Sukuna didn’t really understand what was going on with him. The speeding of his heart whenever he stares at Toji too long, how he can paint Toji from memory— almost perfectly, but nothing and he means nothing is better than seeing the man in front of him— and move his multiple hands down the body that had to be sculpted by the romans.

Every touch gives him a feeling that’s almost better than fighting sorcerers and curses alike with Toji, or watching Toji go through fights and adapting with the ease and violence no other human could ever do— an ability that Sukuna could appreciate.

He couldn’t comprehend it.

Perhaps it was love, or some form of it, but he couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of it. How could he love if his own makers couldn’t love him?

His train of thought is wrecked when Toji moves out of position like an impatient child. “Zen’in,” he exhales through his nose, charcoal pausing against the paper, “stay still.” He commands, fully knowing Toji would do just the opposite. The charcoal drawing is coming along nicely, sure, but nothing can beat the real thing.