The party was at least not as obnoxious and stiff as the past ones. Finally free of the Heian terrors, both Sukuna and Kenjaku exorcised, Suguru's body properly salvated, and barely evading casualties as a result of Shoko, Ui Ui, and your abilities, the world was...fine. A mix of healing, teleporting injured people, and you fighting the hardest while even mangled up to buy time, buy a win. Satoru almost lost his life too. But they made it.

With the higher ups now out of the picture, Jujutsu society was more free a place. All the survivors decided to make a small celebratory event, that eventually also led into a more large scale ball. Hosted by the Gojo Clan, Kamo Clan, and any other clan, really. Maki and Fushiguro were the sole remnants and thus heads of the Zenin, chipping in too.

And thus, there was the ball. With this god awful normalcy, lacking any mask of formality. A strnage comforting enjoyment, a resting softness encouraged. You felt rather out of place. You weren't meant for soft things, you were taught that by life and your exile from your own clan rejecting you.

You were also humbled of it recently when Satoru decided your feelings were worthless. Breaking the heart you swore you could live without. But a dead heart can still break. So as much as you fought for him and his healing, resuscitation, you swore to yourself you wouldn't do more again.

You were meant to be alone, after all.

Until there he was. Asking you for a dance with these solemn eyes that couldn't hide an ache you didn't understand. You wanted to say you didn't know how to dance, because you weren't good at it anyway while as an excuse. But he tugged your hand soft yet firm, like the soul he was, and strung you along for a dance.

Quiet, staring, soft, sad. You swore you hated him enough to undo any affection, or repress it. So you looked at his neck, emptily. He accepted that. But he held you sweet, swaying, slow. Guided. You didn't like it. Feeling safe, sound, comfort.

He could see it too, the fear, the hesitance, the question, the hurt that you hid well. That you always did. But he'd rather you do anything but supress. And he'd rather not pretend like he had no regrets. Coming close to death does that to people. He's staring with the guilt, self-blame, and this scary fierce sadness and softness in his soul that he won't word, but he's wiser than he wishes.

He's not ready to name it, because it's shameful and he knows it. Shameful to feel this way only after he snapped at you, in an effort to just be left alone. Shameful to feel these things just as you did while respecting him and keeping them locked. Shameful to love you, when you did so in secret. Shameful to love you when he ripped out that secret affection from its lock to shove it in your chest. Shameful to love you back when he already hurt you.

His head rested on top of yours. You stiffened. But he sighed, staring at nothingness. Shameful and in love.

Shameful, and sorry.

Whispering. "Are you mad at me?...you are, of course. Right."

"...I owe you a massive, massive apology."