Chapter Text
JESS. YOU GENIUS. THIS IS FOR YOU
***
Iori Utahime lay on a mattress that was too soft, on top of a quilt that was clearly made of very expensive silk, beautiful cranes carefully embroidered in the center. She had a pillow pressed over her face, the fluffy feathers within it not quite solid enough to muffle the noise that she could hear from the hallway outside her room that she had been stubbornly hiding in. She could hear the servants giggling and chattering, half of them excited about the upcoming ceremony, half of them bitterly jealous that they hadn’t been chosen for the honor that had been bestowed upon Utahime.
Utahime grimaced, and pressed the pillow a little more firmly over her face, muffling the sounds from the hallway further. She had a headache, a dull pounding in her temples, and it mixed strangely with the nerves that were fizzing in her belly, trepidation and a forbidden excitement making her feel jittery. She could just feel the edges of the garment bag that shared the bed with her, and so she scooted across the mattress slightly, trying to forget that the bag even existed. Traitorously, the excitement in her belly fizzed a little stronger, zipping outwards to the tips of her fingers.
There was a knock on the door to her room, rattling the latch that Utahime had set very firmly into place. She ignored this, wondering if perhaps she could fall asleep. That sounded nice, Utahime thought. She could fall asleep, and perhaps the events of the day would pass without her, and then she could sneak back to the apartment that she had always hated, dank and dusty on the outskirts of the city. She would go back to her regular life, and she would still be Iori Utahime, clanless and a little useless.
The person on the other side of the door knocked again, and the latch rattled a little louder. Utahime grumbled from beneath her pillow.
“Iori-san, the—you’re expected in an hour.”
The voice was quiet, hesitant. Utahime surmised it was one of the servants who was neither excited nor jealous, but rather a little sympathetic to her plight.
She sighed heavily, her breath warming the fibers of the pillow. The knock sounded out again, soft but insistent.
“Iori-san—“
Utahime shoved the pillow away, and was a little pleased when it landed on the garment bag. She hoped it wrinkled the shiromuku within, a little imperfection amongst all the pure white. She stood up too quickly, black spots popping in her vision as she walked to the door.
The floor was smooth beneath her feet, spotless and highly-polished, and it made Utahime think once more of her apartment, and the old carpet that she had often complained about. She wondered if the apartment was empty now, if all the bustling servants had been told to remove her things from it. Utahime was sure they must’ve, what with how quickly things seemed to develop at the Gojo estate. The agreement had hardly been forged before servants had started to pop up from places unseen, trying to attend to her every whim, seemingly always giggling.
Wealth. She had never had it, and now it surrounded her, supported her. She had been provided a closet stocked with expensive, traditional clothing that cost more money than she’d ever made in her life. She would be expected to wear the clothes, Utahime knew, despite her reservations. They were fitting, she had been told. Fitting, for the wife of the head of the clan.
Utahime slid the latch out of place before the servant could knock again, holding the door open long enough so she could enter. Utahime closed it quickly behind her, but not before she heard more giggles, more breathless excitement echo from down the hall. She clicked the lock once more.
“I’m to get you ready,” the servant said gently, and Utahime saw that she pulled a small case on wheels behind her. “It’s time, Iori-san.”
Utahime closed her eyes, trying to tamp down the bolt of some nameless, overpowering feeling that shot through her. She felt the servant lay a hand on her forearm, and nearly flinched at the contact.
“Come. We don’t have much time.”
Utahime kept her eyes closed as the servant drew her forward, past the bed with the garment bag resting upon it, and into the bathroom with the sparkling marble countertops, the little soaps shaped like flowers perfectly placed by the sink. The servant guided her carefully onto the stool that had rested beneath the vanity, and Utahime heard her begin to set things onto the counter, hair products, makeup pulled from the case she had brought with her.
“You may call me Ayame,” the servant said, her voice quiet and soothing.
She began to comb through Utahime’s hair, pulling out the bow that Utahime had left resolutely in place, even though it did not go with her new, fancy clothes.
“Utahime,” Utahime replied automatically, introducing herself pointlessly, for all the servants knew her name already.
Ayame was silent, and Utahime kept her eyes closed as she continued to comb gently through her hair. Her hands were cool and nimble as she began to pull Utahime's hair into a twist, knotting it at the base of her neck, sliding pins through it to keep it firmly in place. The final pin felt larger, and Utahime presumed it to be something ornate, carefully crafted, perfect.
“There,” Ayame said, and she sounded pleased.
