Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is nothing to eat. 

Megumi has opened the fridge and the pantry three times now, searched around inside as best he can in his state of half-wakefulness, and deduced that there is nothing to eat. He kicks himself for not stocking up on snacks last time he went into town. 

Without much hope but in the event that food has materialised in the 10 seconds since he last looked, he digs through the fridge again - someone’s half eaten lunch that he doesn’t even want to go near, vegetables wilting in the crisper, ingredients that require more effort than he’s willing to give at half past midnight. Someone’s even eaten the last cup ramen that had been floating around in the back of the cupboard, though that might be for the best. No one here seems to be overly concerned with use-by dates, and going hungry is probably better than expired cup ramen in the middle of the night. 

Gojo-sensei really needs to go grocery shopping, he thinks, kicking the fridge door closed with his foot and scowling at it as if he can intimidate it into producing an onigiri, or some chips or something. Of course, Gojo wouldn’t be caught dead in a grocery store pushing a trolley, that would be far too pedestrian for The Strongest In The World. He’d probably have to levitate his groceries into the cart just to make it worth his time, so no doubt he has someone to take care of duties like that for him. Megumi’s stomach grumbles unpleasantly - they’ve been slacking off, whoever they are. Curses or not, people need to eat. 

He’s almost given up and admitted defeat when the door slides open behind him, and for a fraction of a second Megumi’s sleepy brain imagines some saviour turning up with baskets of food, right on cue - and then it’s just Itadori, disappointingly empty-handed. Megumi watches as Itadori squints in the low light; he must make out the silhouette of Megumi’s spiky hair because recognition flashes across his face. 

“Oh, hey, Fushiguro,” he says brightly, as brightly as ever. Doesn’t think to lower his voice, obviously. “What’re you doing up? Can’t sleep?” 

He’s not - displeased, exactly, to see Itadori (not that he would ever admit that. Not to his face, at least). It’s just that - well, for one, he does not appear to have brought any food with him, and also, he has already said too many words in quick succession for Megumi to be able to process in his current state. They haven’t known eachother long - Itadori’s only been at Jujutsu High for a week now - but Megumi has quickly figured out that he and Itadori are unalike in more than a few ways. Megumi values rest, and quiet, and - not doing things at 100% absolutely all the time, and Itadori does not seem to value any of those things. He doesn’t even have the decency to look tired, or worn out from training. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if Itadori were about to announce he was actually just wandering around looking for something to do, some way to use up his apparently boundless energy, and suggest they abandon food altogether and go punch eachother in the training room, or something. 

Still. He’s glad it’s not Gojo.

“Hungry,” he says shortly, leaning back against the kitchen counter and wrapping his arms around himself. Itadori’s wearing soft, worn out trackpants - they’re a bit short on him, he’s probably had them since middle school - and a hoodie. He wishes he was, too. It’s probably the last cool night of the season before the heat starts to set in. Megumi is a winter person, himself. 

“Yeah, me too. I’m starving, I didn’t have dinner.” 

Megumi catches himself on the verge of saying, ‘ I know,' and then bites his tongue. Itadori’s absence at dinner wasn’t something he'd taken any particular notice of. 

...If he did, it was only because it meant he had to field Kugisaki’s questions about which photoset she should post. Itadori had a much better eye for these things, he seemed to care about things like colours and angles and the ‘grid,’ all things that Megumi couldn’t notice or care about even if he tried. Not two days after Itadori had arrived at Jujutsu High he’d been peering over Megumi’s shoulder to get a look at his Instagram, offering unasked for advice. Temporarily (and poorly) stepping into Itadori’s role as Kugisaki’s social media advisor, the best Megumi had been able to muster up was ‘That one’s nice,’ or ‘I don’t know,’ or ‘Just post all of them.’ Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t thought this very helpful.

(“You’re so useless, Fushiguro! You’d make a terrible boyfriend!” 

“Good thing you’ll never have that problem.” 

“Yeah, well, good luck to whatever poor soul ends up with you, ” she’d said, grumbling into her dinner. Later on, his phone pinged to alert him that Kugisaki had tagged him in her pictures. There was one of the three of them at that sushi place the other two had insisted on back when they’d gone to pick up Kugisaki in Harajuku. Itadori was pulling a face. In the next one, he was stealing a piece of tempura prawn from Megumi’s plate. 

She’d put little stars next to all of their names. )

“How come?” he asks, before he can think better of it. It’s not his business. “There’s no food, by the way.” 

“I was reading,” Itadori says, with his head in the fridge. The light from inside makes his hair glow almost purple. It suits him, Megumi thinks, and then immediately unthinks it. He pulls at a loose thread on his t-shirt instead. 

“You read?” 

“Manga,” he clarifies. Well, he didn’t exactly have Itadori pinned as the type to lose himself in a hefty novel. “I was way behind cause I’ve been so busy here and the new chapter just came out, so I thought I might as well get caught up.” There’s a thud from inside the fridge; something falling off of something else. “There is food, Fushiguro, what are you talking about?” 

“Huh?” 

Apparently victorious, Itadori emerges with an armful of ingredients that Megumi’s eyes had simply skimmed over, seeing as they took more than 30 seconds to make into edible food. Chicken mince meat, a very wilted scallion, ginger...

“We can have meatballs,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We have all the stuff.” 

“Meatballs? It’s - it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” 

“Nah,” Itadori says sunnily. “They’re really good, I’ll show you how to make them. It’s my Grandpa’s recipe.” 

Internally, Megumi winces. Itadori’s grandfather’s passing, at least, is not Megumi’s fault. But any reminder of that night, of his failure, is unpleasant. He doesn’t… Itadori’s grandfather’s death isn’t something he could have helped, no, but he - he shouldn’t get to be the one who Itadori shares his memories with. Those sorts of things should be entrusted with his friends back in Sendai, if anyone; not him. Itadori should still be with them, he shouldn’t even - shouldn’t even be here talking to him right now, they shouldn’t even know eachother.

The silence is stretching on a beat too long, and Megumi has to fill it with something. He’s still picking at the loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt, curling it around the tip of his finger and pulling tight until it snaps off in his hand. “I...I dunno…” He should leave. He - it’s not right. 

“Oh - no - it’s not like that,” Itadori says, and Megumi looks up at that. “I’m not, like - gonna start crying, or anything. Really, I’m fine about it. I knew he was, like, sick, and everything. You don’t have to feel awkward. I’ve made these a million times.” He smiles, and then his face falls dramatically. “Wait, you’re not, like, vegetarian or something, are you?” 

“Vegetarian? What? No, I… that’s not…”

“Oh, good,” and the relief on his face might almost have gotten a laugh out of Megumi, under other circumstances. “C’mon, Fushiguro. It’s fine, I promise. Stay.” Itadori blinks at him for a moment, and then an unreadable expression comes over his features, just briefly. “If you want, obviously,” he adds hurriedly. “Sukuna isn’t just gonna jump out, either, if that’s what you’re worried about. I think I have a pretty good handle on him.”

Megumi forces himself to hold Itadori’s hopeful gaze, swallows, and makes a decision against his better judgement. He thinks he must be a very selfish person. 

After all, it’s at least partly his fault Itadori is here in the first place. It wouldn’t do well to be - cold, to him, on top of that. It would be the right thing, the more moral thing to do, maybe. To keep him at arms length to make sure that his miscalculations wouldn’t hurt Itadori again, wouldn’t put him in danger. Megumi doesn’t want to lull him into any false sense of security that the world of Jujutsu is fun and welcoming and about saving the world, because it isn’t. But...

He’s clearly making an effort to be friends. Megumi isn’t - he isn’t a cruel person. Not to those that don’t deserve it, and he isn’t a robot either, despite the jokes his classmates make. Itadori doesn’t deserve it. 

With a sense of finality, he thinks: Tsumiki wouldn’t like it if he were unkind to Itadori, when Itadori was being kind to him. And that settles it. 

“...Alright.” 

Itadori grins at him, and dumps the ingredients unceremoniously on the kitchen counter. “You will not regret this. These meatballs are gonna make you see God.” 

Despite everything, despite what he may have just signed himself up for, Megumi thinks he smiles back at him, even if it’s only a twitch in the corner of his mouth. He hopes Itadori sees. 

Searching around in the top drawer for the lighter so he can put the stove on, Itadori regards Megumi from the corner of his eye. “You look beat. You fell pretty hard in training today.” 

Ugh, that’s right. It hasn’t been long enough for the ache to have properly set in yet - he’ll feel it tomorrow morning - but Megumi is almost certain there’s a sizable yellow bruise beginning to bloom on his knee. Probably down his shin, too. He’d been off his game, that morning; he’d slept poorly, almost missed breakfast, and Kugisaki had taken him out in hand-to-hand combat practice with an especially strong swipe around his ankles. She’d celebrated like she’d just won the Olympics, and Megumi is quite sure that if he were to open up Itadori’s phone there’d be pictures documenting the whole thing.

“Yeah, I mean, it happens. But it’s kind of always like that, so. If you don’t get beat up one day, you just get beat up another.” 

“Inspiring,” Itadori deadpans, nudging him out of the way so he can retrieve something from a cupboard, and Megumi absolutely does not take any particular notice of the brush of the back of Itadori’s hand against his shoulder because that would be completely ridiculous and embarrassing. Itadori touches people so freely, it’s - presumptuous. Inappropriate at worst. Yes, it is, he decides, brushing his hand inconspicuously over that part of his arm anyway. 

“You are allowed to complain, sometimes, y’know,” Itadori continues, slapping the scallions on the chopping board and attacking them with the knife much too quickly.  

Megumi just shrugs. Really, it isn’t that bad, and if he were going to pick something to bemoan about being a jujutsu sorcerer it wouldn’t be just having an off day in training. “I know. Doesn’t change anything, though.” 

“Yeah, but it feels good, though, doesn’t it?” Itadori says. “I get what you’re saying, my Grandpa was like that, too. He used to say that only babies and idiots whine, and I guess I know which one of those I am.” He laughs. “But, look - ” he tips the sliced scallions into the bowl, holds up the knife he used to chop them in a way that might be comical if it weren’t so concerning. “If I were to slice my hand open by accident right now, it would hurt, right? I wouldn’t be able to go back and change it. I would just have to wait for it to heal up for the pain to go away. But going, ‘Ah, shit! This really hurts!’ would help a bit, wouldn’t it? Just to let it out? Just so someone else can hear you and go, ‘Yeah, I bet that does hurt.’” Itadori looks at him imploringly. He’s still holding the knife. 

“No.” 

“What do you mean, no?” Itadori says, definitely loud enough now to wake someone up, and waving the knife liberally in his exasperation. Megumi takes a pointed step back, thinking back to when he saw Itadori throwing that shotput at his old high school. He could lose a limb like this if he isn’t careful. 

“Don’t you ever feel that? Sometimes, like,” Itadori huffs, “things are so bad, and you know you have to - get through it somehow, right? There’s no way around it. But at some point you just have to stand back and go,” he cups his hands around his mouth and tilts his head back, as if directing it to some giant, invisible foe, ‘This sucks! Fuck this!’” His hands fall back to his sides. “And then you get on with it.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Megumi lies.

Itadori’s shoulders slump, and he shakes his head, turning back to the task at hand. “You’re making fun of me, man. While I’m cooking for you, out of the kindness of my heart,” he laments. Megumi wonders when the last time he had to work this hard to keep a smile off his face was. 

They stand in silence for a bit while Itadori finishes mincing the ginger, somehow without losing a finger, rolls up his sleeves and dumps the meat into the mixing bowl. Megumi half-watches, mostly out of politeness, not helping and too tired to retain any of the method at all. His eyes are heavy, chin almost resting on his chest when Itadori speaks again. 

“You’re a pretty serious guy, aren’t you, Fushiguro?” 

He blinks awake. “Um. I guess so.” 

