “Me? But I…” He hesitated, and Sukuna stared and waited.

The request might have been strange, but Sukuna had always been competitive, and he was losing sobriety, and by default, he didn’t give a fuck. He had to know if he was better than the brat.

Itadori ended up obliging, tugging off his pullover hoodie. He wore a loose shirt that was an obnoxious shade of yellow and had an equally obnoxious graphic design on the front. Though the shirt blocked a lot to see, his shoulders were broad, and his forearms were thick enough to suggest he was a regular gym-goer. Defined muscles peeked from under the short sleeves. His build was smaller (which delighted Sukuna), but with the way Itadori looked guilty and self-conscious, hunched into himself slightly, he looked like he’d shrunken.

“I can already feel my body losing strength.” Itadori’s smile was wry. “I’m surely losing weight.”

“Then eat well,” Sukuna told him. He meant it. “Take care of yourself.” 

“I will,” Itadori promised.

Seven minutes later, it turned out Itadori’s promises were fragile. He scrunched his face in queasy discomfort, looking down at the curry which didn’t even have a dent in it.

“I can’t anymore,” Itadori said. 

Sukuna shook his head as he swirled his cup. It was his third one. “Pathetic.”

“But I’m really full. I’m not hungry.”

“Come on.” Sukuna pointed at the biscuit. It only had a single bite. “Look at that.”

“I really tried!” Itadori justified.

“Try harder,” Sukuna said. “You’re going to set yourself back.”

“It’s a slow process. This isn’t changing overnight.”

In Sukuna’s opinion, it was a poor excuse.

Itadori rounded up his napkins and plastic wrappers, clearly preparing for when the attendant would come around with the trash. Sukuna scoffed. He seized Itadori’s wrist with the speed of a snake snatching its prey.

Itadori jumped, bewildered. “Huh?”

“You give up too easily,” Sukuna told him.

“Are you drunk?” Itadori squinted at him.

Tipsy, but that was besides the point. Sukuna nodded at the tray. “Finish your food.”

“Please,” Itadori said, trying to take his arm back, but Sukuna’s grip was firm, “it’s not that serious.”

Narrowing his eyes, Sukuna had to take a moment to openly judge Itadori. If he had to struggle lugging his unconscious body over the plane seats, it was fucking serious.

He put his wine down.

“I’ll force-feed you,” Sukuna decided, and reached for the tray.

“What?!” Itadori lurched forward over his tray table, blocking Sukuna’s access. “Alright, alright! I’ll eat more!”

“Are you sure?” Sukuna laid a hand on Itadori’s shoulder and pried him backward. Itadori yelped and fought his strength, straining with effort. “Because if you faint again I’ll kick your ass out in the aisle.”

“I get it!” Itadori cried. “I will! Just let me do it!”

Sukuna’s gaze dragged from Itadori to the passengers across the aisle. They were looking their way again, surely because of Itadori’s loud mouth.

“I’ll be watching,” Sukuna warned, letting go of his shoulder, and Itadori sighed out of relief. “And keep your voice down.”

“It’s your fault,” Itadori grumbled. “You surprised me.”

“It’s your fault for being weak,” Sukuna said and crossed his arms haughtily. “Don’t be. Eat.”

“So stubborn,” Itadori muttered. But the slight tugs at the corners of his mouth suggested he didn’t actually mind.

Itadori stayed true to his word and continued to eat. He took slow, forced bites. Sukuna stayed true to his word, too, fixing his eyes on him. Itadori glanced up, apparently to check if Sukuna had really meant watching him, because the instant they locked eyes he averted his gaze. His cheeks tinted red.

Sukuna tilted his head just a fraction. Somehow he didn’t hate the sight.

Somehow, Itadori didn’t look annoying anymore.

Sukuna tossed his head back and downed the last of his third cup, and with it came a slight swimming sensation in his head. Alcohol wasn’t this strong back home. He could have several cans of beer on an empty stomach and still hate everything just the same. Since that wasn’t the case at the moment, he wasn’t feeling the way he should towards the brat.

No more drinks, Sukuna thought as he placed his empty cup on the tray table. He had chugged out of impulse, but it had been a mistake. Booze made him farther from himself.

But at the same time, it was a bit fun to feel his brain corrode into a little pool, sloshing around in his skull. The disruption of cerebral function was even useful for tolerating the flight. The cramped space of his seat no longer felt claustrophobic, and when he checked out the window again, oh man, the sky wasn’t only soothing for the eyes—it was soothing for the soul. The clouds, which Sukuna never gave a particular shit about, were suddenly awe-inspiring in its variety of misshapen forms, and they moved him to fumble for his sketchbook and pen from his bag. He had no idea he could care so much about stupid puffs of water. Strong alcohol turned him into a happy fucker.