Utahime wanted to frown, but she said her thanks instead, as was appropriate. She felt an odd, flickering frustration when she heard the rustle of Ayame’s clothes as she bowed, because Utahime knew she would hold it for a while, longer than she felt she deserved.
She felt Ayame’s fingers brush across her face, straightening out her bangs, rubbing a moisturizer into Utahime’s skin. She nearly flinched again, but managed to hold herself steady as she felt Ayame begin to do her makeup, careful and precise, concealer under her eyes, over the blemishes by her hairline, hidden beneath her bangs.
“It will not be so bad,” Ayame said softly, sounding sympathetic again. “Gojo-sama, he—“
“Yes,” Utahime interrupted, clearing her throat. “It is an honor.”
A line, rehearsed and practiced until it sounded natural, like the words were sincere as they rolled off of her tongue. It bothered Utahime than they weren’t entirely untrue, the lie not quite fleshed out.
“He is very handsome,” Ayame finished steadily.
Utahime's frown broke past her restraint as she began to wonder if Ayame wasn’t entirely as sympathetic as she sounded.
“Yes,” Utahime agreed flatly. “It is an honor.”
She heard Ayame’s quiet murmur of agreement, and another rustle as she reached into the case of beauty products. Utahime felt the brush of Ayame’s fingertips over her cheek, and this time, she did flinch, her frown deepening.
“You were selected,” Ayame said, sounding awed. “Even with this.”
Ayame’s fingers traced the line of Utahime’s scar, a deep welt of tissue marring her cheek, the bridge of her nose. The scar was fresh still, pink and shiny, not yet faded to something less noticeable.
Utahime grit her teeth.
“An honor.”
The line sounded slightly more rehearsed now, and she took a deep breath to calm herself, the pounding of her headache worsening. The knot of hair at the back of her head was beginning to pull at the roots, making her feel a little off-balance.
“We will cover it,” Ayame said, her sympathy beginning to sound like pity.
She heard more rustling as Ayame continued to root through her case, and Utahime bit her lip as she felt Ayame begin to apply a thicker, heavier concealer over the ruins of her cheek. Utahime wondered if Gojo had requested this, or if it had been someone else in clan leadership. But she knew, with a terrible, uncomfortable twist of her heart, that it had been Gojo.
She had seen him only once since the mark had been cut into her face by a curse she had been too slow to avoid, at the meeting in the dimly lit, beautiful room in which their contract of marriage had been signed. The Gojo clan elders and the Jujutsu higher-ups had been there, all grimacing imperiously at her as they looked her over, as choices had been made for her—for she and Gojo both—without either of their consent. The scar had been mentioned, a concern eventually dismissed for the Gojo clan's desire to obtain Utahime’s technique. Rare and precious, the cursed technique carved into her bones was something, perhaps the only thing, that could strengthen the one who was already without limits.
A strength unprecedented , they had said. To join you both—it would be a strength unprecedented.
And that had been that, papers signed, an agreement formed, a marriage arranged. The Gojo clan elders and the Jujutsu higher-ups had filed out, smiling at their new alliance, and servants had been summoned to whisk Utahime away, to dress her as befit her new, betrothed status.
Gojo had spoken to her only once, waiting until it was only the two of them in the room, holding a hand up to pause the servants that had arrived out in the hall. His mouth had been set in an angry line, his eyes glinting like steel over the tops of his glasses. Utahime had seen them travel the length of her scar once before she had looked away, never able to withstand his gaze for long.
“Was it your fault?”
His voice had been like steel, too. Always harsh to her, always edged.
“Yes.”
Utahime had spoken her answer to the floor, her hands clenched into fists by her sides. And she had known what he would say next, because he always said it to her, to make sure she knew.
“Weak.”
He had turned on his heel and walked smoothly out of the room, his parting word slicing through her.
Ayame’s fingers massaged the concealer into Utahime’s scar, and Utahime bit her lip harder to keep the tears from forming in her eyes. The makeup didn’t bother her—she had expected something like this, to be dressed and made up for the pleasure of Gojo, but—the skin was sensitive still, not yet fully healed, even with Shoko’s assistance. Utahime held herself stiffly, sighing in relief when Ayame’s fingers eventually fell away from her cheek.
“It will do,” Ayame said thoughtfully, her fingers touching once to the bridge of Utahime’s nose.
Utahime heard more rustling, and then she held her mouth still while Ayame deftly swiped a gloss over her lips, something sticky that smelled vaguely of strawberries.
“Now your eyes, Iori-san.”