“Mm.” Itadori looks up, grins at him again like he’s just said something worth grinning about. “S’alright. I still like you.” Megumi swallows hard, and oh, he is so selfish. So selfish and stupid. 

Itadori ends up banishing him to the table to wait until the food is ready, citing the fact that he looks like he could “fall asleep standing up,” and Megumi takes him up on it gratefully because he is, in fact, bone tired. He lets himself slouch over the table, rest his chin on the back of his hands, folded flat on the surface.

“Anyway, it’s super easy,” Itadori is saying while he works, but his voice seems like it’s far away. “You just chop everything up and put it in a bowl and mix it with your hands - you have to use your hands, otherwise it doesn’t work - and then you just make it into ball shapes and fry it. My Grandpa used to make it all the time. Apparently it was the only thing I wanted to eat when I was a kid. It’s really good in hotpot, too, but I won’t make you sit here and wait for hotpot. One day, though. Come to think of it, I don’t know if it’s actually his recipe - I mean, it probably isn’t, I’m sure he got it off someone…but I like to think of it as the Itadori family recipe. What sort of stuff does your family cook, Fushiguro?” he asks over his shoulder, and Megumi is glad that he’s close enough to sleep that he doesn’t have to answer that question. His head hits the table with a soft thunk, and he’s out like a light. 

“Oh,” Itadori says, turning around after his question goes unanswered. “Never mind.” His voice is quieter, now. 

What could have been hours later but in reality is only about 15 minutes, Megumi is awoken yet again, this time by the sound of Itadori placing a bowl none-too-lightly on the table in front of him. More than that, though, it’s the smell - steam is wafting off the freshly-fried meatballs and they smell absolutely heavenly, ginger and oil and cooked meat. 

“Ta-da,” Itadori says, pulling up a chair and pressing a pair of chopsticks into Megumi’s hand. “I told you it was easy. And you said there was no food,” he says, mock-disapprovingly. Wasting no time in starting, he pops one into his mouth, chews for a second, then, eyes skyward, makes a noise of utter satisfaction. “Ugh! So good, hurry up and try one, Fushiguro.” He starts on his second before he’s finished chewing.

Somehow, Megumi manages to coordinate his hands and his brain, picks up a meatball, follows suit. Itadori is already on his third, having launched into an impromptu recap of the manga he’d been reading. Does he ever stop talking? He chews, eyes still closed. 

It’s - damn it, it’s really good. Obnoxiously, effortlessly good, in the same way that Itadori can do 3 laps of the oval while everyone else is still tying their shoelaces, or land a punch that can throw the recipient through a wall, and shrug his shoulders after and say “It’s no big deal.” It’s just meat and a bit of - green stuff, it shouldn’t be this good. How annoying. 

“...and then they have to fight this giant monster thing, it’s like, a huge octopus with wings, but underwater obviously, cause it’s an octopus, kind of like your shikigami, actually,” Itadori is saying, mouth full of meatball, “and it was throwing these poison ink balls at them, and the main character got stuck in one of the ink balls and he was drowning - how’s the food, by the way?” 

“What?” Megumi blinks his eyes open again. Itadori is looking at him expectantly, chopsticks poised, with his knees tucked up under his chin. Cute , Megumi thinks, too tired to crush the thought before it breaks the surface.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. 

“They’re,” he clears his throat, rubs the back of his hand into his eyes, hopes it’s too dark for Itadori to notice the redness he can feel on his face, the tips of his ears. “They’re really good. Thanks.” 

“Welcome,” Itadori says, clearly pleased with himself. “I’m gonna make you learn, next time, though. They’re easy enough, even you could make them. Kugisaki too.” 

“...What do you mean, even me?” 

“Well - ” Itadori says, the shadow of a laugh on his face, and in the dimness the second set of eyes under his real ones just look like creases, the ones cheerful old people get from smiling too much. Megumi doesn’t think he’ll end up with many of those at the end of his life, whenever that will be. “Can you cook?” 

No. “Yeah.” 

“Like what?” 

He chews on another meatball. “I could cook, if I wanted to.” 

“Hah. Right.” 

Maybe Megumi should be selfish more often. 

Chapter Text

Three weeks after their late-night dinner in the Jujutsu High dorms, Itadori is dead, and Megumi has watched him die. That is the simple fact of it. 

It is hardly the first time Megumi has seen a dead body. It’s not even the first time he’s seen death occur in front of him, the moment of life leaving a body and retreating back to wherever it came from. Growing up around jujutsu sorcerers, Megumi has learned that death, of friends, of enemies, of innocents, of curses that look human enough to trick you, is occasionally inevitable, and he likes to think that he is prepared to deal with that. Or, was.

It is selfish to say - and Megumi has also learned that he is a selfish person - but being an observer to another person’s grief does not prepare you to feel grief yourself. No matter how deeply you might empathise with someone, it’s never the same as being the one who has lost something. You can feel sorry for a person and forget about them five minutes later. You can give your condolences, wish that the other person was not in pain, but deep down, there is almost always a voice saying, ‘I’m glad it’s them and not me.’ 

And it’s not that Megumi is a complete stranger to his own grief - he supposes that is what he feels when one of his Shikigami is destroyed. He had mourned, in his own way, when his white divine dog died. They had been with him since he was very young, which is more than anyone else he knows now can say. More than that, there is a hollowness inside him, always, knowing that Tsumiki is still of this earth but also isn’t. Possibly won’t ever be again.

But he does not consider her dead. Her heart still beats, her body is still whole, and as long as that is the case, there is a chance that she will come back. As long as he himself is alive, he has the opportunity to figure things out, to fix her. Megumi is not an overly optimistic person; he is measured, controlled, realistic. If he truly believed there was no hope for her, he might have said his goodbyes, mourned for her, and in the future when it came time to lose other people he cared about, been able to recognise grief as an old friend. But that has not been the case. 

In that same sense - that Megumi believes only in things he can see - he knows that Itadori must be dead. There are no miracles. Sukuna may have been able to survive without a heart, and may well manifest elsewhere in the future, but Itadori cannot. 

Sometimes he wishes he had gone back for it - Itadori’s heart. He has no idea where his body is now; in a lab somewhere being dissected, perhaps, though he doesn’t know what good it would do. Any residual cursed energy would have worn off by now. The part of Sukuna that was living inside Itadori died with him, so all they would have been left with was the corpse of a human boy. It may have already been disposed of, buried somewhere, but no one has told him so he doesn’t ask, for fear the answer might be too unpleasant to hear. How pathetic. 

Wherever his body has ended up, Megumi resents the fact that his heart has not been laid to rest with him. Itadori used to talk about giving people ‘proper deaths.’ There was nothing proper about what happened to him, not from the moment he and Megumi first met. In some small way, returning Itadori’s heart to him would - Megumi feels it would make up for something. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the death you deserved. 

Usually, when Megumi finds his mind wandering down this passage of thought, this is the part where he begins to feel vaguely ill and abandons it in favour of going to train, or going to bother Kugisaki or Maki about nothing in particular just to fill the air with noise. It’s a pointless thing to think about and Megumi won’t let himself dwell on it, not when he has other things to worry about. Nothing, especially not a gesture so useless, could make up for Itadori losing his life for absolutely no reason at all. Thinking about what-ifs and should-haves won’t bring him back. 

There is only one - entity, because he refuses to think of Sukuna as a person, or even as just a curse - entity, who could bring Itadori back now. Other than the fact that there is zero chance Sukuna would do that - why would he, when he was the one who killed Itadori in the first place? - it’s been over a month since that day. If he wanted to, he would have done it by now.

Then again, the alternative - that Sukuna has restored Itadori to life and is using him to his will somewhere, far away from Jujutsu High where Megumi, Kugisaki, Gojo cannot help him, is worse to think about than him being dead. 

Now that he has been saddled with grief, with definite, concrete personal loss, Megumi finds that he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. It doesn’t feel right to - to cry, or mope around, not when he had only known Itadori for such a short amount of time. It wasn’t as if Itadori had been a close childhood friend, or a parent; not that he had either of those to lose. The closest thing he supposes he has to a parent is Gojo-sensei, but it’s a shaky comparison at best, and it would take something monumental to kill him. Not even Sukuna had been able to do that. 

It feels inappropriate to let himself dwell for too long on it, like he’s claiming something he doesn’t have the rights to. He remembers when he had met Itadori in the hospital just after his Grandpa passed, he had obviously been crying. Megumi had cried, too, when Itadori collapsed in front of him; he isn’t made of stone, after all. But Itadori being able to carry on after losing someone very dear to him, someone he loved - losing half of his body and mind to an ancient curse on top of that! - means it feels wrong, somehow, to let his grief overcome him in any way. Most of the time, he sidelines it, throws himself into something else instead until the moment has passed. This method seems to be working alright, so far. Train during the day, eat with Kugisaki and the others at night, go on missions, occasionally. Repeat. He isn’t dysfunctional. He can still do all the things he needs to do. 

He supposes this is just what life is like for jujutsu sorcerers. 

There are flaws in his plan, though. Sometimes he’ll look through the photo gallery on his phone, probably searching for a picture of Gojo’s illegible handwriting from class, and see Itadori, smiling or pulling a face or jumping in front of whatever Megumi was actually trying to take a photo of. He used to do that annoying thing where he would steal Megumi’s phone and take a million pictures of himself. At the time Megumi had found it a little audacious, seeing as they had only known eachother a few weeks. He would delete most of them to make a point as soon as he managed to wrench his phone back out of Itadori’s grip, but - there were some he kept, some nicer ones, and he can’t bring himself to delete them now. Sometimes, at dinner, Kugisaki will start telling a story from one of their trips into the city, remember that Itadori had been there, or start recounting something funny he’d said, and stop halfway through. A quiet will fall over the table until someone else thinks of something to say, and so they carry on. Perhaps this is just how grief weaves itself into routine. He can get used to it. Every other sorcerer he knows must have been able to get used to it.

It’s night - not late, he hasn’t even turned off the light, yet. Summer has well and truly set in and his room feels sticky and stifling, even in his loosest clothes. Cicadas drone on outside, and Megumi knows to some people the sound is comforting, familiar, but he just finds it frustrating. The heat puts him on edge. 

He doubts he could sleep, now, even if he were tired. His phone and the book he’d been reading lie abandoned on the nightstand, nothing being able to hold his attention for long enough to distract him. His body already aches from training, so he’s in no rush to head back there, even if throwing himself around for a bit longer will probably tire him out enough to sleep. Kugisaki and the second years are watching a movie in the common room, and he had been invited, but he figures he’d probably just end up bringing the mood down. Explosions and bright colours, or corny romance or whatever they’d decided upon aren’t appealing to him, anyway. At least not right now.

Itadori had convinced him to watch a horror movie with him and Kugisaki, once, on the promise of bringing caramel popcorn (he had lied). Kugisaki had announced twenty minutes in that it was boring and fallen asleep, but he’d seen her flinch when the first head got blown off. Itadori had spent half the film with his face in a cushion. Horror movies don’t bother Megumi. 

All things considered, he can think of absolutely nothing better to do than stare at the ceiling and wait until sleep comes to claim him. He only prays it’s sooner rather than later. More violently than necessary, he flips his pillow to the slightly cooler side and flops back down with a sigh, feet dangling off the edge of the mattress. 

The cicadas pause their chirping sporadically. He doesn’t know why they do that. 

As grating as the sound is, in its absence, there’s something worse - silence. 

Megumi didn’t think he’d ever miss sharing a wall with Itadori. There are more dorms than there are students at Jujutsu High, so until Itadori had arrived he’d had essentially complete privacy, with Inumaki and the other boys sleeping further down the hall and the girls on the other side of the building. At first, he thoroughly resented having Itadori as a neighbour, not because he didn’t like him, but because he was never quiet. During the day there was always music, or talking, or Itadori inviting himself into Megumi’s room without knocking to update him on the latest chapter of his manga that Megumi did not care about. Or do his homework on Megumi’s floor. Or show him something on his phone in person instead of just texting it to him. 

