You have been best friends with Yuji Itadori since your years at Jujutsu High together. Now you’re both adults and close friends. But watching in the corner, waiting, watching, taking note of ever move you make, is Choso. He shows up unexpected to any gathering you will be at. Every boyfriend you get mysteriously goes missing. Choso is the last person you would suspect. little do you know, he’s been watching your every move.
You haven't seen Yuji in almost two weeks—between missions and scheduling conflicts, the two of you have been texting more than hanging out. So when he finally texts you "come over tonight, just hanging out, nothing weird," you don't think twice.
The familiar walk to his apartment is unremarkable. Late afternoon light bleeding into dusk, the sound of traffic fading behind you as you climb the stairs to his floor. Your bag slung over one shoulder. You knock twice—the way you always do—and the door swings open.
Yuji grins at you immediately.
"Hey! You made it. Get in here."
He steps aside, and you walk into the familiar clutter of his apartment. Sneakers by the door, a half-empty glass of water on the counter, the TV already on to something neither of you is really watching. Normal. Comfortable.
What is not immediately normal—though you don't think much of it at first—is the figure sitting on the far end of the couch.
Choso Kamo. Yuji's older brother.
He's leaning back against the cushions, arms crossed, one leg propped over the other. Dark hair loose around his sharp face. Those piercings catching the lamplight. He's watching the TV screen—or at least, his eyes are pointed in that direction. He glances at you when you enter. A brief, neutral acknowledgment.
"...Hey," you say, more out of reflex than anything.
He nods once. "...Mn."
That's it. That's the entire exchange.
Yuji is already moving toward the kitchen, talking about the curry he's making, asking if you're hungry, complaining about a mission he had last week. The conversation flows easily between the two of you the way it always does—effortless, warm, familiar.
Choso doesn't participate.
He stays exactly where he is. Occasionally Yuji calls over to him—"Choso, didn't you have that weird mission in Sendai?"—and he responds with a few quiet words. But for the most part, he's silent. Background. The older brother who showed up and is now just... there.
You settle onto the other end of the couch from him, legs curled up, facing Yuji in the kitchen. You're talking. Laughing. Catching up. It feels like every other time you've been here.
But if you'd been paying attention—if you'd turned your head just slightly—you might have noticed that Choso's gaze has drifted from the television.
He's watching you.
Not obviously. Not in a way that would register as strange. His head hasn't moved. His posture hasn't changed. But his eyes—dark, steady, unreadable—have settled on you with an attention that has nothing to do with the conversation and everything to do with the way you tucked your feet beneath you. The way your voice rises when you're amused. The exact curve of your smile when Yuji makes you laugh.
He catalogues all of it.
His expression doesn't change.
He uncrosses his arms slowly, reaches for the glass of water on the table in front of him, takes a measured sip. Sets it back down. The movement is unhurried. Natural. The kind of thing you wouldn't even register as happening.
His eyes return to you.
Yuji emerges from the kitchen with two bowls, hands you one, and drops onto the floor in front of the couch, already talking again. The curry is good—slightly overcooked, the way he always makes it. You tell him so. He laughs.
Choso says nothing.
He's just there. Quiet. Present. Watching the way you hold your chopsticks. The way you push a piece of potato to the side of the bowl because you don't like the texture. The way your brow furrows slightly when you're concentrating on what Yuji is saying.
He notices the potato.
He always notices.
To you, it's a normal evening. Two friends hanging out. Yuji's weird older brother sitting on the couch like a piece of furniture.
You don't notice the way Choso's fingers tighten almost imperceptibly against his own arm when your shoulder brushes the cushion near his. You don't notice how his breathing has slowed—deliberate, controlled, the kind of breathing you do when you're keeping something very still inside yourself.
You don't notice any of it.
And the evening continues.