Utahime tilted her chin up, and slid her eyes open at last so Ayame could do her eyeshadow, her eyeliner, her mascara. She could still hear the incessant chattering in the hallway outside of her room and felt suddenly grateful that only one servant had come to attend her. She wasn’t sure if she could’ve taken a whole hoard of them, not with the gossiping and the giggles.
Ayame finished her makeup and Utahime glanced at herself in the mirror, frowning again because she looked rather like a little doll, her skin pale and near-perfect, her scar much less noticeable now, the same color as the rest of her face. Her lips were deep red, stained by the gloss Ayame had used, her eyelashes dark and long, fluttering prettily each time Utahime blinked. Her hair had been arranged beautifully, and the pin at the back was indeed ornate and lovely, little clear gems sparkling at either end.
Prim, proper, pretty. Iori Utahime, handpicked by Gojo clan elders and the Jujutsu higher-ups to be the wife of Gojo Satoru, the strongest of them all.
Ayame left the bathroom and retuned a moment later carrying the garment bag that Utahime had nearly forgotten about. She had to stretch onto her tiptoes to hang it over the doorframe, some of her hair coming loose from the braid down her back. She was small, shorter than Utahime, her face as calm as her voice, her eyes as sympathetic.
“Now the—“
“Yes,” Utahime interrupted, but she smiled slightly at her, another wave of gratefulness washing through her at her presence.
Ayame smiled back, reaching up again to unzip the bag, layers of white silk pouring out. Utahime managed to keep her expression neutral, sliding off the robe she had picked out of her closet. It fell to the floor, pooling about her ankles, more expensive silk.
It took a while to dress even under the expert hands of Ayame, the many layers of her shiromuku proving complicated to properly arrange. But it was done eventually, and Utahime stared in the mirror at herself once more, her lips still set in a trepidatious neutrality. The traitorous excitement in her body bloomed again, a quick little burst of electricity that Utahime tried her very best to ignore. She stepped into the shoes that Ayame had placed by her feet, noticing that her discarded robe had already been snatched away.
“How much longer?” Utahime asked quietly, glancing again at herself in the mirror.
She wondered suddenly why Gojo had even bothered to request the concealer over her scar. It wouldn’t fool him. He would see right through it.
“You will be expected in ten minutes,” Ayame answered, smiling as she bent in front of Utahime, brushing non-existent dust from the hems of her shiromuku.
Utahime swallowed, her nerves spiking suddenly. The shiromuku began to feel a little suffocating, the rich material too much against her skin. She nodded, and closed her eyes again, letting the beautiful bathroom drift away. She thought once more of her apartment, imagining her tiny bathtub, her rusted sink. The tile floor that was cracked and always looked dirty, no matter how often she had cleaned it.
She really had hated the place.
“Five minutes, Iori-san,” Ayame said softly. “We must leave now.”
Utahime exhaled in a rush.
“Okay,” she whispered, and she felt Ayame take her hand.
Utahime braced herself for the onslaught of giggles from the servants as Ayame slid the latch of her door out of place, but the hallway was mercifully, bewilderingly, clear as they stepped out of the room that had begun to feel like a sanctuary. Ayame’s hand was steady in hers as she guided Utahime through the many layers of the Gojo estate, stopping in front of a door with intricate glass panels, framed in dark wood. Utahime knew, from a tour earlier in the week, that the door led to the expansive gardens, well-tended and beautiful in the warm spring weather. She could hear the buzz of voices through the door, and she could sense a familiar presence, an ocean of cursed energy swirling, angry and lashing.
“I will stop here,” Ayame said, squeezing Utahime’s hand before she let go of it.
Utahime, feeling suddenly petrified, only nodded. Ayame gave her a small smile, and stood to the side as Utahime turned to face the door. The buzz of voices seemed to get louder, an overwhelming noise filling Utahime’s head. She thought she felt the ocean of cursed energy shift, something cataclysmic, and then there was a shadow through the glass. Utahime heard a soft sound, and the shadow shifted, the outline of a hand resting against the glass becoming clear.
“Is she ready?”
His voice was quiet, but as sharp as usual, a knife’s edge that made Utahime shiver.
“Yes, Gojo-sama,” Ayame supplied, glancing at Utahime, whose heart had jumped to her throat, stealing her voice.
It is an honor, Utahime told herself. Part of her believed it.
Utahime saw the outline of the hand move and the doorknob twist, but none of it registered, her mind too swept up in the buzzing of voices. There was a crack, an opening, and the voices outside became clearer for a brief moment while Gojo stepped inside. Utahime took a step back even though there was plenty of room between the two of them; tall and more muscular then he had once been, Gojo Satoru always seemed to take up more space than made sense. He didn’t look at her, and Utahime was grateful for it, feeling suddenly overwhelmed again because he, like she, was in layers of traditional clothing. A navy blue kimono was stretched over his long body, a little lovely in the way that it contrasted with the whirl of white hair atop his head.