(“Fushiguro, look at this!” 

“Wanna play me and Kugisaki in Smash Bros?” 

“Fushiguro, come to the store with me!”) 

Eventually, he found himself just leaving his door open most of the time, since having it shut didn’t seem to be much of a deterrent. At night, he’d fall asleep to the muffled sounds of Itadori shuffling around, talking, could hear the springs in his bed when he rolled over in his sleep. It had been - well, it had been nice. There’s no shame in admitting that, to himself, at least. There had been a certain warmth in sharing those sounds, a familiarity. A presence that said, ‘ Hey, someone’s here.’ It had reminded him of how, when he was young, he would lie in bed and listen to the gentle sounds of Tsumiki preparing their lunch for the next day in the kitchen. Now, there’s just - nothing. No Tsumiki, no Itadori. Just an empty room, as if he’d never been there at all. 

The cicadas start up again, and Megumi decides there is something he wants to do, actually. 

It wouldn’t be… wrong of him, would it, to go - to go to Itadori’s room? To his knowledge, no one has gone in there since he died. No one’s come to collect his things; it’s probably all still sitting in there. His door has stayed firmly shut, since that day; no music, no friends coming and going. Would it - would it be weird? 

Whatever, he thinks, rolling out of bed and padding on silent feet to the hallway. It’s not like he’s here to get mad at me. Didn’t give a shit about my privacy when he was alive. Then he puts that thought out of his mind, because even now it is still unpleasant to refer to Itadori as once having been alive, but not anymore. As if on autopilot, he finds himself standing outside Itadori’s bedroom door. 

It’s marginally cooler out in the hallway - there’s the slightest movement of air, breeze blowing in from the open windows, but even that is warmer than Megumi would like. Aside from the lamp light spilling out from Megumi’s open door, it is dark, the only other source of illumination being the slants of moonlight splashed across the walls. Agitated by the wind, leaves rustle in the trees outside, and a bird, some type of owl, joins the cicadas in their song. A lifetime of seeing curses means that Megumi does not spook easily, and he is not sensitive to notions of ‘creepiness’ the way other people seem to be. Graveyards, jails, abandoned buildings don’t bother him - they’re just structures, like anything else, and the uneasiness in the air most often comes from the curse inside, it’s not inherently present in the atmosphere. But there is something, some sinister thing about the way the hot air whistles through the gaps in the window and touches the sweat on the back of his neck, about the stillness that seems to exist here, now, without Itadori, that puts the tiniest pit of nausea in his stomach. 

He shakes it off, physically shakes his head. Get over yourself. It’s just a room. He reaches for the handle. 

Part of him, for some reason, expects it to be locked. Hopes that it’s locked, maybe, so he can say ‘Oh well, I tried,’ and go back to his room to think about something else. But when he turns the handle it gives easily, and the door opens on squeaky hinges. Megumi digs the nails on his free hand hard into his palm. 

The overhead light feels too harsh, too clinical for what he’s about to do, and so Megumi takes a deep breath and crosses the threshold to the bedside table, knowing how many steps it takes to get there even in the dark. Their rooms have the exact same layout, after all. He switches on the lamp, an exact copy of the one in his room, and yellow light seeps out, casting shadows in twisted shapes and catching in the fine layer of dust that lies over every surface. Really, no one has been in here in a month. 

Beneath him, the bed is unmade. No surprises there; Megumi seems to be the only one of the first years (and honestly most of the second-years too) that knows how to clean up after himself. The pillows are all skewiff, half hanging off the bed, and the covers are pushed down almost all the way, like a bomb has gone off in the middle of the mattress. Makes sense that Itadori would get out of bed the same way he did everything else - with 10 times the energy of a normal person. Megumi almost smiles. 

Out of nowhere, the sight hits him like a fist to the stomach. Of course Itadori hadn’t made his bed before he left for the mission that morning. He thought he’d be coming back that same night. Megumi feels an unwelcome tightness in his throat, a burning in his eyes that’s all too familiar. 

He turns quickly, sits on Itadori’s bed, presses his knuckles into his eyes until he can see colours in the inky blackness and breathes through his nose - long, steady breaths, in and out. It’s a technique he learned as a small child, one he taught himself, and he’s gotten quite good at it. Until recently, he barely needed to use it anymore. 

Once the lump in his throat has dissolved, as it always does eventually, he wipes away any residual wetness from his eyes and sits up. It might be inappropriate of him to sit so casually on Itadori’s bed - he probably wouldn’t have even done that when Itadori was alive, not that Itadori had held any reservations about clambering all over Megumi’s bed uninvited - but he doesn’t care. He didn’t come in here to cry and carry on like a dumb kid. 

... Why did I come in here, then?

That’s a good question, he thinks. For closure, of some sort? He’s not sure what other closure there can be; usually when loved ones of the dead talk about closure, they’re referring to a murder where the victim’s body was never found, or when someone has died overseas in war or a natural disaster. He’d seen Itadori’s dead body with his own eyes. Touched it, even. Rolled him face-up and closed his eyes for him. Doesn’t get much closer than that. 

That thought triggers a memory; the woman they’d seen at the entrance to the correctional facility. She’d been waiting outside, waiting to see if her son was alright. Megumi had - he’d given her some closure, hadn’t he? By bringing the man’s nametag to her. Not because he believed the man deserved any honour, or deserved to be remembered, but for the woman who’d lost her son. To prove to her that he was, indeed, dead, so that she wouldn’t have to sit up at night wondering if, by some slim chance, he was out there alive somewhere. So that she’d have something to remember him by, to remember that he’d been real - even if he had been a scumbag, Megumi adds in his head. 

Itadori had wanted to bring the body back. He was unlike Megumi in that way - he was unequivocally good, unwaveringly good, kind even when the subject of his kindness didn’t deserve it. 

Maybe, Megumi thinks, he just wants to know for sure that Itadori had been real, and that he had known him.

Looking around, now that his eyes have adjusted and the blurriness has faded, Megumi takes in Itadori’s room in earnest. Honestly, he hasn’t actually gotten much more than glimpses of it until now; Itadori was usually the one who invited himself into Megumi’s room. It’s messy, much like his bed. Clothes lie scattered in little piles on the floor; shoes, pants, hoodies, it’s like half his closet collectively decided to make a break for it one morning. The nightstand is covered in empty cups, old green tea bottles, a sizeable stack of magazines, more charging cables than a single phone should need. He twists around to confirm - yep, the posters are still up. A girl in what is clearly an ill-fitting bikini winks at him in what Megumi guesses is supposed to be a seductive manner. She almost looks threatening, he thinks, frozen eternally on the paper and half obscured in shadow like that. If this were one of Itadori’s horror movies, she might suddenly leap off the wall and strangle him. Or maybe Megumi is just - 

Never mind. 

Everything is dusty, more so than he’d thought when he’d first come in; the air is thick with it and it’s getting in Megumi’s nose. Someone should really come and clean up, box up his things and send them...where? Surely he had to have some family, somewhere, a distant cousin or long-lost aunt. Maybe Megumi should track them down. He ponders how he might do this, even as the rational part of his brain tells him they should just throw it all away. They’re just things , after all, they’re not him, but - Megumi realises, if he was the one who’d died, Itadori never would have let Megumi’s things get thrown out. He would have thought of something. Megumi will think of something, too. 

He shifts in his spot, brings his knees up to his chest, and the slight change in his position makes the light hit something shiny in the corner of his eye. Craning his neck to see, he notices, for the first time, a collection of pictures taped to the wall above Itadori’s desk. More posters, probably - did he really want to look at boobs that bad? - but he gets up for a better look anyway. 

He sees - himself. There’s a photo of him, taped to Itadori’s wall. 

Megumi feels his heart start to race in his chest, his cheeks start to burn, like they had in the kitchen with Itadori all those weeks ago. Of course - that ancient camera Itadori was always lugging around; he’d picked it up from some second-hand shop in the city. It spat out the pictures as soon as they’d been taken. In the photo, Megumi isn’t looking at the camera; doesn’t even know it’s being taken, from the looks of it. He’s sitting at his desk in class, chin in his hands, ankles crossed, looking out the window at a cloudless blue sky. Itadori must have… Itadori took this picture of him just because. And put it up on his wall. Megumi feels frozen to the spot. 

He’s not the only one up there; there are loads, all taped over eachother like a collage. There’s one of Kugisaki as well, posing happily in front of a shop he doesn’t recognise, bags swinging off her arms. Another one of her and Maki at a cafe, heads together and laughing at some inside joke. There are heaps of the three of them together, some Megumi remembers being taken, some he doesn’t. Even Gojo makes an appearance - several appearances, actually, holding the camera up and putting himself front and center. Typical. 

One in particular catches his eye; the two of them lying in the grass in the late afternoon sun after an especially tough training session. He remembers this one, this photo was taken only a couple days before Itadori died. Megumi has his arms over his eyes, only a sliver of blue peeking through, the left leg of his pants rolled up to his knee and a bandage around his ankle. Itadori is uninjured, grinning widely, clearly puffed but giving a thumbs up to the camera. His other hand lies palm-up on the grass, inches from Megumi’s side. 

And then the wave hits him, like it has so many times before. He almost anticipates it. Guilt, thick and swampy and rising in his gut like bile. God, he really had - he really had watched Itadori die, hadn’t he? Seen his heart ripped out of his chest. He should have - stopped it, somehow, should have thought harder, acted quicker. Been stronger. Hadn’t Itadori sacrificed himself to save Megumi, back in Sendai, eating that finger? And they’d only known eachother all of half an hour. Hadn’t Itadori proven himself? Surely, Megumi thinks, he should have done the same. It was only what Itadori was owed. It was only what he deserved. 

It was a mistake, coming in here, because even though he has proven to himself that Itadori had once lived, it has also reminded him of the life that was cut short. He is looking at the life Itadori deserved to have lived. What is - what is the point, if all Megumi can do is resign himself to the fact that despite his best efforts, in the course of his life, he will have to watch the people he cares about - good people - die one by one? Until what? It’s his turn to get taken out by some curse that’s just the slightest bit too strong? 

The room doesn’t feel peaceful anymore, as if Itadori might simply wander in at any moment, no further away than the common room. It feels like it’s teeming with ghosts. Megumi’s stomach churns. Lurching forward, he grabs a picture from the wall and switches off the light, leaving the room in quick strides and heading straight for his bed. 

Lying in the dark calms him, but only some. His mind is racing - it will be another night of poor sleep - and he’s sweating, not just from the heat. Is this what closure is? Isn’t closure meant to bring people closer to peace? Megumi feels like he’s just ripped open a wound that was beginning to heal. He covers his eyes again, breathes long and as steady as he can, digs his toes into the mattress searching for something grounding, but this time it’s as good as useless. 

I’m sorry I couldn’t save you I should have been better I’m gonna get better I don’t want this to happen again I wish I could have known you better I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about you I wish I never met you I wish I never went on that mission I wish I could stop caring I don’t know why I care so much when I barely even knew you I wish you could disappear I wish you would come back. 

Fatigue does overcome him, eventually. The next morning, he’ll wake up, get ready for breakfast and walk past Itadori’s closed door as if nothing had happened. He’ll train, go to class, go to the store with Kugisaki, tell her which pictures to post (she will rightfully ignore his bad advice). He’ll roll his eyes when Gojo ruffles his hair. He’ll smile when Panda-senpai brings him an ice cream without being asked. But on this night, when Megumi gets back to his room, he slips the picture of him and Itadori under his pillow, and it stays there. 

