Silence eventually falls, but still, you refuse to let go of Yuta. You can't. Your hands clutch at his shirt, crumpling the white fabric. Seconds pass. Or maybe hours. You don't know. Nothing exists, outside of your shaking, and the warmth of the boy in your arms.

You have to force yourself to keep breathing.

Somewhere in the haze of your fractured mind, it eventually registers that there are footsteps and voices swarming around you and Yuta. You lift your head and you realize that your eyes are squeezed shut so tight, your face hurts with the effort. Finally, you let yourself become aware of your surroundings, let the details sink in. One by one, you recognize the people you know and trust.

Gojo. Ieiri. Maki. Inumaki. Panda.

Safe. You're safe. Getou's gone.

And Yuta protected you, just as he said he would.

"Yu . . . Ta." Your voice is a croak, a whisper. "Yuta."

He glances at you over his shoulder, his jaw tight with concern. "[ NAME ]?"

"Thanks." The adrenaline crash carries you into an abyss and you notice then just how badly you're shaking, whether from the biting cold or fear, you don't really know. Slowly, you let go of Yuta, wincing as the blood and feeling rushes back into your protesting limbs. "I – Just now, you – Thank you."

It's amazing, really, how quickly the sound of your voice seems to lighten Yuta's eyes. Before, in Getou's presence, they had been dark and eerie and distant, almost devoid of life. But now, he's back. With you. And his voice is as soft and as gentle as it's ever been. "Are you okay?"

Your edges are fraying like a worn blanket, but you have to hold it together for just a little while longer. Everyone has enough to deal with at the moment, with the threat of a war looming. Now that the threat has been averted, the Shamans are already streaming back into the school to discuss the next course of action, Gojo among them. He suddenly looks much older than twenty-nine. He looks like a man who has seen too much of the world.

You don't think there's a right answer, or even a right path. People will die no matter what they decide on. And you and Ieiri will have to be there to pick up the pieces when that happens.

Yuta's question is echoed a beat later by Ieiri, still carefully keeping her distance. All patience, calm and deliberation. Almost as though she's approaching a wild animal caught in a trap. You've never seen her like this before, and you're puzzled. You don't bite. But then you remember the dark ferocity of Yuta's expression, and then you understand her reticence.

Ieiri's face is pale and pinched, and she looks more tired than you've ever seen her. "[ NAME ], you okay? Suguru grabbed you pretty hard, didn't he?"

"I'm fine." You wince. Not from pain, but rather, at the way Yuta's face closes and darkens. Clearly, any mention of Getou is still a taboo subject. Desperate to chase the shadows away from his expression, you point out Inumaki, Panda and Maki, waiting uncertainly by the school gates, unsure what to do. "Yuta, why don't you go ahead? I'll see you later."

It's a clear dismissal. You try to soften the rejection with a smile, but it feels weak and forced. Yuta gazes into your eyes, searching. At first, you think he'll protest, but after a moment, he nods and shuffles away. He's immediately accosted by the other second years. You suppose that they must have been worried about him – the edges and plains of Maki's face softens as Yuta talks, and the lines of worry in Inumaki's forehead smoothen out.

"What else hurts besides your wrist?" Ieiri asks. You flinch when she none too gently turns your hand over, assessing the damage with a critical eye. She makes a muffled, disapproving noise in the back of her throat. The skin of your wrist is already mottled black and blue, like the webs of a shadow. You can only pray that Yuta is still deep in conversation, that he's too preoccupied to notice the injury. "You're frowning."

"I'm fine." To be honest, you're tired. Drained, really. Your legs are throbbing, and there are daggers in the back of your head. Business as usual, then. "What about you?"

"You should be more worried about yourself, kiddo." Shoko places a hand on your forehead. She's obviously unsatisfied with whatever she finds; her brow furrows as she activates her Reverse Cursed Technique. There's a heat to her hands, a soothing quality to it. You sigh, feeling the tension seep out of your muscles, letting the tightness of inflammation go. You watch as your skin returns to its normal hue, free from bruises and injury. "I'm not the one walking around in the winter without a coat."

You smile. Sheepishly, but lacking any remorse whatsoever. "Oops."

"Let's get you back to bed." Ieiri helps you back to the infirmary. Each step you take seems to loosen your joints. "No more running around for the night."

"Okay."

