Work Text:
It’s a warm Tokyo September, the last remnants of the summer breezes still stirring and the sound of cicadas only just beginning to wane, when Gojo Tsurumaru asks to meet.
Matsui isn’t surprised that Tsurumaru has already received word that he’s in the city—he’s well aware that the Gojo clan is tracking him more often than not. He knows that if he cared to ask, there would be those in his own family, too, who could tell him the whereabouts of each of the Gojo and Zenin heirs at any point in time. What does surprise him, if only a little, is the fact that he’s found himself standing outside of Shinbashi station, blinking against the orange setting sun, mere hours after Tsurumaru’s message. He’s brought nothing with him—his hands are empty at his sides.
The intersection by the Shinbashi is as noisy as it usually is during the rush hour commute. Matsui goes to the crosswalk, watches and listens to the cars rushing by, feels his clothes stir in the wind, and laments the fact that he still has too much pride as a sorcerer to walk into the road. In the end, he’s tried telling himself, blood is blood—whether it’s spilled in battle with a cursed spirit or on the concrete between the station and the curry restaurant across the street—but it never quite seems to work. He looks up.
One last taxi passes by, and in its blurred afterimage, standing across the street, is a pale-haired young man dressed in all white. Matsui knows that if he were closer, he’d be able to make out Gojo Tsurumaru’s golden eyes, so like Kuwana’s and so unlike them all at once.
(Kuwana had wanted to come here with him. He’d been in Kyoto for long enough, he’d insisted—it was about time for him to go back to Tokyo, even if just to check in on his family. Matsui had turned him down, and then stared at him askance every time he opened his laptop for the next week. If Kuwana wanted to come to Tokyo, he was welcome to do it later, on his own.)
The crosswalk light turns, and Matsui joins the crowd. He keeps his eyes forward until his heels are clicking against the yellow blister mat, and then until they stop just short of another pair of shoes.
“Hey. It’s been a while, Kamo.”
Matsui smiles. “Long time no see, Gojo.” The expression stays on his face even as he registers something festering just behind Tsurumaru’s eyes.
Distantly, Matsui remembers that Tsurumaru had been fond of Buzen. Most people who had ever met Buzen were fond of him. Buzen always talked too fast and cut people off on accident, and if he ever walked behind you, he would step on the backs of your shoes and then apologize and then do it again not a minute later, and he always got distracted too easily, but he was honest in a way that was hard to come by. Buzen was kind—kind enough, even, that when Matsui had…
His smile falters. He knows Tsurumaru notices, and can only hope that he mistakes it for fear, or for apprehension.
Without a word, they walk. Matsui follows behind Tsurumaru, also without a weapon—although he supposes that that doesn’t mean a thing to a Gojo. Tsurumaru may not have the Six Eyes, but Limitless is more than enough to kill someone like Matsui on its own.
Still, when Tsurumaru stops at the edge of an empty park, there’s no intent rising from him. His hands are in his pants pockets. When they emerge, all they pull out is a thin black wallet, the kind that folds over itself twice. Tsurumaru fishes out an old-looking hundred-yen coin from its confines and crosses the green to the vending machine, Matsui once again close behind. He watches as Tsurumaru casts a critical eye over the machine’s contents, as he puzzles over his choices for longer than he should, and then as he settles on a can of coffee with milk. The label underneath it says hot, and from the grimace on Tsurumaru’s face when he picks it up, Matsui guesses that he had been hoping for cold.
Matsui doesn’t buy anything. He stands and waits.
He doesn’t have to wait long. “So, Buzen,” says Tsurumaru.
“Buzen,” Matsui echoes. His eyes follow the can of coffee as Tsurumaru tosses it gently from hand to hand.
“Your work, right?”
He makes it sound so impersonal, like Buzen’s death is just a day-to-day matter—but Matsui knows, fully, how ironic it would be for himself to protest that. He bites the inside of his cheek. “My work.”
Tsurumaru laughs. The sound is outlandishly pleasant for what it is, sardonic and terse. His hammered-gold eyes are narrowed. “Honestly, I’m surprised. I didn’t know you were so cold.” He rolls the can between his palms. “I thought you two were close.”
Matsui feels himself smile again. “I didn’t realize you thought you knew me at all, Gojo.”
“Yeah, well,” Tsurumaru says, shrugging with one shoulder, “I thought you might’ve been someone decent, at least, if you hung around Buzen that much. I should have known better, looking back on it.”
“Buzen trusts too easily.” Trusted. Matsui bites down again to the taste of new iron.
“So, you’re the type of person who can turn someone’s trust on them like that, huh? It looks like Buzen’s judgment of you was a little too generous.” If Matsui didn’t know better, he’d think that there was some kind of betrayal on Tsurumaru’s face—something tense. He’s still relaxed, still grinning, but he’s never looked less friendly. “I’d never be able to do something like that, commanded to or not. It’s almost impressive.”
Tsurumaru straightens up, pushes off from where he’d been leaning against the vending machine. His expression is starting to look more like a snarl, his bared teeth bright. “So, how’d you pull it off? Buzen’s no pushover, even if he’s not a special grade.” Matsui’s blood feels like it freezes in his veins, even as a warm wind stirs against his jacket. He forces himself to exhale, convincing himself that Tsurumaru can’t have noticed the catch in his breath.
A beat of silence. “I used my technique,” he says, as calm as he can make himself. His voice comes out even, like he’s talking about the warm weather. Tsurumaru knows about his technique—he’s known since they were both in school. That means he also knows that it isn’t enough to kill Buzen. “Buzen didn’t fight back.”
Tsurumaru’s face falls into something stony.
“I attacked him,” Matsui continues. “My blood, spilling his. He let me. He didn’t try to escape, even though he could have.” With Buzen’s technique, he could have been halfway across the city before Matsui had even thought to come after him. “He knew I would kill him. I could tell. I cut him open, again and again, but he never even raised a hand.” Not to defend himself, not to attack Matsui in return. His blood, the same dark red as Matsui’s own, had colored the paving stones.
Tsurumaru’s fingers have curled into fists. The can of coffee sits on the railing beside him, forgotten. Matsui looks into his eyes, folds hands that he can’t feel, and smiles. “Maybe I’m the cruelest curse of them all.”
Tsurumaru barks out a laugh. “You really are, huh?”
“It’s like you said,” Matsui says mildly. “Buzen’s judgment of me was too generous.” The blood in his mouth is cloying.
Tsurumaru picks up the can again and tosses it at Matsui under-handed. Matsui catches it. “I’ve heard enough.” There’s no pretense left in his expression. His eyes are flat, impassive. “You Kamo sorcerers really are pieces of work, if you can all think like that.” Matsui says nothing.
The dying light has ushered in the sounds of the night-time bugs, and their noise trickles through Tsurumaru’s next words. “You’d better hope that the next time I see you, we’re not standing on opposite sides. Otherwise, I’ll come straight for you, and I’ll kill you.”
Matsui wishes he would.
After Tsurumaru leaves, the park is empty. Matsui cracks open the can of coffee.
It’s lukewarm, and leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.