In moments when he’s doing okay, thinking about something else, enjoying the sunshine or a good book or a song he likes, the memory of Itadori’s picture wall will emerge in his mind’s eye, and he will think: 

He really cared about us, too. He cared about me. 

I miss him. 

Chapter Text

Even in a world where curses exist and he can see them, in a world where Megumi can make creatures appear from the shadows and people can blow things up with their minds - this is weird. In fact, it is deeply weird and unsettling, Megumi thinks, for a person to die, be indisputably dead, and then come back to life. Especially when you watched that person die a meter in front of you. Itadori does not have a heart anymore. He is dead, he has been dead for more than a few weeks now. 

Except he clearly does have a heart, or something where his heart should be, pumping blood and oxygen and making him walk and talk and breathe and be alive when he is meant to be dead! 

So much for closure. 

Megumi supposes he should feel happy about this. He does , of course he’s glad Itadori isn’t dead… or isn’t dead anymore. But there are several layers of shock, denial, sheer confusion - anger, even - that he feels he has to get through before he can properly process any sort of joy or relief that Itadori has returned. 

They hadn’t exactly had the chance to talk, much, or catch up during the exchange event with the Kyoto students. In a way, Megumi is glad they had no choice but to leap straight into the games. What exactly would he and Itadori have spoken about, anyway? Welcome back to life, I sleep with a picture of us I stole from your room under my pillow every night for reasons I don’t fully understand. What do you feel like for dinner, yakisoba? 

Getting beat up in a fight against other sorcerers is easy and familiar in a twisted sort of way, practically part of his routine, and while it obviously isn’t his favourite thing to do almost anything would have been preferable in that moment to reckoning with the fact that the past two months of anguish and mourning had been, essentially, for nothing. Something about it feels quite grounding, if he’s being honest. Physical pain and blood and bruises mean this is all real; if he can feel all of that, it means he isn’t dreaming. Bodily injuries are far easier to navigate, anyway. Straightforward. You get a cut, you patch it up. You hit your head, you rest it and hope your brain is still intact, and it usually is. If it’s bad enough that you can’t deal with it yourself, you visit Ieiri-san and she puts you right. Problem, solution. Easy. 

It’s never that uncomplicated at Jujutsu High, unfortunately. Given the circumstances, waking up in the medical wing with Kugisaki - and somehow, beyond all reason, Itadori - at his side was about the best he could have hoped for, even if his stomach hurt like a bitch. 

The injury is still bothering him two weeks later, though the pain is manageable. He feels like he’s spent more time recovering from injury than not since he started at Jujutsu High officially. Spread out in a line below his navel are three gnarled, angry red pinches of skin, marking where the roots had pierced him. Kugisaki gave him some sweet-smelling oil she bought in the city - “Only a tiny drop each day, if I get it back and the bottle is half empty I’m making you pay!” - that’s meant to help the skin regenerate better, and to her credit it does seem to be helping. Thanks to that and Ieiri’s quick work, he doesn’t think they’ll scar permanently. Not that Megumi cares one way or another about scars; it’s pretty much a given that you’ll end up with some in this line of work. Luckily, it’s not a profession that requires beauty of any sort. Curses don’t give a shit whether you have perfect smooth skin or not. 

Those empty eyelids… even Itadori has acquired scars of his own. And they won’t be the last if he carries on as a sorcerer. That, at least, Megumi can say with certainty.

Things have definitely been different since the event. Off-balance. The others welcomed him back with open arms, especially the second years, who had a vague knowledge of Itadori at best before he died so were not overly affected by his departure and subsequent return. Kugisaki had been wary of him, at first, and Megumi had heard her chewing him out as soon as the Kyoto students went home. 

“Itadori Yuuji, you listen to me. I could kill you, do you understand? Do you know how rude it was to let everyone think you were dead? Fushiguro was even more grumpy than usual and I had to deal with him all by myself. Ever heard of a phone, huh? That thing in your hand, do you know how to use it? Are you stupid? Ever thought of taking a stroll up the mountain to let us know you were alive?” and so on, until she had seemingly exhausted herself. 

“I told you,” Itadori had said, but even from the next room Megumi had been able to hear the lack of conviction in his voice. “Gojo-sensei didn’t let me - ”

“ Since when do we listen to Gojo?” 

That had been the worst of it, though. Two nights later at dinner Kugisaki had sat down, tossed her phone on the table in front of Itadori like a peace offering and said, “Fushiguro ruined my grid while you were gone,” as if Itadori had simply been away on holiday or an extended mission. From then on it was as if they’d never been apart - that night, he’d heard Kugisaki’s voice floating in through his open window from Itadori’s room again, except this time, it was because she’d enlisted him to help her dye her roots. 

Megumi thinks he understands her. He’d even felt somewhat vindicated, honestly, by her yelling. Part of him wants to yell, too; he knows there is anger bubbling up inside him, but at who or what he can’t seem to figure out. It doesn’t seem fair to lay it all on Itadori. He wishes he could do what Kugisaki had done and let everything out in a big stream of complaints - he thinks back to Itadori’s metaphor with the knife - and then get back to normal. Pick up where he left off with Itadori, wherever that might be. But there’s something that clogs his throat, some invisible hand that pushes down the words every time they threaten to rise to the surface, and now he finds that speaking to Itadori outside of practicality or simple pleasantries is difficult, at best. They still eat in their usual configuration at night, he still sits behind Itadori in class, Itadori still hauls him up by the collar when he gets knocked over in training, but there is something stilted, unnatural about them now that Megumi is sure wasn’t there before. 

Initially, he’d thought he was the one with some weird hang-up. Put it down to the shock of seeing a friend die and come back to life, and expected it would fade away after a while, or else he would learn to live with it. After a few days, though, it became clear that he was not the only one acting strangely. Itadori is definitely avoiding him, the most noticeable difference being that not once since he returned has he invited himself into Megumi’s room. Several times Megumi has passed Kugisaki’s door on his way back from the kitchen and heard Itadori’s voice from inside, and he sees Itadori out on the oval with the second years all the time, so it’s not that death has turned him into some kind of hermit. It’s just him. Now, if Itadori needs something from him, he knocks - how ridiculous, Megumi thinks. He’s never been so bothered by someone’s politeness. 

They’re at some kind of impasse, and while it’s not the first time he and Itadori have been at odds, it’s the first time Megumi has felt powerless to do anything about it. It’s too subtle to fight about - he doesn’t even think anyone else has noticed, not even Kugisaki - and besides, he knows Itadori hasn’t actually done anything wrong. Something happened while Itadori was away - something happened to the both of them, he thinks, slightly self-indulgently. Itadori still laughs, still goofs around in class like he always did, but never for as long or with as much vigour, as much enthusiasm for life as he had before. Perhaps, that, too, will return with time; a side effect of temporary death. Or perhaps not. 

Kugisaki doesn’t actually need Itadori’s help with her Instagram, she manages just fine on her own. But it’s common ground for them. Megumi wishes he could find some common ground, too. 

It’s a sunny Saturday morning and Megumi is reluctantly flipping through his trig homework when he hears a hesitant knock at his door. Kugisaki and Maki left earlier that morning to head into the city, and he’s sure Panda and Inumaki are still in the dining hall; they were just coming in as Megumi was leaving. Gojo wouldn’t knock. Until recently, neither would Itadori (and it bothers Megumi to no end that this isn’t, in fact, a welcome change). 

With a fairly certain idea of who is at the door, Megumi’s heartbeat picks up a little. He stares resolutely at the equations in front of him in defiance. There’s nothing exciting about triangles. 

“Yeah?” he calls out. 

The handle clicks as it turns, and Megumi feels Itadori’s presence before he hears his voice. “Hey.” 

Megumi doesn’t turn around. “What’s up?” 

“Not much, just… I dunno, it’s Saturday, do you wanna do something? There’s a movie on I wouldn’t mind seeing. The girls already left for Tokyo, so… ” There’s a definite note of hopefulness in his voice, but there’s also something strained, awkward, like there has been since he returned. Megumi hates it. 

“I’ve gotta catch up on some homework,” he says stiffly. 

“Oh. Well, when you’re finished?” 

Megumi grits his teeth. “I dunno.” He hears Itadori sigh, and something clenches in his chest. I’m sorry, he wants to say, I don’t get it either. 

“Alright, well… mind if I just hang out in here for a bit? Just like old times?” Itadori tries for a joke, somewhat feebly. Megumi grips the edge of his chair, tries to grapple with the fact that it feels like his whole body is screaming yes, come in, that’s all I’ve wanted since you left, and also feeling like if he has to look at Itadori for too long he might just get up and run. 

Silence rings out in Megumi’s room. His palms are sweating, God, what’s wrong with me? 

“I won’t bother you, if you don’t want,” Itadori says quietly, and there’s a dull thudding sound, like he’s bouncing the rubber on the toe of his shoe against the doorframe. “Just don’t feel like being alone.” 

Itadori has a strange ability to make it near impossible to say no to him in any meaningful way.  Maybe it’s a cursed technique he doesn’t know he has. 

“Yeah, you can come in. If you want,” he hears himself say. Finally, he turns around, and for maybe the first time since he emerged from that stupid box at the exchange event - Megumi could still absolutely kill Gojo for that, out of all the stupid ideas he’s ever had, that one takes the cake - he meets Itadori’s eyes. They crinkle slightly as Itadori offers him a hesitant smile. 

“Thanks, Fushiguro,” he says, and crosses the threshold before stopping short, not sure where to go. Megumi turns back around, hopes Itadori takes it as a way of saying, sit where you want, I don’t care, I’m not bothered at all and this is very normal, as if that couldn’t be further from the truth. Itadori settles for perching awkwardly on the edge of Megumi’s bed, like you would at the house of a family member you didn’t really want to visit, before shuffling backwards and crossing his legs. At least he has the decency to kick his shoes off, even if he is wrinkling the covers that Megumi had only just straightened. 

Megumi feels like someone may as well have stuffed a rag into his mouth. He realises that Itadori is typically the one who carries their conversations, but when he’s in the mood to talk he can usually at least think of something to contribute. When he’s not, Itadori will just prattle on in that way that he does, and Megumi is free to zone in or out as he pleases. Another thing he never thought he’d miss, but… he does. Very much. There was an ease about them, back then. It should still be easy , he thinks with that familiar frustration, Itadori is back, everything is back to normal, so why isn’t it easy? 

He huffs a sigh that is probably pronounced enough to be rude and shifts in his seat, trying with all his might to direct his attention back to his trig homework. It doesn’t urgently need doing, really, he’s caught up on all his other subjects and this could definitely have waited ‘til Sunday afternoon. 

“Your room hasn’t changed at all,” Itadori says after what feels like an indecently long silence, and Megumi breathes a sigh of relief that Itadori, at least, has the guts to get the ball rolling. 

Megumi hasn’t put a whole lot of effort into decoration - well, he doesn’t have pictures of half-naked girls on his wall, so he doesn’t think he’d meet Itadori’s standards for interior design, anyway. He has some nondescript scenic pictures on the wall, left from the person who’d had it before him, and they aren’t exactly his taste but he can’t be bothered taking them down. Shikigami don’t show up in photos, obviously, but there is a small cut-out of a shaggy black dog he’d found in a magazine that looks roughly the same taped next to his bed. His desk has a clock, a calendar, a small bunch of wildflowers that Kugisaki had gifted him in a rare sentimental moment, and currently, his trig homework. Mostly he just wants a place where he can collapse into bed after training without being assaulted by mess or bright colours - essentially, the opposite of Itadori’s room.

“I mean, you weren’t gone for that long. I couldn’t exactly have done renovations while you were - away,” he says, almost without thinking and stuttering slightly over that last word. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged Itadori’s death to his face and he didn’t even mean to do it. Ah, stupid! 

It seems to catch Itadori off guard, as well, as if he wasn’t expecting Megumi to bring it up so casually. There’s a pause before he replies, and then he says carefully, “My room was pretty much the same as I left it. Even my clothes and stuff were still on the floor.” 