Sukuna lost himself in a myriad of lines. Curvy and round, some squiggly, some angled and sharp for stylization. He filled in two spreads of clouds by the time Itadori leaned over to see.

“So cool,” Itadori said, staring down at the page. His brown eyes were full of adoration and he sincerely sounded in awe.

Attention redirected, Sukuna craned his neck to see Itadori’s tray. It was devoid of food.

“Very good, brat,” Sukuna said. “You finished up.”

Itadori’s cheeks darkened red again. “What am I, a dog?”

Sukuna would’ve delivered a witty response, but he had a more important thought for his artwork. He considered incorporating red ink into his tattoo designs. He would have to purchase white ink, too, to get the same shade of Itadori’s blush.

The attendants made the rounds collecting trash. Sukuna requested another cup of wine, making certain to look and sound sober, not at all giving away the fact that his head was whirling. He could only grasp general colors and shapes, finer details lost to perception, and then he was really losing a grip on himself, because next thing he knew the brat was receiving his own cup of wine. Sukuna blinked twice to make sure that, yes, there were two cups. One in his hand and one in the brat’s. He missed the part in between where Itadori ordered it.

Itadori turned to him, raising his cup. “Cheers,” he offered with a smile.

Sukuna stared at Itadori. Thought about chiding him for having a drink. He wasn’t in the state to have one.

Itadori looked down at Sukuna's cup and his eyes widened. “Whoa, you drank that much already?”

“Shut it,” Sukuna said, voice steadier than his head.

“Shit, your eyes are glassy too.” Itadori broke into laughter. “You really are drunk—“

“Itadori.”

Itadori immediately stopped laughing and their gazes locked.

A specific sort of surprise settled in Itadori’s face. Even with his mind befuddled by intoxication, Sukuna could clearly see what it was, the emotion so honest in his stupidly big eyes, the profound astoundment that Sukuna remembered his name after all this time. There was something striking about that expression. So vulnerable.

Sukuna tilted his head, regarding him through his muddied vision. Then, instead of chiding Itadori, he raised his cup.

“Cheers,” Sukuna said, with finality.

To hell with it. The brat lost his grandfather.

A gentle smile slowly spread across Itadori’s lips. That, too, wasn’t an annoying sight.

They toasted and drank, and unraveled themselves together.

Sukuna had no idea what he was talking about. He had no idea what the brat was saying either. His brain didn’t even register words. And they were saying a whole damn lot of things, and the meanings of their words changed and twisted, jumbling together into an incoherent mess until they entirely lost their definitions.

Some random string of sentences made Itadori heave with laughter. For no valid reason, Sukuna broke down laughing with him, and he was so lost in their meaningless exchange of noises that he didn’t recall ambling with Itadori to the restroom. He leaned on the wall outside it now, waiting for his turn after Itadori, and shit he did have to piss fucking badly.

Sukuna’s head lolled back against the wall. His dizzy, drunken mind considered how easy it’d be for things to take a… strange turn. They were drunk. They acted too familiar. They were here, together, at the restroom. No one else was in line. As soon as Itadori came out, all it would take was just for one of them to say something. Sukuna could say something. Do something.

Wait. The fuck? No.

The restroom was still fucking disgusting, anyway.

At their seats Sukuna giggled for no damn reason again, apparently the loudest yet because the passengers in the opposite row looked their way, this time with open judgment. Itadori pressed two fingers against Sukuna’s mouth and leaned in close.

“Shhh,” Itadori shushed, then his lips quivered into a grin, giggling out, “shut up already.”

Sukuna had half a mind to bite his fingers. How dare this brat quiet him, touch him, on the mouth, but somewhere in the chaos of his drunk-addled mind, Sukuna knew he was steadily approaching a perilous edge on a cliff.

He shouldn’t bite. He shouldn’t feed into this and step closer to the edge. Instead, he should push Itadori’s hand off, or pull away at the least. He should stop Itadori who was leaning in closer now, to a proximity that two sober adult strangers would never allow, so close that Sukuna could see Itadori was flushed from ear to ear, that his brown gaze was in a dreamy haze.

“Um…” Itadori was saying. “Can I say something?”

Sukuna shouldn’t have said yes.

He did none of the things he should’ve done, and Itadori’s hair was in his face.

The world narrowed down to the cool fingers on his mouth. To the pink hair strands brushing his temple. To the scent of citrus shampoo.

To the soft voice in his ear:

“Thanks for talking with me.”