Utahime’s heart thudded forcefully in her chest, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. Her stomach did a flip, a small rebellious movement that urged Utahime to look back up at him.
Something like a soft breeze blew past her arms, the fingers of her left hand, and Utahime shivered again as the hairs on the back of her neck stood. Her eyes flicked back up to Gojo in alarm as she realized that he was reaching for her hand, and that the breeze was the sensation of his Infinity brushing against her. Her heart thudded heavily again, because his eyes were resting on her, uncovered and coldly astounding as they studied her face. He looked at her for a long moment, and his mouth curled into something like a frown, his focus on her cheek, the concealer that hid her scar. His nostrils flared, and Utahime felt a little grim satisfaction that she had been right. He had not been fooled by the makeup. She braced herself for his comment.
Weak .
But Gojo only sighed, and Utahime saw his eyebrows draw together before they slid slowly back apart. He frowned still, but reached for her hand again, another breeze blowing over her knuckles. Utahime let him take it. Gojo pulled her forward, a slow tide drawing her into the shape of his body. He tucked her firmly by his side, looping her arm with his about the elbow. She could hear the faint hum of his Infinity, softer than the buzz of the voices outside.
Utahime saw Gojo’s free hand reach for the doorknob again, and she felt her body stiffen against his, a pit opening in her stomach. Gojo faltered, his arm falling back by his side, and Utahime heard him sigh again, a little impatient noise.
Weak.
Utahime breathed very slowly out, and then very slowly in again, fighting to relax, to ease the stiffness in her limbs. It didn’t quite work; she felt a lingering tension in her shoulders, knots along the line of her spine. She pulled herself slightly away from Gojo’s body, an inch between the barrier of his Infinity and the silk of her shiromuku, and she stood a little straighter.
“Okay,” Utahime whispered, setting her jaw.
Gojo grunted, the sound rather unreadable, and Utahime watched him reach for the doorknob again. She thought he paused, a small hesitation, as his fingers wrapped around it. But then he was pulling the door fluidly open.
Gentle golden light poured in from the gardens, the evening sun at just the right angle to illuminate the two of them, a soft warmth. The voices that she could hear at once fell into a hush, and Utahime was a little thankful that the sun was shining directly into her eyes. It made it difficult to focus, the shapes in the garden turning vague, the members of the Gojo clan that had gathered for the ceremony blending into the background.
Utahime stiffened again, and she felt Gojo’s arm tighten around hers, pulling her back into him.
“Just—hold on,” he muttered, and she heard his exhale. “I told them to make it quick.”
Utahime kept her eyes trained forward, letting the sun blind her, but she nodded. Gojo took a step forward into the outside, and Utahime let him drag her with him, fighting not to stumble over the trailing hem of her shiromuku. She heard the door click carefully shut behind them, and realized with a pang that she had forgotten to thank Ayame for dressing her.
Utahime’s mind was curiously blank, an expanse of white emptiness, as Gojo tugged her forward into the gardens, past the members of his clan, forward to the altar with a priest and a miko standing beneath it. Utahime felt a little jealousy spark in her at the familiarity of the girl’s attire, wondering if her own clothes had been thrown out upon her move to the Gojo estate. She hadn’t even thought to ask what had happened to them.
The ceremony, as promised, was quick and efficient, the priest’s voice ringing out through the gardens as the sun slowly set in the distance. Sake was poured, and shared, and Utahime was pleased that her hand didn’t shake when she took her cup, the alcohol lighting a little warm fire within her. She clung to it, the fire, as prayers were said, as more sake was shared, as rings were presented to the both of them. Plain but crafted of a lovely gold, Utahime thought it felt akin to a tiny shackle upon her finger, something unbreakable tethering her to the person of Gojo Satoru, who slid his ring into his pocket rather than wearing it.
There was clapping, applause that stuck in Utahime’s ears and reminded her that her headache had not yet disappeared. She could pick out faces in the crowd now, some of the clan elders. They clapped politely, their expressions solemn, but Utahime saw it. A smug sparkle in each of their eyes, like a cat that had got cream for its supper. An abrupt swell of anger replaced some of her nerves, the warmth of the sake in her belly dimming slightly.