Megumi stares very hard at the page in front of him. “That’s good, I guess,” he says, like he doesn’t know. Like he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. Like the first thing he’d done when he woke up in the medical wing after the exchange event wasn’t drag himself out of bed, retrieve the photo from under his pillow, replace it on Itadori’s wall and hope like absolute hell that Itadori hadn’t had a chance to go back in there yet. “Lucky Inumaki-senpai didn’t raid your room for your clothes.” 

There’s a huff of breath; Itadori must have laughed a little, but it’s one of those laughs you do to be polite. “Yeah… it was pretty dusty, there were a couple spiders in the corner. Bit gross.” Fabric rustles; he hears Itadori take a hesitant breath. “Beats the place I was staying, though,” he says quietly. Pointedly. 

Oh, Megumi thinks, we’re doing this now, and to his surprise, even more than any apprehension, he feels relief. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to rip off the bandaid, too - he’s always been that sort of guy, after all. He doesn’t often dance around difficult subjects, just because Itadori is involved doesn’t mean he should start now. He wants to spit out the rag, so to speak. Get it over with. One more moment of the thick, soupy tension in this room and Megumi feels like he might choke. He wants ease again, and he thinks Itadori wants that, too. 

Besides, says the rational part of his brain (incidentally, the part he seems to use least around Itadori), it doesn’t serve a sorcerer to be on poor terms with your colleagues. Then the idea of calling Itadori his ‘colleague’ almost makes him laugh, so he steels himself, and speaks. Off comes the bandaid. 

“I won’t force you, but you can talk, if there’s something you want to say. About what happened, I mean,” he says, his voice hanging in the air, tangible between them. He swivels in his chair, looks at Itadori dead in the eyes. “If that’s why you came in here.” 

Itadori holds his gaze for a moment, face blank. Then his shoulders slump and he lets out a heavy breath, almost like he’s deflating, and Megumi knows he’s done something right. 

“I...yeah,” Itadori says, leaning back on his palms, then giving up on supporting himself completely and flopping backwards onto Megumi’s pillow so he’s staring at the ceiling, and Megumi is struck with the realisation that this is exactly what he must have looked like, all those nights he spent doing the same thing. “If you don’t mind.” 

“I don’t mind.”

It takes a good while for Itadori to start speaking, and Megumi can’t tell if he’s planning what he’s going to say or mustering up the courage to say it. Either way, it makes him uneasy. If there’s one thing Itadori can do, it’s talk. He turns back to his homework, not with any intention at all of actually doing it, more so that Itadori doesn’t feel like he’s being interrogated. He hates having people’s eyes on him when he’s vulnerable, it seems only fair to afford Itadori the same respect. 

“I… Well, you already know something happened. I mean, I died, so there’s that,” Itadori says, “but that’s not what I mean. I don’t really remember much about - about dying. I remember my hand getting sliced off, and you running to find Kugisaki, and then Sukuna… it’s kind of blurry after that. I remember rain. And then it was like… it was kind of like when you have a surgery, and they put you to sleep before you even realise what’s happening. Next thing I knew I was waking up in some examination room, all fixed up, with Gojo-sensei and Ieiri-san. No scars, no nothing. Didn’t even hurt.” 

Megumi remembers very well; he doesn’t think he could erase the image of Itadori’s empty chest cavity from his mind even if he tried. “You don’t… that’s all you remember about dying?” 

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I get flashes, sometimes, here and there, but… everything’s too fuzzy to understand it properly. I don’t even know if I want to remember. Dying is pretty bad for your memory, I guess.”

Megumi considers this. It’s certainly dangerous, the gaping holes in his memory, because Sukuna absolutely has something to do with it. On an emotional level, however… that’s probably for the best. Dying can’t exactly be a happy thing to remember. 

Megumi remembers what he had said to Itadori that day. He meant it, too, and he still means it. He can remember enough for the both of them, he decides. 

“Anyway, of course I wanted to go and find you guys right away. It was the first thing I thought of. I’m - I am sorry, about that, you know. I wanted to tell you. I know… I know it must be weird,” Itadori says. “You must have really thought I kicked it, huh?” 

Yeah, you could say that. “It’s alright. It wasn’t your fault.” 

Itadori just shrugs. “I know, but… Kugisaki was pretty mad.” 

“I think she just missed you.” 

He can hear the smile in Itadori’s voice. “She has a funny way of showing it. I saw this movie, actually, while I was gone, it reminded me of her so much. I forget what it was called, but it was about this girl who was really pretty and fashionable but also really smart, and she went to some fancy school in America to get her boyfriend back but she ended up becoming… I don’t know, something good, I kinda fell asleep at the end. I think she would have liked it, though, I’ll have to show it to her. There was a big dog in it, too, Fushiguro,” he says matter of factly, as if Megumi is the database on dogs in entertainment. 

“You were… when did you have time to watch movies?!” 

“Oh, right. I forgot to say - the reason I didn’t come back straight away was Gojo-sensei’s idea. He wanted to train me away from everyone, for a bit, so I could catch up to you guys, I guess.” And Itadori goes on to explain how, somehow, watching movies with a trigger-happy doll was supposed to teach him to balance his cursed energy output. Megumi thinks bitterly of the two months worth of bruises he sustained during that time. 

“It wasn’t just that, though,” Itadori says hurriedly, upon noticing the stormy expression on Megumi’s face. “There were… other things. I had missions of my own, as well.” His smile falls, and Megumi can see him start to fiddle with the hem of his shirt, with the ridiculous ring he got out of a gacha machine and insists on wearing. They must be getting close to whatever this is really about, then. Megumi is strangely nervous, and he turns back to his homework to give Itadori the space to bring it up in his own time, and so he doesn't have to look too closely at the troubled expression on Itadori's face. It looks out of place there. 

“There was… I met someone, kinda. A boy, around our age,” he starts, and Megumi feels what little colour he has in his face disappear immediately, like someone has pulled a plug. He blinks at his desk, seeing absolutely nothing. Oh my God. Oh my God there’s no way, there’s no fucking way, I swear to God - 

“I had to trail him, for a mission.” 

Oh. Right. 

“There was some… at a movie theatre in town, some people died from being… transfigured, I guess. In really awful ways. Their bodies were all mangled and blown up, they didn’t even look like people anymore.” Itadori clears his throat; it sounds like his mouth is dry. Megumi feels much the same. “Anyway, there was this boy that was seen on camera at the scene of the crime, so they thought I might be able to help out. Me and this guy - Nanami, I don’t know if you know him? Tall blonde guy, wears a suit? Goofy looking glasses? He’s a grade one sorcerer.” 

“Mm.”

“Yeah. He reminds me of you, a bit, Fushiguro,” Itadori says, chuckling weakly, and Megumi doesn’t know if that’s meant to be a compliment or not. He hasn’t seen Nanami Kento in years, only vaguely remembers him as a teenager from back when he’d first met Gojo. “Anyway, to check whether or not this kid had anything to do with the murders, we had to find out if he could see curses in the first place…”  

***

When Itadori comes to the end of explaining what happened to Yoshino Junpei, he is crying. Not breaking down, not sobbing. He has sat up, wrapped his arms around his knees. He cries with his face firmly turned towards the wall, his mouth in a hard line, a hand coming up to wipe his tears away before they even come close to touching his cheeks, as if he’s irritated that they’re there at all. If Megumi hadn’t snuck a look, just a quick glance over his shoulder, he might not even have been able to tell. The only other thing that would have given it away was the slight wobble in his voice, the sniff every couple of minutes. 

Megumi doesn’t say anything, yet. 

“Sorry,” Itadori mumbles. “I don’t - I haven’t been, like, crying myself to sleep or anything. I’m fine. I just… I don’t know.” 

“Does anyone else know?” 

Itadori shakes his head, rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “Nah. And don’t - don’t tell Kugisaki, she’d give me shit for the rest of my life if she saw me like this.” 

“She wouldn’t,” Megumi says softly. That is true - Kugisaki is not heartless, Kugisaki has known loss, too - but he won’t tell her. And he will ignore the tiny, shameful burst of pride he feels in his belly that he is the only one who Itadori has trusted with this. 

They’re quiet for a while; Megumi does a few equations out of politeness to give Itadori time to collect himself, with no idea or ability to care if the answers are correct or not. From outside his window and down the hill, Panda and Inumaki’s voices travel up from where they’re messing around on the oval, mingling with the sounds of summer that Megumi has gotten so used to. He has an idea - from beneath the desk he clasps his hands together, not needing to see to know what he’s doing. A great black dog materialises from the shadows at his side. It paws at his knee; he scratches it under its chin and sends it to Itadori with a jerk of his head. 

Itadori laughs thickly. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, but when Megumi turns to look, he’s opened his arms wide for the dog to jump up, and it settles happily on his lap. Itadori buries his face in the dog’s fur. 

Megumi listens for the sound of Itadori’s breath evening out, the sniffles becoming more infrequent, and they do, eventually. He is angry, there’s no doubt about that, but now he also knows why. He wonders how he ever could have thought he was angry with Itadori himself, rather than the situation they’d been put in. At the people who’d put them there. At the man, the thing Itadori spoke of, the patchwork curse. No - at the situation they’re still in. Itadori has come back, yes, but he is not permanent. 

The difference between what he and Itadori have been through is that Itadori will only have to mourn for Junpei once. Megumi is going to make it count, this time. He’s going to be better.

If you die again, I’ll kill you! 

“It was like that for me, too,” he says, barely above a murmur, before he even has time to think about it. To realise what he’s said. “I’m…” he feels his throat close, feels the hand threatening to gag him again. “I’m very glad you’re back.” Even if it's selfish. 

Itadori lifts his head from the dog’s neck, red and puffy and with fur sticking to his face where it was wet. Megumi thinks for a split second that Itadori might make fun of him, or - or get mad, accuse him of making everything about him. Or question him, ask him things he doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t know how to answer.

“Yeah?” he says, quietly, in the end. 

“Yeah.” 

Itadori doesn’t reply, just nods. He goes back to stroking the dog behind it’s ears. Megumi resumes his homework. By the time Itadori ends up leaving, the shadows of evening are beginning to creep across the floor, and the next morning Megumi is awoken by a presence looming over him and some kind of baked sweet thing being waved in his face. 

“Morning, sunshine!” Itadori says, pastry in one hand, instant camera in the other. 

Chapter Text

The bullet train to Sendai rolls out of the station with a hiss and a heave, and before long, the slate grey of the inside of the station blends into - well, the grey of the buildings outside. It’s a grey day all round, the sky overcast in that sticky, glary way that Megumi particularly dislikes, the kind where you know it’s not going to rain but also not going to clear up later. Normally, these are the days he tries to pass as quickly as possible, in the hope that the next one might bring a storm or a blue sky. Unfortunately, today, that will not be an option - they’re on their way to Sendai for an overnight mission, and no doubt the other two will want to sightsee. 

Despite the cloud cover, it’s hot. Summer, as if it takes some kind of pleasure out of tormenting Megumi and his kin, has had the audacity to stick around - he longs for the mild temperatures and crisp evenings of autumn. It’s cool on the train, but it had been stuffy enough outside and on the platform that Megumi is sweating under his jacket. Seeing as they don’t have formal classes today he’s just wearing a t-shirt under it, and so he removes his jacket somewhat awkwardly in his seat and folds it, stows it in the rack above his head. Technically, since they’re students on official business they’re meant to remain in uniform even off school grounds, but realistically, who’s going to turn him in? Certainly not Itadori, who’d swapped his uniform trousers for sweatpants in the station bathrooms, his reasoning being that if they had to travel for a mission, he was going to do it comfortably. Even more so since his hometown is the destination. Unusually, Kugisaki is the only one currently following the rules - but she is also the only one who gets to wear a skirt. 