The moment felt fake, but in the most intimate way. Fake in the sense that Sukuna was like a character in a movie, and Itadori was his co-star, and they played on the screen of an empty, dark theater. Intimate in the sense that they were in the climactic scene and Itadori delivered the most important line of dialogue in the script, the one that conveyed the essence—the heart—of the narrative, and Sukuna was supposed to digest that, tread through a self-reflecting storm, and emerge from the other side forever changed.

But Sukuna couldn’t be forever changed. Because when he drifted to sleep he forgot everything.

As soon as Sukuna was conscious, he was pissed off. His mouth was hot and dry and overwhelmed by the sour aftertaste of alcohol. His head was heavy.

His right shoulder was heavy, too. A solid weight pressed down there, and a light snoring came from that direction, right next to his ear.

The brat.

The fucking brat was sleeping on his shoulder.

Sukuna actually bared his teeth at the realization. He was thirsty as shit and couldn’t move. How did he let this happen? The thought to shove Itadori off poked in through his mind, then surged like a gunshot when he vaguely recalled Itadori leaning in towards him.

His red face.

Tremors crashed like waves throughout his body as Sukuna restrained himself from grabbing Itadori. He did grab the image in his head though, and tossed it in a box and locked it and threw it down the abyss of his mind.

He didn’t want to fucking know.

His shaking ceased then. The restraint was a miracle. In a perfect world Sukuna would’ve pushed Itadori off, but in real life there were consequences: causing a scene, inconveniencing passengers, being a pathetic idiot for having a visceral overreaction.

He took a minute to center himself, then tried to coax his seat neighbor awake.

“Hey,” Sukuna said.

No response.

“Brat.”

He shifted to wake Itadori properly, but stopped when he saw his face.

Itadori’s eyes moved beneath his eyelids. The movement drew attention to the dark circles under his eyes, which appeared bolder and larger up close. His lips were chapped and slightly parted, deep breaths passing through them in a slow rhythm. His face was both exhausted and serene, the look of someone who’d been struggling to find peace and finally found it.

Sukuna thought for a long moment. Then he sighed.

“Fucking hell,” Sukuna muttered. He shut his eyes and resigned himself to the sound of Itadori’s breathing, faint over the plane.

He felt him breathe.

In and out.

Slowly.

The little sensation seemed to put the surrounding world back together, rousing Sukuna closer to sober wakefulness. And that made him aware of the fucking taste in his mouth again. Sour shit.

Moving carefully so as to not wake Itadori, Sukuna unlocked his phone to occupy himself.

He checked the time. Four and a half hours left until landing. Relief flooded him, so much so that he completely lost all care about his parched mouth. More than halfway there.

To speed up time, Sukuna opened Instagram to catch up on his notifications. Among the latest feed was a single account that liked over a dozen posts in a row.

That happened occasionally. But what didn’t happen at all was that the account was notable. The account user wasn’t a virtual random stranger, but the very person using Sukuna’s shoulder as a pillow—Itadori’s account.

The brat followed him too. Sukuna huffed a light snort, then tapped on his username.

Yuuji Itadori
tiger piss smells like buttered popcorn 🐯🍿isn’t that neat

Sukuna didn’t know what he expected. He didn’t know why he clicked. But clearly the alcohol was still in his system because even in the face of a terrible bio, he scrolled to see more. Itadori’s gallery consisted of travel pictures, fitness progress, and loved ones. Unsurprisingly, Itadori had a lot of friends. A girl with a brown bob cut made the most frequent appearance, leaning closely on Itadori in many of the photos.

Sukuna absently wondered if that was his girlfriend.

One post presented the two of them at the beach. The girl held the camera, arm outstretched for the selfie, and behind her Itadori was in olive green swim trunks with a peace sign. He was grinning widely, amber eyes bright and clear of dark circles. In the sunlight his tanned skin glistened with sunscreen, and his abdominal muscles clearly segmented into a six-pack.

Sukuna shifted an eyebrow.

He scrolled back to the top of the page, and before he could close the app, he paused at the most recent post. It was from a week ago, of a printed photograph in the winter season, its glossy surface suggesting it dated from early 2000s at latest. In the center, a child Itadori wore a red puffy jacket, a pom-pom beanie, and a toothy smile, and he stood in front of his grandfather who was crouched down to his tiny height, wearing an off-white down jacket and what Sukuna thought to be a terribly sullen expression.

They were like opposites on the same coin. Young and old, happy and miserable. Sukuna would have assumed they had an incongruent relationship, but the following caption effectively silenced that line of thought:

I wish that we had more time together. I wish I could have told you how much I admire your strength and willpower. You inspired me so much on how to be a good person.
I miss you, Grandpa.