The rest of your evening flies by. You draw yourself a bath, brew a mug of chamomile tea, and change into a fresh set of pajamas, but quickly realize that you're unable to sleep. A slow, lingering ache is building deep in your bones, and it feels as though flames are licking at your throat. A couple of painkillers and an over-the-counter bottle of cough medicine does little to relieve the discomfort. Your chest feels so tight that it's difficult to draw a full breath. Terrible contortions of Getou and his followers, run on an unending loop in your mind.

In the end, you find solace in Netflix. You put on a movie that you've been meaning to watch – Five Feet Apart – and you try to lose yourself in the material world of normalcy. Though it doesn't really matter how many movies you watch; that elusive world of everyone else's never looks like yours. The pills and vials on your nightstand are proof enough of that.

The door opens quietly, and you turn to see Yuta slip inside, freshly scrubbed and cozy in worn sweats. Still, you're awake, and you nod when he asks if he can come in. And just like before, the two of you sit, pressed close together. The closeness feels natural, somehow. You hesitate for only a second before curling into him, resting your head in the crook of his neck. You can feel him jolt, before he leans into you, his movements awkward and gentle, as though he's trying not to cause you any unnecessary pain.

Yuta touches your shoulder gently. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Not really.

Yuta's relieved sigh ruffles your hair. Briefly, you lift your head up to look at his face. In the bright glare of the television, his eyes are blue, and very clear. His hair is tousled, and faint purple bags droop down under his eyes. His skin is pale and full of veins.

You wish that he would stop worrying so much. "You look tired."

"I'm okay."

"You sure?" You hold out a hesitant hand. Something deep inside you burns. "I could use my –"

"No." His tone is firm, inarguable. Then he ducks his head, as though embarrassed by his own assertiveness, and the strength of his voice. "Sorry. Sorry."

"'S okay." Even to your own ears, your voice sounds a little strained, and you stifle a cough with your fist.

For a while, the two of you remain silent. You blink the sleep out of your eyes and listen to the rhythm of Yuta's breaths and try to ignore the nearly imperceptible flutter in your chest brought on by his presence. The back of his hand just barely brushes yours.

Yuta shifts slightly, his eyes moving past you to stare at the string of lights swathed along the walls. "Were you scared? Just now, when . . ." Yuta trails off, unable to say it.

"A little." You should leave it at that, but you hesitate for a moment more, the words weighing heavy on your tongue. "But you were there with me."

"He just – He grabbed you. And he said that you – That you would –" There's an edge to his voice that set off alarms.

"Hey. Hey. It's okay. I'm not gonna die anytime soon. I'm planning on staying with you for a long time." You try to soothe him, acutely aware of the upset starting to bleed at the edges of his calm.

Yuta turns a wild shade of red, and you almost trip over your words in your haste to think of a suitable explanation. One that won't cause his brain to go haywire, at the unspoken implications hopefully. "– And with everyone else, like Megumi and Gojo, and uh, Panda. And Maki, and Inumaki. Yeah. Yeah, that's what I meant."

You mentally congratulate yourself. Nice save.

"Okay."

"Okay."

He smiles at you, a wan, fragile thing, but it's a smile all the same. And for the briefest of moments, you feel seen. Not a dead person walking. Not a ghost. Not even as the asset of Jujutsu High. You feel a prickle of warmth across your cheek, and you reach up to touch it.

Yuta fumbles for the remote, pauses the movie. In truth, you should have paused it a long time ago; you haven't exactly been paying very much attention to it. "Should I get Ieiri? You really don't look well."

You sigh, because it appears that this is one subject that Yuta refuses to drop, and you want so badly for him not to worry, to not pace and panic. So, you tell him the truth. A small part of it, anyway. It must be better than the ambiguity of not knowing anything at all.

"I'm just tired. And a little congested." You say, sounding thick, like your throat is coated in milk. Your mouth is dry, your skin feels hot all over – as if you're sunburned. "Don't worry, I'm all doped up on painkillers. I'll be fine in the morning."

You break into a riot of coughs, thick and harsh, and you feel warmth on your hands. Your blood runs cold.

No.

"[ NAME ]?" Yuta says. He sounds scared.

"Yeah?"

You want to stay here, in the dark, and not make a move in the direction of this new fear. You want to fall asleep beside Yuta, and wake up in the morning and find that everything's okay.

But you don't. The mattress creaks as Yuta reaches over to turn on the light. Your hands, your lips, are stained red with blood.