“Come on ,” Gojo hissed, and Utahime realized with a jolt that she had been staring into the crowd for too long a moment, forgetting that they were meant to lead the way to the reception.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
She drew her eyes from the crowd, glancing up to Gojo, whom she had mostly managed to avoid looking at throughout most of the ceremony. She regretted it instantly upon seeing the line of his mouth, the ice in his eyes. The wedding band upon her finger felt suddenly a little heavier, more profound, and Utahime dropped her gaze to the grass beneath her feet as Gojo pulled her forward again.
The reception was small, beautiful little tables laid out underneath a covered pavilion with vases of lilies in the centers of them. Utahime would’ve admired them, some futile part of her mind always enthralled by flowers, but she was whisked away before she could even look at them by twittering servants who did not possess Ayame’s gentleness. They stripped off her shiromuku in a hurry, clothing her in a red kimono that was infinitely more comfortable than all the white silk had been. Utahime felt some of her hair begin to slip from its careful knot as they shoved her back outside, little flyaways tickling the base of her neck.
She was guided to a table with only one other seat, presumably intended for Gojo, but it remained empty for most of the duration of the reception, the chattering of the clan members fading to a dull drone in the back of Utahime’s mind. She picked at the food that had been served as she sat by herself, wondering if she ought to mingle with any of them, these new relatives of hers.
Utahime considered the idea very briefly, imagining conversations, community, but found that she couldn’t move for staring at the ring on her finger. The last of the daylight had gradually sunk into the calm of twilight, and the waning rays of the sun glinted oddly off of the gold band, making it look multicolored, a little kaleidoscope of ambiguous meaning stuck onto her hand. She thought of Gojo’s ring, shoved unceremoniously in his pocket. That meaning had been clear enough, Utahime supposed.
Gojo made his appearance again after a couple of hours, slumping into the seat beside her with a groan. Utahime looked at him before she could tell herself not to, a little surprise flickering in her when she saw that he was still in his formal kimono, having half-expected him to show up in jeans as a show of rebellion. His usual glasses were perched high upon his nose again and Utahime felt a little relieved at this, unsure if she could bear the brunt of his eyes just now. She could feel it, though—his gaze traveling over her, her face, her kimono, the flute of champagne that was clutched in her hand. She waited for him to frown, her eyes fixed to the corners of his mouth, anticipating the downward curl.
“Is there more?” he asked, his voice a little hollow as he nodded to the champagne.
Utahime, raising her eyebrows, gestured to the bottle in the middle of their table. She had only just opened it, but the alcohol was already sliding through her veins, more pleasant warmth to join with the lingering affects of the sake. Gojo made a noise that Utahime thought meant approval as he reached for the bottle, filling the flute that rested in front of him to the top. He drank it very quickly before immediately refilling it, and Utahime tried to put a name to the feeling that churned within her as she watched him. It was something different from nerves, and her excitement had all but disappeared over the course of the day. It wasn’t sadness, but it felt close to it, something slowly sinking through her body, a slight heaviness pulling her down.
She tipped her own glass of champagne to her lips, drinking it nearly as quickly as Gojo had his. She had hardly set it back down upon the table before he topped it off for her, golden bubbles floating upwards. Utahime looked at him, again surprised. She still couldn’t see his eyes.
“It helps,” he muttered, and drained his second glass, filling it once more with the last of the bottle, his frown firmly in place.
Utahime raised her own glass again, feeling the thoughts in her head begin to slowly glaze over as she made her way to drunkenness. The ring on her finger began to feel like it was cutting into her skin, an abrasive tingling as Utahime watched Gojo rise from his seat to steal more champagne from another table. He moved as smoothly as ever even though Utahime could tell he was tipsy, popping the cork with a lazy flick of his thumb, the bottle looking small with his long fingers wrapped around it.
Utahime looked away before he turned back to her, finishing the rest of her glass as she let her eyes slide over the rest of the pavilion, which was emptier now than it had been, some of the members of the clan already having left. The night was deeper, too, and Utahime could see servants waiting off in the shadows, already preparing to clean the place, to return it to its perfection. She heard Gojo sit back down beside her, and she heard the soft clink of glass-upon-glass as he poured more champagne.
Utahime continued her studying of the pavilion, and noticed that she had been wrong in her initial assessment. All of the clan members had left; not just some of them. It was only the elders who remained, sat in pairs at three different tables. Utahime caught the eye of one of them, and the feeling that had sunk through her body rose again with a new, nervous energy. She glanced to Gojo, who was still busy with his champagne, and then back to the elder whose eye she had caught. The elder tilted his head very slowly, looking at her pointedly, and Utahime realized very abruptly that Gojo had likely returned to the pavilion not because he had wanted to join the festivities, but because they had ended.