The post indicated a slide show of additional pictures. Sukuna didn’t swipe through the rest and avoided viewing his stories. He exited Instagram. He began to feel a little strange for having seen too much. For knowing too much. And for sharing a moment he didn’t want to remember with a boy he would never see again.

Sukuna closed his eyes, trying to return to sleep. But then he became aware of Itadori’s firm weight again. The goddamn brat just seemed to be invading all his senses. It couldn’t be helped. He had to fall asleep to the slow, steady rhythm of Itadori’s breathing.

He listened for a long time.

The next time Sukuna woke up, Itadori was still asleep. He was finally off his shoulder and leaning the other way toward the empty seat. At some point he had woken and put his hoodie back on, hood drawn over his head.

Sukuna seized a water bottle from his bag, chugging it empty in one sitting. He felt revitalized in an instant.

He felt well enough to brave checking the time. He felt well enough that, when he raised the window shade and light peeked into the quiet and dark interior of the cabin, he was motivated to resume the novel about the young man who’d been ghosted by his old friends. He read uninterrupted and journeyed with the young male protagonist from one reunion to the next.

The reunion with the first friend was amicable. They cleared up almost two decades’ worth of misunderstandings, and they were open to reconnecting with each other, but they acknowledged that things couldn’t be the same as before. They were adults, and the adult world was different, and time couldn’t go backwards.

The second friend had changed. He became depraved. The protagonist wondered what happened to the person he used to be. The second friend picked up on the protagonist’s hesitance and regretted disappointing him. The depravity couldn’t be undone, everybody changed as they grew, and that was just a natural aspect of life.

As Sukuna closed the chapter, Itadori woke up. He was struck with dehydration and scrambled for a mini water bottle from his backpack.

Sukuna paused in his reading, waiting for Itadori to say something to him. Apparently not. After Itadori crushed the empty bottle, he sat still like an unassuming mossy statue in a garden.

That was kind of surprising. Given that they had shared drinks and stupidly giggled a fuck ton together, Sukuna expected Itadori to pick up where they left off. Maybe the brat was also having post-drunk clarity and had the common decency to step back.

Sukuna didn’t complain. He continued reading.

The last friend was living a new life in another country. The protagonist flew across the ocean to see her and it was a bittersweet meeting. The friend expressed it was hard shutting him out. At the time the group agreed it was the best course of action to inflict the least damage possible, but in the end the wounds still came out deep for everyone, irrevocably so. She asked if they could hug and the protagonist allowed it. They embraced. And together they lamented the special connection their group of friends once had, a kind no other combination of individuals could attain, grieved the loss of it.

In her arms, the protagonist reflected on his journey. The first friend urged him to stay for dinner next time. The second friend intended to invite him for drinks soon. And the third friend said they would see each other again, some day in the future.

But the protagonist was certain this was the last time he would ever see them. They were different people now, with separate lives.

The protagonist said goodbye to his friend, and went home.

A ding sounded in the cabin. The seatbelt signs illuminated above the seats, and subsequently the intercom crackled as it turned on:

“Good afternoon, passengers. This is your captain speaking. The local time is 3:28PM. We’ve started our descent into Haneda Airport and will be landing shortly…”

Sukuna shut the book closed, packed it away, and gazed out the window. He could see Tokyo’s array of buildings spread out endlessly below. Little cars weaved through thin strips of streets, like ants going about their everyday duties in the tunnels of their nest.

Things were coming to an end all at once. The novel concluded, the flight was nearing its destination, and Itadori seemed to be done babbling. The brat hadn’t said a word the whole time, surfing on his phone, body turned away like he wasn’t interested in socializing.

Sukuna was feeling strange. The sappy novel wasn’t to his taste. All he wanted was to be home. And finally the brat was minding his own business. So why did he feel vaguely incomplete? It felt as though a puzzle piece of himself had been taken out, switched with another piece, and when the new piece was put in, it didn’t fit quite right. He blamed alcohol again.

The aircraft landed on the runway. Everyone shook roughly in their seats like the contents of a shaken snow globe. Once the plane slowed to a stop and the seatbelt signs turned off, Sukuna had been knocked back into his senses.

He was home.

Sukuna put on his cap and windbreaker, retrieved his bag and luggage, then lined up behind Itadori in the aisle. He willed the brat to blend in with the rest of the passengers ahead, pretending him into nonexistence, and that worked up until he exited the jetway.

At the gate, Itadori swiveled around to face him.

Sukuna abruptly stopped, almost bumping into him. Itadori was just a few inches shorter.