“Gojo-sensei is definitely rich enough to have gotten us first-class seats,” Itadori says with a mouth full of rice, having already tucked into the bento he said he absolutely wasn’t going to touch for half an hour into the trip, at least. The train has been in motion for about 30 seconds. They’d barely had breakfast an hour ago and he’d already stolen a sandwich from Megumi’s overnight bag while they were waiting on the platform, and he is very lucky that Megumi had anticipated this and brought two. That sandwich is tucked safely inside an inner pocket. 

“I know, right?” Kugisaki grumbles, chin resting in her palm. She’s staring out the window, her eyes flickering side to side with the scenery as the train picks up steam. One headphone rests in her ear already. “Cheap ass.” 

It’s rare for Megumi to travel much further than the city limits of Tokyo, so he doesn’t have any particularly strong feelings about being seated in economy class (but he doesn’t need any excuse to join in on Gojo slander). The legroom perhaps leaves a little to be desired, but it’s fine, especially for a short trip. They’d rotated the seats around so they could face eachother, Itadori and Kugisaki on one side and Megumi facing them, and he and Itadori have slotted their feet together to fit comfortably. Being a decent few inches shorter than the boys, Kugisaki has plenty of room to stretch out. Itadori has made himself quite at home already, as if he’s settling in for a long journey - from his bulging backpack he pulls out his phone, headphones, Nintendo, a deck of cards which will be useless seeing as they have no table, manga… 

“Fushiguro, hold these for me?” 

“Hold them yourself, you brought them!” 

It’s only a 90 minute trip to Sendai. Thank God. 

Their arrangement leaves Megumi with an empty seat beside him, but only temporarily. Unluckily for him, a businessman in a tan suit at least two sizes too small for him - Megumi is close enough to see the seams on his sleeves straining - plonks down next to him just as soon as they’ve gotten settled in. 

“It’s gonna be so weird going back to Sendai,” Itadori says. “I haven’t been back since I moved here.” 

“Do you miss it?” Kugisaki asks.

Itadori chews thoughtfully. “Kinda. I miss my old house, but it was weird seeing it all empty after my Grandpa’s things got taken out. I don’t know if I’d want to see it again. Maybe we can go past my old high school.” 

“I don’t miss the countryside at all ,” she says, as if they don’t already know. “I’ll miss you, Tokyo. I wish Maki-san could have come, too.” She sighs wistfully. “You two got to go together. So unfair.”

What’s that supposed to mean? Does she think - why would she - 

“We’re only going for one night, you’ll survive,” Itadori says, seemingly unphased, but by then her second headphone is in, signalling that she’s checking out of the conversation. He shrugs. “It’s not really the countryside, anyway,” he says out loud to no one in particular. 

Because you’re friends, you idiot. Relax. 

Megumi grabs his book, glad for the distraction. Even the businessman next to him pulls a mask over his eyes. Gojo might have cheaped out on the tickets, but truthfully, Megumi doesn’t mind train rides. He likes the hushed way everybody talks, the rhythmic clicking of the train, something about it is strangely soothing. In contrast, Itadori is already restless, jiggling his leg so that the edge of his shoe bumps against Megumi’s. 

Itadori holds out his bento. “You want some? Since I ate your sandwich,” he says sheepishly.

Megumi eyes it - there’s a few sad grains of rice left, some mackerel, and a pile of pickled ginger. He doesn’t like fish too early in the morning. “I’ll take your ginger. Doesn’t make up for my sandwich, though.”

Itadori passes him his chopsticks. “Lucky you like it. I don’t know how you eat it on it’s own like that.” 

“It’s good. You just have the palette of a child.”

“Argh,” Itadori says, screwing up his face and waving his hands at Megumi. “It’s too early for your big words, Fushiguro.” 

“What big words? Palette ?” 

Most of their trip passes in companionable silence. Kugisaki falls asleep just as they’re leaving the skyscrapers behind, and once he’s finished with his food - and shuffled around about a hundred times to find a comfortable position, prompting a swift kick in the shin from Megumi - Itadori immerses himself in his Nintendo. The muted click of buttons mixes in with the low rumble of the train, the quiet voices of other passengers, loud enough that there’s a general hum but not so loud that Megumi can make out what anyone is saying. Every so often, the train gently slows to a stop at a station, and a pleasant female voice announces where they are. Buildings and signage and people milling about on their way to work blends into rows of houses, kids walking to school, blends into trees, into mountains, into suburbia again. Megumi almost wishes it were a longer trip, even if he would like to stretch his legs out a little further. Were he a more whimsical person, he might be able to pretend that for these ninety minutes, they’re just three friends going away for fun. That there isn’t work and curses and bruises waiting for them at their destination. That they can be normal, just for a fleeting moment, just for as long as it takes for the sun to set on the other side of the sky. 

He isn’t, though, and they’re not. Normal, that is. Nevertheless, it’s quite a soothing experience overall, which Megumi appreciates, because an overnight excursion with Itadori and Kugisaki will likely be anything but that. He expects to be run off his feet the moment they arrive in Sendai - the curses will probably be nothing compared to the unpaid babysitting he’s about to do. 

An hour into their trip, the businessman in the seat next to Megumi starts snoring. Loudly. Itadori has abandoned his game for a copy of Jump he picked up at the station, Kugisaki is still sound asleep, and Megumi has his nose firmly stuck in his book. Or he had, until now. 

Try as he might to ignore it, it’s no good. He glares at the businessman for interrupting his reading groove; he’d just gotten stuck into a good bit, too. “You’re not using those, are you?” he says, nudging Itadori with his foot and motioning to the headphones that are still sitting in his lap. 

“Hm?” Itadori, who could sleep soundly through an earthquake and unsurprisingly has not noticed the snoring at all, looks up. “Nah, all yours.” 

“Thanks.” He plugs the cord into his phone, turns it up loud enough to at least somewhat drown out the businessman’s wheezing next to him, presses shuffle on his playlist and settles back into his seat. Itadori resumes poring over his manga, chewing on the inside of his lip in that way he does when he’s concentrating. Megumi watches him. When he realises he’s watching him he flicks his gaze back to the window - only to find it falling on Itadori again minutes later, even though he’s not doing anything interesting. It’s a shame they’re not seated next to eachother, he muses. Might be nice, that way. Music on, countryside whizzing past, Itadori next to him, warm against his bare arm. Itadori could lean his head on Megumi’s shoulder, if he wanted to.  Maybe they could - huh? 

“What’s wrong?” Itadori says, looking up from his magazine. 

“Wha - what do you mean?” 

“You made a face, just then. Did you forget something at home?” 

“I - what? No, no, nothing.” 

What was that about? Megumi shakes that thought away. Surely it was just - maybe he just hasn’t been hugged in a while, or something. Well, he definitely hasn’t been hugged in a while, mostly by choice. That has to be it, right? People do need touch every so often, he reasons, beyond a slap on the back in training or a flick on the ear from an annoyed teacher. Yes, that’s all it is. Maybe he should just… conjure up his divine dog once they’re at the hotel and bury his face in it’s fur for a few minutes, like Itadori had in his room, that time. That usually makes him feel better, even if his divine dog isn’t warm like a real one. Having someone lean on you is irritating, anyway; people are bony and uncomfortable. And why Itadori, of all people?  

Across from him, Kugisaki shifts in her sleep. She turns away from where she’d been leaning against the window and ends up - oh. She rolls so far she ends up with her neck pillow resting on Itadori’s shoulder. Itadori barely looks up, as if this is - as if this is normal for him. He adjusts himself slightly so that his shoulder is angled down, perhaps to make it more accommodating to her, and carries on reading his manga, flicking the page over and going back to chewing on his lip.

A very odd feeling comes over Megumi. A sensation similar to anger, except it distinctly isn’t. What about this could possibly make him angry? Nothing is happening, nothing about their environment has changed in the last five seconds. But there’s the same feeling of discomfort in his gut, the same overt awareness of his heartbeat, the overwhelming feeling that something about this is wrong. He runs hot again, even though the air conditioning has put goosebumps on his skin by now, feels it spreading across his face and down his body, to the tips of his fingers. Saliva collects in his mouth. 

There can only be one explanation. 

I must be getting motion sick. From facing backwards. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Itadori says, putting his magazine down this time and looking Megumi in the eyes. 

“I - uh, I… I might be… coming down with something.” 

“Oh.” Concern washes over his face. Careful so as not to disturb Kugisaki, Itadori leans forward and presses the back of his hand lightly against Megumi’s forehead, then against his cheek. Megumi freezes. “You do feel a bit warm. You’re probably fine, see how you feel when we get off the train.” He nods towards his backpack. “Water in my bag if you need some.” 

“I… yeah, I’m fine.” 

Just to… just to try something out, just out of curiosity, he tries to imagine Itadori and Kugisaki as - as a couple. Truly, the thought has never crossed his mind until now, he’d never even considered it, and with good reason because when he does try, it feels ridiculous. They remind him of brother and sister, more than anything; they certainly bicker like siblings would. They can go days without speaking because of some petty insult and then wake Megumi up at one in the morning scream-laughing at some joke he’s not privy to. Megumi wouldn’t exactly call himself the most tactful person in the world, but never in all that time has he picked up on anything romantic between them. As a last ditch effort to prove it to himself, he tries to imagine them - imagine them kissing, or something, and instantly recoils from the thought. He suspects that Kugisaki would have much the same reaction if he were to voice this idea out loud to her; worse, she’d probably whack him upside the head for even suggesting it. In fact, he thinks he has a fairly good idea of who Kugisaki might like to kiss, and it definitely isn’t Itadori. No… it’s definitely not like that, he decides with finality. 

Not that it would matter if it were, or anything. 

Greenery gives way to grey once more as they approach Sendai station, and Megumi decides that all he probably needs is some fresh air. To stretch his legs. Sitting still for too long lets the mind wander - maybe now he understands why Itadori is so restless all the time. 

Itadori shakes Kugisaki awake as the train starts to slow. “Hey, wake up, we’re here.” 

“Wha…” Kugisaki sits up, blinking heavily, wipes the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. She rubs her neck, seeming to notice her position for the first time. “Ew, Itadori! Was I sleeping on you that whole time?” 

He shrugs. “It wasn’t the whole time. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“ Gross!” 

It must have been motion sickness, after all, Megumi decides. As they start to gather up their things, he feels the knot of tension in his stomach start to dissipate. When they finally step off the escalators, out of the station and into the open air with Itadori and Kugisaki already arguing behind him about where to eat first, he feels absolutely fine. 

“Itadori…” Kugisaki says as they emerge into the plaza. Her eyes are wide, looking up and around at the tall buildings that surround them. Maybe she doesn’t mind Sendai after all. 

“Yeah?” 

She rounds on him, face pulled into a familiar snarl. “ This isn’t the countryside at all, you idiot!” 

“I never said it was!” 

***

Just as he anticipated, Megumi is quickly saddled with the fun tourist activity of ‘handler.’ As soon as they drop their bags at the hotel, Itadori and Kugisaki all but forcibly drag him out onto the street. 

“I wanna see those goddamn trees, Itadori, I was promised trees!” Kugisaki says, leading the charge. She is determined to enjoy at least some semblance of nature, even in what is admittedly a very metropolitan area - Sendai apparently is known for its greenery - which just quietly, Megumi thinks is quite odd for a person who claims they don’t miss anything about the countryside. 

“I told you, we’ll go at night! The trees are covered in lights, you don’t get the full effect until it’s dark. Trust me,” Itadori says, hot on her heels as they traipse through the hotel lobby, “I am a local, after all.” Megumi is a good few paces behind. Maybe if he hangs back far enough it will look like they aren’t together. “But let’s get food, first!”

“ How on earth are you hungry already? You’re like a bottomless pit.” 