She heard the slosh of more champagne, and Gojo’s heavy sigh as he drank some more. Utahime reached forward, and pushed her own empty glass in his direction, her nerves fluttering strongly now. She heard the low rasp of Gojo’s chuckle, and another slosh of champagne as he poured some for her.
Utahime glanced back up to the elders as she drank, watching as they all frowned, clearly displeased at the lack of composure in their clan head and his new wife. Utahime couldn’t find it within herself to care, because her shoulders felt suddenly very heavy, a new, intimate worry beginning to blossom in her, swirling with her nerves.
The contract they had been made to sign had been clear enough, the terms stated efficiently: Gojo Satoru and Iori Utahime were to be married, in every sense of the word. Utahime would receive the protection and status of being a high-ranking member of the Gojo clan, and she would be expected, sometime in the upcoming years, to provide heirs to pass on Limitless. She would be expected, in the event he needed it, to use her own cursed technique to lend strength to Gojo, a power-up to the already infinitely powerful.
A strength unprecedented.
Utahime pulled her glass to her mouth and drank deeply, the weight on her shoulders spreading uncomfortably downwards. She had been managing well, so far, by simply avoiding thinking abut it. She had hidden in her room, lying overtop the quilt with the embroidered cranes, and she had tried to pretend like it was her bed in the apartment she hated. She had tried to pretend like she did not have protection, or money, or status, or the expectation to bear powerful children. She had pretended like she was not expected, in a very short timeframe, to sleep with Gojo Satoru.
Married. In every sense of the word.
Utahime swallowed the last of her champagne, and set the glass back upon the table. She grabbed the bottle from where Gojo had placed it, and then set it right back down, grimacing because it was empty.
Gojo chuckled again from beside her, a sound like stones tumbling.
“I’ll find more.”
Utahime nodded, biting back the sudden, inappropriate giggle that had bubbled up in her. Her emotions began to feel like frazzled threads unraveling too quickly within her as she allowed herself, for the first time, to contemplate the night ahead of her. She heard the scrape of Gojo’s chair, and his slow footfalls as he walked to another empty table, swiping the unopened bottle of champagne from it. Her eyes darted over to him just in time to see him pop the cork with his thumb again, carbonation fizzing in the wake. His glasses had slid down his nose a little, blue glittering like frost behind them.
She watched as Gojo made his way to another table, and took their bottle too. He ignored the glares from his clan elders as he turned his back to them, his eyes resting on Utahime for a moment before he looked away.
Utahime felt her forgotten, forbidden excitement slowly return to her body as Gojo slid into place beside her again, silently filling both their glasses. A breeze ruffled over her thigh, a small wrinkling of the kimono she had been dressed in, and she registered it to be Gojo’s Infinity, his leg brushing against hers. She drank from her glass, trying to squish the excitement away as she remembered her nerves, as she remembered the ice in Gojo’s voice when he spoke to her, his clear disdain. Utahime felt the shift, excitement fading again to the intimate worry, and she nodded to herself, satisfied.
“Bring this with us,” Utahime said, hiccuping, pointing to the extra bottle he had brought back with him.
She cleared her throat for the knot in it, realizing that it had been several hours since she had last spoken. Gojo made a low noise of agreement.
The world was just beginning to spin, everything starting to feel a little dreamy, when one of the clan elders stood from their table across the pavilion, eyebrows drawn together in a severe line. Utahime wasn’t able to hold back her giggle this time, leaning forward in her mirth, her palms resting flat against the tabletop. She thought he looked rather like a vulture. A vulture, coming to snap up those whose lives had been stolen.
Utahime wondered if she ought to tell Gojo about her observation, because she remembered very vividly his laughter from the years they had overlapped in school. He had always laughed, she remembered, and it had been loud and merry, although it had never been directed at her. Only frowns for her, only the frigid glares of a hatred she did not understand. The alcohol addling Utahime’s brain decided that telling him felt reasonable, insisting that her joke could be her chance to clear the ice from his gaze, to rid his voice of its edge.
But before Utahime could say anything, her mouth already opening, she felt a wind brush over the back of her arm, her knuckles. She wobbled in her seat, startled, and watched as Gojo’s hand settled firmly atop hers on the table, covering it completely.
It was the alcohol, Utahime assumed, that made her breath catch in her throat as she looked slowly over to him, wondering if she was hallucinating. But she could feel the soft hum of his Infinity vibrating against her, and that felt very real. And Gojo’s mouth was set as stiffly as it usually was when he was around her, and that felt real, too. His glasses had slid very low on the bridge of his nose, and Utahime saw that his eyes were foggy rather than icy now, a little glazed. He blinked, a gradual fall of white lashes as his eyes narrowed and then widened, some of the fog disappearing.