“Ryoumen,” Itadori addressed.

“What?” Sukuna intoned, looking down at him.

This was supposed to be the part where they go their separate ways and completely forget about each other, but the brat seemed to insist on leaving an impression. It was puzzling. He’d said nothing to Sukuna for the last hour on the flight, but now he set a hard gaze on him with a striking amount of determination, lit like a fire in his brown eyes.

"Um, I know your Instagram is for work. So, so I was wondering…” Itadori flicked his eyes away briefly, and his cheeks flushed a light pink. “Do you have a personal Instagram?"

“No,” Sukuna replied, feeling bristled about that gross blush, and then realized he’d given his automatic lie reserved for unwanted advances. He did have a personal account. It hadn’t been updated in the last three or four years, but he lurked on it to show support for Uraume’s cooking account, liking a post every now and then.

But it was too late to take it back. Itadori’s face collapsed. 

“Well, that’s okay,” Itadori said, picking a weak smile back up. A wrinkle on his brow further betrayed his disappointment. “At least I have your work account. I’ll definitely book with you in the future.”

“Sure,” Sukuna said, although doubtful. Many people never followed through after expressing interest.

“Well…” Itadori raised a hand. A farewell wave. “Get home safe.”

Sukuna offered a mere nod. He wasn’t the sort of person to wave or voice aloud a goodbye, especially for a random nobody.

But his gaze did linger on Itadori turning and walking off, backpack on one shoulder and luggage trailing behind, until he disappeared into the crowd.

Then he went on his own way.

One month later, Sukuna followed another one of his friend’s suggestions. He was limiting his career, they said, both in clientèle and artistic options. They had a point. It was appealing to increase the earnings and intellectual stimulation, and he had enjoyed interpreting and improving people’s ideas. His audience was different today, so maybe it’d be different this time. 

Well, Uraume was downright wrong again. Sukuna should’ve never reopened custom designs.

It’d been a few days since he opened the next round of bookings and announced customs after years of flash only. The audience was worse. Sukuna couldn’t believe this was the sort of following he attracted, that his clients had boring ideas; requesting roses and butterflies and infinity symbols were unforgivable crimes. How could he make the infinity symbol interesting? He had the right to decline of course, but he was turning down too many applications.

Fuck it.

Sukuna finished a hard day’s work of appointments. He shut the lights in his room, slid himself in bed, and the phone screen lit his face as he checked his direct messages on Instagram. He’d clean his inbox with another batch of copy-paste rejections before knocking out for the night.

He casually rejected the first three DMs, then halted on the next one.

Name: Itadori Yuuji
Dob: 2003/3/20
Design: a cloud. No specific design in mind. I’ll leave it to you to design it :)
Placement: right shoulder
Size: 5-10 cm
Desired dates: 8/25, 8/26, 8/27

I told you id book with you 😆😤

Sukuna sat with Itadori’s DMs open for a solid six seconds.

He had too many criticisms about the application to be surprised by Itadori's reappearance. First, the brat gave him a wide range for the size. And second, for a cloud? A cloud? With not even a single inspiration picture? He could have given Sukuna more of a direction. While Sukuna liked creative freedom, it seemed ridiculous to put in all his time and effort and thought for a cloud.

Logically, he should reject the application. He knew the brat would be the kind of client to chat him up for hours. But the cloud thing pissed him off, and what he wanted to say wouldn’t be professional, so Sukuna switched to his personal account and sent Itadori a DM.

_kng
Out of all the things you could’ve asked for, you want a cloud

Itadori’s response came within a minute.

toradori
Hey! Yea i want a cloud
I remember the cloud drawings you made on the plane. They were rlly nice so i want one like it

Sukuna remembered the drawings. They hadn’t even been great. He had been angrily embarrassed when he’d seen them again with a sober mind, that he’d been possessed by a fixation with fucking clouds for ten seconds. A strong level of intoxication didn’t, in fact, suddenly give you genius.

_kng
Are you sure

toradori
Im sure 😂 but now that youre asking, i guess id like a tiger laying on the cloud

_kng
…if that’s what you want

toradori
I do! I love tigers

_kng
I couldn’t tell

toradori
😂😂😂
Btw
I have something to say

Itadori didn’t continue, so it seemed he was waiting for Sukuna to prompt him.

_kng
What

toradori
You lied to me
Again
🫵

Sukuna understood instantly, snorting in amusement. In a roundabout way—because he remembered it was Itadori’s expression that caught him off guard that day—he texted back an explanation saying he had lied by accident.

This time, Sukuna wrote, he swore that was the truth.