“Who said I ever stopped being hungry? Breakfast was ages ago, anyway.”

“You ate on the train!” 

“And now I’m eating here! Trust me, Kugisaki,” he says again, tapping his forehead, “the food is amazing here. You won’t regret it.” 

“I wouldn’t trust you further than I could throw you,” Kugisaki says, but she’s grinning. They’re far too noisy, and the fact that it’s a weekday and they’re in school uniforms is drawing them odd looks from the hotel staff, but despite all this, Megumi does allow himself a small smile as well. It’s nice to see them happy. He pulls out his phone to find a restaurant - Itadori mentioned something about beef tongue on the train - because God knows the two of them will go back and forth for hours before they agree on somewhere to eat. 

“Quit lagging, Fushiguro!” Kugisaki calls over her shoulder. Suddenly Megumi wishes he had his jacket on - that high neck is good for concealing his face in situations like these. He jogs up to the others, ushering them out of the lobby before people start asking questions. 

They end up at the third beef tongue restaurant Megumi, who seems to have become the unofficial tour guide, suggests - Itadori’s local knowledge does not turn out to be as expansive as he promised. The one in the station had been deemed too touristy, the most famous one was too expensive and would probably have a line (and Itadori simply couldn’t wait), so they settled for one with excellent word of mouth reviews Megumi had found on some obscure foodie forum. The drawback was that it was the furthest from their hotel. Buses were an option, of course, but Kugisaki had insisted on walking - “ The best way to see a new city is on foot!” 

Thankfully, the restaurant is cool inside, and located far enough off the beaten path that they can get a table straight away. Megumi’s stomach is starting to grumble, actually, and he thinks wistfully of the forgotten sandwich in his bag at the hotel. For all his reluctance, he has a good feeling about this place - it’s small, seems to be run by a local family, and it’s clean but not too clean, in that way that the best restaurants usually aren’t. The legs of the tables are dented and scuffed, the plates charmingly mismatched. Not a bad choice for his first time in the city, he thinks. 

“You’ve seriously never been here, Itadori?” he says, sliding open the door to the restaurant. A bell chimes and the chef greets them, assuring them that someone will be with them in a moment. He nods back politely. 

“Nah, never.”

“Are you sure you’re actually from here?”

“Eh, me and my Grandpa lived out in the suburbs, we didn’t eat out too much.”

“I thought you said the food was amazing in Sendai,” Megumi says dryly. 

“It is! See, smell that - ” he takes a big breath in just as the grill fires up; Megumi can see the flames rise dramatically and fall again. “Smells so good, ahh…” he says happily, eyes closed and in his element completely. “Thanks for finding this place, Fushiguro. We’d be lost without you, huh?” he says, turning to smile warmly at Megumi. 

It’s like being hit with a beam of sunlight, and Megumi falters under it, like he’s looking at something bright. “I - well - thanks, I mean - we haven’t tried the food yet, it might be awful,” he says, the words dying lamely in his throat as a waitress bursts out of the kitchen and hurries over to them, apron fluttering. 

“So sorry for the wait!” she cries, screeching to a halt in front of them. She has golden blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail - emphasis on loose; half of it seems to have escaped, swinging and swaying in front of her face - and a short stub of a pencil behind her ear. Her roots are dark, black like Megumi’s hair, and her eyes the same. She looks to be around their age, maybe a year older. “Forgive me, I was out the back finishing my lunch!” 

“It’s - it’s fine, don’t worry,” Megumi says, slightly taken aback - they’d only been standing there for 30 seconds, if that. The waitress thanks him profusely. 

“My dad is the chef - he’s training me to take his job, one day, but I can’t really cook yet, so he says I have to start out as a waitress, get a feel for the place, you know. I mean, I sort of grew up here, but I was always too busy with school to have much to do with the restaurant until now,” she says with barely a breath in between. “I ended up leaving school so he could train me! But everyone has to start somewhere, right?”

“Uh - right, yeah.” 

She laughs, high and breathy, tucks a thick strand of hair behind her ear only for it to fall out immediately. “Oh! I should seat you! Oh my God, sorry, sorry,” she says, flapping her hands about her face and whirling around, motioning over her shoulder for them to follow. “Just the three of you?” 

She directs them to a booth that sits against the front window, looking out onto the street, and they follow her down the narrow aisle. The restaurant is mostly empty, only a few customers in single seats and a family with two toddlers in the corner. Kugisaki catches Megumi’s eye. “Not exactly a prodigy, is she?” she says out of the side of her mouth.

“Shh,” he hisses, “don’t be rude.” 

“Just saying,” she shrugs. Thankfully, the waitress is too busy fetching them menus and water in colourful plastic cups to overhear. Megumi slides into the booth first, Itadori next to him, and Kugisaki on the other side. The waitress, who eventually introduces herself as Misako, leaves them to decide on their orders, disappearing back through the curtains in the kitchen in as much of a flurry as she’d come. The air around them seems to take a moment to settle again. 

“What an airhead,” Kugisaki says, definitely loud enough this time for other people to hear. Megumi kicks her under the table. Next to him, Itadori leans forward in his seat, craning his neck to follow where she’d disappeared to. 

“Kugisaki, Jesus. She’s probably just nervous,” Megumi says. 

“She’s pretty cute,” Itadori says, “I wonder if she went to my old school?” 

Almost instantaneously, that sickness Megumi had felt on the train comes hurtling back, hits him like a speeding bullet. Nausea washes out from the inside. He goes very still in his seat. 

“You probably have the same number of brain cells, I’m sure you’d get on like a house on fire,” Kugisaki says breezily, picking up the menu to flick through it. “Ooh, Fushiguro, you wanna go halves on a set meal? They have miso glazed pork cutlets, look.” 

“Why aren’t you asking me?” Itadori pouts, tearing his eyes away from where Misako had gone to lean over Kugisaki’s menu. She swats him with it. 

“Cause you’ll eat a whole one on your own!” 

Megumi does end up ordering a plate to share with Kugisaki. Her suggestion comes at an excellent time, because the appetite he’d had when they’d arrived at the restaurant has, for one reason or another, disappeared almost completely. It would look strange if he was the only one not eating, though, and he knows he’ll regret it later on if he doesn’t at least try and eat now. He does his best to shove aside whatever it is that’s bothering him - even attempts to physically flush it out by downing the entire bottle of water that was meant for the table, much to Itadori and Kugisaki’s confusion and without much luck - and grits his teeth.

He and Kugisaki order the miso pork cutlets and a side of beef tongue. Sick or not, it is the local speciality, after all. And, he thinks somewhat stubbornly, the entire reason they came to this restaurant in the first place, though he has the odd feeling now that he really should have picked a different one. 

Itadori orders what feels like half the menu.

“If you eat yourself sick before the mission, I’m not helping you out there,” Megumi says sullenly, as Misako makes her third trip to their table, this time armed with the soft tofu side dish Itadori ordered as if he couldn’t get a million different variations of that exact thing back home in Tokyo. Itadori pretends not to hear him. For the second time since they entered, he and Kugisaki share a look. 

Very irritatingly, the beef tongue is quite delicious, even if Megumi has to force it down. In fact, pretty much everything on the table is of obscenely high quality, for an out-of-the-way family run restaurant. Those reviews certainly weren’t lying. Megumi imagines that in a slightly different scenario he would actually be having rather a nice time, right now. He still can, he thinks, frustrated. He just needs to… stop by a pharmacy, later, pick up some medicine for his stomach. Yes, that should do it. It’s just a poorly timed bout of stomach flu. It has to be.

Misako stops by their table as they’re finishing up. Megumi bristles. “How was everything?” she asks, and her smile is so reminiscent of the one Itadori had given him when they’d arrived, warm and kind - and God it’s infuriating. 

“Amazing, oh my God, so good,” Itadori gushes. “So much better than my Grandpa’s cooking. We used to have beef tongue all the time, but never like this.”

“You’re from around here?” Misako says, and Megumi doesn’t miss the touch of optimism in her voice. He stacks their plates as fast as his hands allow him, fishes around in his pocket for his wallet, anything to send the signal that it’s time to go. 

“I grew up here!” he says, brimming with pride, as if he’d been waiting for the first opportunity to announce that he’s a local. “My name’s Itadori Yuuji. I live in Tokyo now, with these two, we’re here on an excursion,” and he introduces Megumi and Kugisaki. Megumi barely looks up, quite aware that’s being rude and not really caring. “I used to go to Sugisawa High, do you know it?”

“Ah!” Misako says, her eyes brightening even more, if that’s possible. “I didn’t go there, but my cousin did. Did you know a kid from the Okada family?”

“Okada, Okada…” Itadori scrunches his nose in concentration, tapping his finger on his chin. “Yeah, that sounds familiar! I think I went to a birthday party of a kid from that family, do they live near a river?” 

“Yeah, those are my cousins!”

Megumi wants to sink into a hole in the ground. Or hit something. Or throw up. Or all three. 

They carry on like that, only pausing their fervent chattering when Misako has to attend to an incoming customer every so often. Megumi stares, unseeing, at his empty plate, not even bothering to look like he wants to join the conversation. Strangely enough, Kugisaki has been quiet this whole time, clever brown eyes flicking between Megumi, Itadori and Misako. 

Eventually, she is the one to interrupt. “Itadori, didn’t you say there was a sweet shop down the street you wanted to check out? I think it’s closing soon, you don’t wanna miss out, do you?” she says. This is a lie; the afternoon has barely begun and the sun is still hanging high over their heads; the sweet shop won’t be closing for hours. Megumi makes a mental note to be extra nice to Kugisaki for the rest of the day. 

“Oh. Shit, yeah, you’re right,” Itadori says, blinking as if being pulled out of a dream. “Sorry,” he addresses Misako again, “we’ve kept you here for ages. Your folks are probably getting annoyed. We’d better head out,” he says, and finally, he stands up to leave. Megumi has to restrain himself from bolting to the exit. “Thanks for the food!” 

“Oh, it’s no trouble! I’m - I mean, we’re just very glad you liked it,” Misako says, fiddling with the pencil behind her ear. They file past her, thanking her in turn, and Megumi can smell freedom, just a few more steps until they’re out into the open, and his stomach is aching, and he just wants to get out of here - 

“Hey, Itadori - ” Misako calls as they head to the front counter to pay. Reaching for something in her apron pocket, she turns away from them, shaking slightly with movement; her hair swings back and forth like a pendulum in front of her face. When she turns back to them, she’s holding out a piece of paper to Itadori - it has writing on it. Numbers, in grey lead pencil. “If you ever come back to Sendai, we should hang out!” 

Some invisible thread in Megumi pulls taut, and snaps. 

There’s no mistaking it, now. That sickness, the heat, the anger that trembles all the way down to the tips of his toes, it has a name. Megumi is an extraordinarily strong person, but he does not have it in him for one single second more to pretend he doesn’t know what it is. 

That’s jealousy, alright. 

Jealousy, so thick he can feel it clogging his veins, pulsing in his blood, sees the shadow of it every time he blinks. It’s exhilarating in the worst way, the opposite of the rush he gets before facing off against a curse. This doesn’t make him want to fight, doesn’t ready his body for action, it makes him weak. Fragile. How pathetic! Fushiguro Megumi, of all people, ready to keel over because of a boy! The idea, however abstract and meaningless and unlikely that it will actually happen, that Itadori could go out with this girl - fuck it , with anyone who isn’t him - makes him sick and sad all the way down to his bones. 

Itadori reaches out, takes the piece of paper from Misako’s outstretched hand. Kugisaki watches him incredulously. “Yeah, for sure!” he says brightly, a downright comical contrast to Megumi’s glowering, and then they’re paying in a blur and Misako is waving them out of the restaurant, slightly red in the face. The three of them spill out back onto the street, the blue of their uniforms dull under the heavy grey sky. 