He was drunk, Utahime realized. Drunk, and trying to clear his head.
The reedy voice of the clan elder pulled Utahime’s eyes from Gojo’s face.
“Gojo-sama—“ he began, but he cut himself off.
She looked away from Gojo only long enough to see that the elder had stopped directly in front of their table, his eyebrows still drawn together in what Utahime supposed was meant to be something intimidating, but the sight only made her want to giggle again. She turned her attention back to Gojo as the elder tried again.
“Gojo-sama, it is expected that you—that the both of you—“
Gojo snorted derisively, his eyes glinting viciously.
There was a pulse, a quick spike in Gojo’s cursed energy, and the fog in his eyes cleared a little more. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to—Utahime felt her heart quail a bit even though the dislike in his expression was, for once, not directed at her. His hand pressed hers further into the table, the fabric of the tablecloth scratching against her palm.
Utahime watched, drunkenly fascinated, as the clan elder tried to hold Gojo’s glare. He lasted only a moment before he turned away, and Utahime felt the weight atop her hand lift, a soft wind skittering over her skin.
Gojo flexed his fingers once before pouring the last of the champagne for himself, pulling the glass to his lips as the blue of his eyes flicked to her, the fog beginning to fill them again. Utahime held his gaze, and found that it was a little easier to do so when she was drunk, an alcohol-induced courage flooding through her. She saw the Gojo’s jaw tense, his throat bobbing as he drank, and Utahime felt her mind slip once more into thoughts of the events that were due to happen in the night ahead.
Ayame’s earlier words echoed through her mind, her steady statement.
He is very handsome .
Utahime could’ve laughed again had she not felt a twist in her stomach, an ironic anxiety.
Handsome, she thought, was not the word to describe him. Beautiful felt more correct, even though that also didn’t seem to fit quite right, almost a disservice. Beautiful, with his white hair, with his eyes that were beginning to freeze over even in his drunken fog as he looked at her again, lowering his glass slowly from his mouth. Beautiful, with his easy grace, his sharp features, his towering height. Something tightened in her belly, and Utahime knew it was not because of the champagne that had settled there.
Gojo set his empty glass on the table, his fingers wrapping around the neck of the bottle that they had yet to open. He looked at her still, and she saw his lips move, words falling from him that Utahime didn’t hear for a sudden wave of dizziness that swept through her.
She shook her head to clear away the dizziness, and felt more of her hair slide from the knot at the back of her head.
“What?”
Gojo’s eyes flashed, ice crackling. Utahime sat up a little straighter on reflex, feeling slightly more sober.
“We need to—go,” he said shortly, and Utahime saw his hand grip the champagne bottle a little tighter.
Something like a thrill shot down Utahime’s spine, the feeling too sharp to be considered excitement. Gojo’s eyes darted to the elders, still sitting across the pavilion, and then back to her.
“Right,” she breathed, and she felt the weight of the band upon her finger once more.
Gojo breathed out slowly, his gaze still resting on her. He slid his glasses back up his nose, an eclipse that blacked out the blue. His hair seemed to shine in the dark, an unruly star atop his head.
Beautiful. So—beautiful. Utahime wondered why thinking about it made her feel sad.
Gojo stood, and Utahime, swaying slightly, did the same. She heard murmurs of relief break out from the clan elders which turned quickly into disapproval upon Gojo turning away from her, striding out of the pavilion without a word. Utahime, nerves jumping, followed him, watching the moon turn his hair slightly silver as he made his way through the gardens, past winding hedges and flowers whose scent made Utahime feel wistful for a spring day in which her shoulders were free of the burdens that now lay upon them.
He did not, as Utahime had anticipated, lead her back to the main complex of the Gojo estate. Instead, he turned to a grassy path hidden to the side of the estate, something she had missed in her tour of the grounds and that clearly led deeper into the gardens, past more hedges. She thought longingly of the room she had been given, and wondered if it too would be taken from her, if she would be meant to share with Gojo now. The idea made Utahime feel a little panicky at the same time that it made her feel ridiculous. They were married. Of course they would be expected to share.
