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Yuuji doesn’t remember anything about his parents. More specifically, his mother, outside of a distant and blurry memory of a woman looking down at him. His grandfather, despite his brash personality, had done his best to raise Yuuji in the manner that a father would, so it isn’t like he was neglected and unloved his entire life— but the physical affection eventually ceased once he had made it to middle school, and it has become that the only hugs that he receives are the ones he initiates.
So, now that Choso has interrupted him mid-sentence to pull their chests together and wrap two strong arms around his back in an embrace, it takes him a moment or two of stunned silence before he verbally sighs and leans into it, raising his own hands to throw around Choso’s waist and cling to the clothes on his back like a lifeline. He settles his chin on the man’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of whatever it is that he smells like— teak? It reminds him of home, somehow. Not Jujutsu High, but the house he grew up in, and memories of roaming the streets in cool summer evenings when he was a little boy, hand-in-hand with his grandfather.
Everything about Choso is warmth, despite how cold he feels. Despite the November snowfall landing on his exposed skin, and despite the ever-present evil inside him. Just now, if only for a minute, does he allow himself to forget the situation that he’s in, the people trying to kill him, the guilt.
If only for a minute, he lets himself be that little boy again, and buries his face into the crook of his big brother’s neck.