[ 2 am, a storm brewing on the horizon, winds blowing in from the northeast with a growing intensity. megumi's sleeping in the dorms again, sleeping in his old room all alone in their old wing. the whole place has been memorialised in the aftermath of shinjuku, much like the rest of the campus.
new buildings being built, the clans putting their monies where their reputations rest, and yuta's taking over for the gojo, same as megumi for what remains of the zen'in. the kamo, too, are begging at itadori's feet, claiming the thinnest of blood threads despite the shame of kenjaku.
the more the world changes, the more it stays the same.
[ the campus stands as one of the few places left to find solace, short of leaving the city entirely. but leaving means it would be harder to see the people choso wants to see, and he cannot go and leave yuji all alone while the world stumbles to find its balance again. ]
i am.
[ even at 2am, he cannot bring himself to sleep when the air smells as heavy as it does. ]
company, i think. the air's charged tonight and it's making my ears ring.
[ he'll be out of his room regardless, haunting the hallways like the ghost he should've become if not for the grace and glory of itadori yuji's forgiveness. too many dead by his hands; too much destruction than the world is willing to look past, even with the considerable cache of zen'in blood money given back for reparations. ]
[ someone must watch over the bastion that is Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College, if not for its faculty then for its students. for yuji and for megumi and even for their sharp little friend kugisaki, choso patrols the campus grounds like a wraith. without tengen’s protections, the school needs as many spare hands as it can get; guarding it is the least choso can do to help out while still keeping a healthy distance out of public eye.
but for megumi, he can let himself be found easily enough. ]
of course. i await you.
[ 2am finds choso around the administrative buildings, now dark and silent under the pitch sky. his silhouette is just one more shadow amongst the rest, sat at an engawa overlooking a somewhat overgrown rock garden. ]
[ it's cold enough to warrant a puffer jacket, and megumi shrugs one on before leaving his old room. the article is at odds with the kimono worn under it, a remnant of his long day wearing the dubious honor of being the zen'in heir— though it's not heir anymore, is it? it's all his, all of its bloody history and ugliness.
he'd have sloughed the layers off if he could. not just the clothes, but the name too, the responsibilities, the legacy. but duty calls, and megumi remains steadfast in upholding his inheritance, trying to make something better out of it like gojo-sensei would've wanted him to.
that's how he finds choso-san: weaving through the dark halls like a modern ghost, walking on auto-pilot, hands tracing over the shoji panels like he might steal the warmth from the very paper and wood. ]
Choso-san, [ he greets quietly, giving a small bow of respect before folding himself down next to the man. ] They haven't gotten to this garden, it seems.
[ he hears megumi’s approach first, just one split second before he senses that familiar flush of cursed energy; the whisper of something in the dark, cloth and skin and fingertips rasping on shoji. his approach is like watching a shadow detach from all the rest, forming up into human shape with every pace closed. it’s suitable, choso thinks. it’s poetic.
flowing red scale retracts like ink soaked up only once the young zen’in head is in proper sight, so that when choso turns to greet him it is only the single black bar across his face, made darker in the churning night. ]
Mm. I like it better like this.
[ overgrown, he means. wild, he means. perfect raked formations broken by the simplicity of life. ]
That aside, I am… well. Better, now, with company.
[ well, better, all degrees of something he never expected to be after that day in shinjuku. here enough to help, to matter. his back is a mat of burn scars made livable by ieri’s hand alone, his hair only finally grown out enough to brush down over the scar tissue at the back of his neck.
compared to what could have been, he will always be ‘well’ enough for these people now. ]
But you know, you can just call me ‘Choso’. I’m fine with it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
post-canon au;
new buildings being built, the clans putting their monies where their reputations rest, and yuta's taking over for the gojo, same as megumi for what remains of the zen'in. the kamo, too, are begging at itadori's feet, claiming the thinnest of blood threads despite the shame of kenjaku.
the more the world changes, the more it stays the same.
he can't sleep like this. ]
choso-san. are you awake?
no subject
i am.
[ even at 2am, he cannot bring himself to sleep when the air smells as heavy as it does. ]
do you require anything?
no subject
[ he'll be out of his room regardless, haunting the hallways like the ghost he should've become if not for the grace and glory of itadori yuji's forgiveness. too many dead by his hands; too much destruction than the world is willing to look past, even with the considerable cache of zen'in blood money given back for reparations. ]
can i come find you?
no subject
but for megumi, he can let himself be found easily enough. ]
of course.
i await you.
[ 2am finds choso around the administrative buildings, now dark and silent under the pitch sky. his silhouette is just one more shadow amongst the rest, sat at an engawa overlooking a somewhat overgrown rock garden. ]
no subject
he'd have sloughed the layers off if he could. not just the clothes, but the name too, the responsibilities, the legacy. but duty calls, and megumi remains steadfast in upholding his inheritance, trying to make something better out of it like gojo-sensei would've wanted him to.
that's how he finds choso-san: weaving through the dark halls like a modern ghost, walking on auto-pilot, hands tracing over the shoji panels like he might steal the warmth from the very paper and wood. ]
Choso-san, [ he greets quietly, giving a small bow of respect before folding himself down next to the man. ] They haven't gotten to this garden, it seems.
How are you feeling?
no subject
flowing red scale retracts like ink soaked up only once the young zen’in head is in proper sight, so that when choso turns to greet him it is only the single black bar across his face, made darker in the churning night. ]
Mm. I like it better like this.
[ overgrown, he means. wild, he means. perfect raked formations broken by the simplicity of life. ]
That aside, I am… well. Better, now, with company.
[ well, better, all degrees of something he never expected to be after that day in shinjuku. here enough to help, to matter. his back is a mat of burn scars made livable by ieri’s hand alone, his hair only finally grown out enough to brush down over the scar tissue at the back of his neck.
compared to what could have been, he will always be ‘well’ enough for these people now. ]
But you know, you can just call me ‘Choso’. I’m fine with it.