Utahime heard the soft rustle of the grass beneath their feet as she walked behind Gojo down the path, her eyes fixed to the slope of his shoulders. There was a small design embroidered in the back of his kimono, she saw, just in the middle of his back. It took her a moment to recognize what it was, and only because she was so surprised to see it on him: a circle of wisteria twisting in around itself, buds overlapping. Simple but elaborate, it was something Utahime had seen many times this week, hidden in places she didn't expect, in the art hung upon the walls or sewn into the pillows upon her bed; the Gojo clan crest. Struck by a sudden suspicion, Utahime slid her hand overtop her shoulders, reaching down, and was surprised again to find that the same insignia was woven into her own kimono, the threads soft against the tips of her fingers.
She gasped softly, and wondered why this made everything feel more real, trailing her fingers over the design as best she could as she walked. The pleasant sensation of the alcohol in her body fizzled very quickly away, soberness settling in.
Iori Utahime.
No.
Gojo Utahime.
Utahime swore a little louder than she’d meant to, the sound bouncing off the bushes, echoing in the darkness. There was a stillness as Gojo froze before her, and Utahime stumbled slightly, stepping to the side to avoid smacking into him. Gojo’s hand shot out in an instant, grasping her arm briefly to steady her even though she hadn’t been falling, his glasses flashing in the moonlight. She saw his eyebrows peek over the rims of them in silent question, and she felt a flush rise to her cheeks.
“Where—where are we going?” she stammered, asking the first question that popped to her mind to cover her embarrassment.
Gojo’s eyebrows drew together, and he tapped the bottle of champagne against his thigh in what was either exasperation or disdain, Utahime couldn’t tell which.
“Away from wandering eyes.”
Utahime thought the knife’s edge to his voice sounded sharper than usual.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
Gojo tilted his body slightly away from hers as he rested his thumb beneath the cork of the champagne bottle. He popped it free, snatching it out of the air before it could fall to the ground.
“We aren’t staying here,” he said, shoving the cork into the same pocket that he had placed his wedding band.
“We’re not?” Utahime asked slowly, staring at Gojo’s pocket.
“No.”
He held the bottle to her and Utahime took it. She raised it to her lips, the bubbles tickling her tongue as she took a sip.
“Why not?”
Gojo took the bottle back from her, rapping his fingers against the glass. He was quiet for a moment, and then took a long drink.
“I’m not—“
He paused, tilting his face down to regard her. His glasses inched down the bridge of his nose, and Utahime caught a hint of glowing blue.
“I’m not fucking you where they can hear it.”
He handed her the champagne again, his tongue flicking over his lips.
Utahime gripped the bottle tightly, his frankness making her feel unsteady.
“Oh.”
She wondered if she ought to feel grateful. She should feel grateful, actually. But Gojo’s statement had only made nerves zip in her again, the excitement she had tried to squish tingling in the tips of her fingers.
Gojo exhaled, his chuckle wry and rough. He held his hand out, and Utahime passed the champagne back to him, even though she hadn’t drank any.
“So then,” Utahime said, watching as Gojo tapped the bottle against his thigh again, not yet drinking, “Where are we going?”
Gojo had pulled the bottle to his lips while she spoke, but he lowered it upon hearing her question. She could see more of his eyes now over his glasses, the ice fractured, frost spreading outwards. They didn’t seem to be foggy anymore, and Utahime wondered if he had also sobered up too quickly as they had walked.
“Hotel,” he said bluntly.
He made to hand the champagne back to her, seemingly forgetting that he also hadn’t drank any. Utahime shook her head, suddenly feeling too anxious to drink. She hadn’t eaten anything all day and was beginning to feel it, hunger and alcohol mixing unpleasantly in her stomach.
“Two beds,” Gojo added, his teeth flashing in something that wasn’t a smile.
Utahime laughed, although she wasn’t sure why, and she felt sure that Gojo knew that it was not genuine.
He took a step towards her, a sudden movement that made Utahime’s heart lurch, her body freezing. She could feel the hem of her kimono flapping against his Infinity.
Gojo curled his arms over her shoulders, the champagne bottle resting against her back, over the Gojo clan sigil sewn into her clothes. She felt him clasp his fingers behind her neck, and recognized that it was the ritual for his warping. She had seen him do it before with his friends at Jujutsu Tech, laughing with them.
Laughs for them, glares for her.
Utahime’s gaze had settled on his chest, but she raised it slowly to Gojo's face, the beat of her heart still confused and irregular. He was looking at her, she saw, his eyes burning coldly, blue flames in the dark.
“The scar,” he said, voice low. “Was it your fault?”
“Yes,” she whispered, wanting to look away from him but finding that she couldn’t.
Gojo’s smile was grim.
“Weak.”
Utahime had wondered when he would remind her. He always did.
***
I know you hate him rn but TRUST ME.
ALSO, there is a real good chance this will be over 3 chapters, I just popped that in there for now :)