“What a nice girl,” Kugisaki says lightly, her voice like velvet and her eyes on fire.

Chapter Text

Megumi weighs up his options on how convincingly he can feign severe illness. Or injury. Maybe there are some stairs nearby he can throw himself off. 

Itadori had commented that he was ‘warm’ on the train. Maybe if he… holds his breath, stands in the sun for a bit longer than he should, he can make it look like he actually has a fever and the other two will let him turn tail for the hotel. All he wants is quiet, and to be alone; the foot traffic outside has picked up as the office workers emerge from their buildings for lunch and smoke breaks. As pathetic as it is, the thing he’s most keen to see right now isn’t sweet shops, or trees, it’s the inside of his own eyelids. They have a mission tonight, after all, and he’s hardly in a state of peak performance. Even just a nap would do. He needs to shake it off as best he can. 

He can’t do that in Itadori’s presence. Megumi doesn’t think he can even stand to look at him for much longer. If he starts talking about Misako - or, God forbid, invites her out with them - he might just turn to dust, then and there. Imagine that. Here lies Fushiguro Megumi, sent to an early grave because the boy he likes talked to a pretty girl. 

Kugisaki, as usual, has her own ideas.

They’ve put a good five hundred meters in between them and the restaurant. Itadori has his head in his phone - probably adding Misako’s number to his contacts, Megumi thinks, fully prepared now to wallow in teen angst for the rest of the afternoon - while Megumi trails behind. Kugisaki comes to a sudden stop in front of him. “Oh, damn it!” 

“What’s wrong?” Itadori says, turning back. 

“I must have left my wallet at the restaurant!” she says, fishing through her handbag. It’s more of a clutch with a shoulder strap, barely large enough to hold a wallet in the first place. She huffs an exaggerated sigh. “What a pain.” 

Megumi doesn’t trust her tone of voice, not at all. 

“Your wallet? But… you didn’t pay at the restaurant, I did - ”

“Nope, definitely not in here!” she says, holding up her bag for a fraction of a second for Itadori to inspect, not nearly long enough for him to actually see anything. “I’ll run back and get it. Don’t wait for me, ok? I’ll meet you there. C’mon, Fushiguro,” she says, turning on her heel and grabbing Megumi by his t-shirt. 

“What are you - ”

“What does Fushiguro need to go for?” Itadori says, nonplussed, his phone forgotten and hanging limply in his hand.

Kugisaki is already marching off in the other direction, Megumi in tow like some kind of ragdoll. “To help me look!” she calls over her shoulder, and then before Megumi can get any sort of read on the situation they’re leaving Itadori behind, letting him get swallowed up by the crowd. Megumi digs his heels into the footpath. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he splutters, wrenching himself out of Kugisaki’s grip and furiously smoothing down his shirt. 

“Just shut up for a second! Here - ” she grabs him by the forearm this time, steering him back towards the restaurant. Megumi struggles like a fish on a line - it’s just Kugisaki, what’s wrong with you? - but, like most people do, he makes the critical mistake of underestimating her. Her grip strength is nothing short of vice-like, and she may as well be built like that Kyoto third-year instead of a girl considerably shorter than him for all the luck Megumi has resisting her. Dust kicks up around their feet, and Megumi can feel the questioning eyes of passersby on them as they struggle down the street. Fierce determination colours Kugisaki’s face, her orange hair swinging wildly as Megumi tries and fails to escape. 

His exasperation grows as they near the restaurant once again. What’s her deal? Does she want me to go in there and give that girl Itadori’s life story? Is there a curse we missed? 

“Kugisaki - I - I really don’t -” he trips over a bit of uneven concrete, smacks his forehead on her shoulder, “Ow, shit! Let go of me , I - Kugisaki, I really don’t want to go back there - ”

“Would you shush?” she hisses, tightening her grip on his arm. “Big baby.” 

Just as they stumble up to the front of the restaurant and Megumi braces himself for whatever humiliation Kugisaki has planned for him, completely clueless about what he’s done to deserve it, she makes a sharp turn to the right and pulls him hard into an alley off to the side of the building. Underestimate her he will not, ever again, because she all but full-body throws him into the alley, almost sending him flying into a row of bins. She comes to a stop in front of him, sizing him up like they’re about to go toe-to-toe, and he braces a hand against the slimy brick wall to steady himself. 

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he spits, straightening up. Her eyes are positively blazing, and for a moment he seriously considers the idea that they might actually be in imminent danger. “Are you - are you trying to fight me, or something? Are we in danger? What’s going on?” 

“You like Itadori.” 

Kugisaki is motionless, now, just standing there staring at him, but she may as well have thrown a bucket of ice cold water in his direction. She isn’t asking. She’s telling. Megumi goes still, too. 

“No I - ”

“Shush. You like him. Tell me I’m wrong.” 

Several thoughts rocket through Megumi’s mind in very quick succession. How could she possibly know that? Why did she need to beat me up just to ask me? Is it that obvious? And then, most alarmingly: Oh, God, does this mean Itadori knows, too?

“Answer the question!” she says. Megumi’s never been mugged, but he wonders if it goes something like this. He half expects her to whip a knife out and demand he hand over his wallet. 

“I - it wasn’t a question.” 

“I’ll rephrase, then. You like Itadori. Don’t you?” 

It’s pointless, pretending otherwise. There’s no way Kugisaki would have dragged him off so forcefully unless she knew for sure. What’s more worrying is how she knows in the first place; he hadn’t been that painfully obvious about it, had he? He certainly hasn’t gone around shouting about it. Megumi considers himself a pretty decent liar, when the need arises, but not about things like this. He wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to talk about a crush - a crush, Jesus, what am I, 10 years old? - even with all the naivety and authenticity in the world, let alone lie about it even somewhat passably. 

He doesn’t even think he’s had a crush before.

He gives it a half-hearted attempt anyway. “Of course I like him,” he says, as composed as he can manage, “he’s my friend, what makes you think I wouldn’t - ”

“ You know what I mean!” Kugisaki stamps her foot, and it’s quite funny, actually, since she’d been manhandling him not thirty seconds ago. “You like him in a - in a romantic way, in a ‘want to kiss him,’ ‘want to hold his hand’ kind of way. Don’t lie to me, Fushiguro, you’re bad at it.” 

Well, then. 

“What’s it to you if I do?” he sneers, mostly to stall her, and also so he doesn’t accidentally think about kissing Itadori which would be highly unhelpful to him in the present moment. Until something goes thunk in his brain. He drops the act completely without even meaning to. “Wait,” he says, eyes widening, “what is it to you? Don’t tell me you like him, too?” 

His mind starts to race; picks him up and lands him square back on the train, watching the two of them. Had he - there’s no way, is there? He can’t have misread their relationship that significantly, can he? Kugisaki and Itadori? Surely not, that had just been a stupid, momentary thought, they can’t - 

“Me?” Kugisaki says, pulling a face like Megumi has just suggested she eat a bug. Her arms flop to her sides. “ What? Yuck,” she shakes her head as if shooing away the very idea. “Please, if I ever give you the impression that I’d go near Itadori with a ten-foot pole, just go ahead and exorcise me. We’re talking about - wait, you said ‘like him too,’ didn’t you?” 

Shit. 

“I - uh - no, that’s not what I meant,” he babbles, looking around stupidly as if there’s something in this dingy alley that can help him escape Kugisaki’s interrogation. He blinks in the darkness like a trapped animal, coming up empty. A rat scuttles between two bins. 

“Fushiguro,” Kugisaki says, and her voice is softer now. Megumi accepts his defeat. “You can tell me. I won’t make fun, promise.” 

His shoulders droop, too, and he scrubs a hand wearily over his face. “...Yeah, alright, fine,” he admits. He digs the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “I… like him, I guess. Dunno why you had to drag me over here just to get that out of me. Is it that important?” 

He doesn’t expect her to make fun of him - she’d be mighty brave to after that stunt she just pulled, anyway - but what he certainly doesn’t expect when he does look up is for her to be positively beaming at him. Genuine, both-rows-of-teeth beaming, a real Itadori-style grin. 

“That’s fantastic, Fushiguro!” she says, and she launches forward to grab him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Really fantastic. I’m happy for you.” 

Girls are incredibly confusing. 

“Is it?” he grumbles. Certainly doesn’t feel fantastic. “Well… thanks for your enthusiasm, I guess, but what was all that for?” 

“Sorry to be so drastic,” she says, releasing him. “Of course, I always had my suspicions. You let him get away with anything, for one, he could probably rob you and you’d let it slide. When he… well, when he died...look, half the time it looked like you were ready to join him in the afterlife. I could see how badly it got to you. And you are a really bad liar, by the way. You think you’re impossible to read but I swear, every thought that goes through your thick skull shows on your face, clear as day. And as for all of that ‘I only care about their personality’ garbage...” she winks at him conspiratorially. Megumi aims a whack at her arm, and she dodges it with ease. 

“Sorry, sorry!” she laughs. “Look, if it makes you feel better, there’s a reason I have a radar for these things, alright?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Fushiguro, come on. ” She looks at him quizzically, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. When Megumi can only shrug at her, clueless, she procures her phone from her bag, taps it once, and holds up the screen for Megumi to observe. Her screensaver is a picture of Maki kissing her cheek. 

“Oh,” Megumi says, slightly taken aback, though the more he thinks about it the less surprised he is. He’d hit the nail on the head with his ideas about who Kugisaki wanted to kiss, then. It strikes him, then, how odd it is that for all they’ve been through together in these last few months, there are such rudimentary things that the three of them don’t know about each other. Curses have taken many little things like that away from them. “Well, I did have my suspicions…”

“Shut up,” she says, but even in the dark he can see the tint of pink on her cheeks. “Anyway, like I said, I always had a pretty good idea that you were into him, but after we left that restaurant I just couldn’t wait another minute. I had to know. Oh my God, you were practically radiating death rays in there, it was the best thing I’ve ever seen.” She snorts. “That poor girl, you were looking at her like she murdered the family pet.” 

“I was not!” He thinks back to the restaurant, sitting there as Itadori and Misako prattled on.  “...Was I?” 

“Yep!” Kugisaki says, snickering, and before he knows it or can stop himself, Megumi finds himself stifling a laugh, too. It is absurd, isn’t it? This whole thing, this entire day. It’s not lost on him, the utter ridiculousness of letting himself get so torn up over a crush , such a silly thing, when they have so many other, far more pressing matters to deal with. It’s… well, it’s laughable. But there is a part of him that revels in the normalness of it. He muffles it with his shoulder. 

“Wait, wait,” he says, when he’s gotten it out of his system. “Does - does Itadori know?” 

“No,” Kugisaki assures him, patting him on the shoulder and hauling him back out of the alley. It’s bright when he steps out; the sun apparently has decided to show it’s face, just beginning to break through the cloud cover. Megumi brings his hand up to shield his eyes. “He has no idea,” she says knowingly. “None at all.”

They take their time wandering back to the sweet shop. Megumi does feel better, admittedly, than he had before, but that little piece of paper Misako had given Itadori still lingers in the back of his mind. “Do you think…” he starts, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Do you think he’s going to call her?” 

“Who, Misako?” Kugisaki looks over at him, squinting in the sunlight. She laughs shortly. “Oh, no. I don’t think you have to worry about her,” she says, her voice suspiciously airy, and Megumi decides not to push it any further than that. 

***

Usually, if Megumi has time to prepare for a mission (which isn’t that often, honestly, most of the time they’re yanked out of class and en route to location before anyone has time to think too much about it), he’ll try and rest, and if he can’t do that, he’ll practice until his lungs are screaming and he’s too deprived of oxygen to waste his breath on being nervous. Sweating it out is a helpful form of catharsis for many things. It’s something of a solemn experience, typically, which Megumi feels is appropriate given the fact that they might just… die. Unceremoniously and in the blink of an eye, on any regular mission. Or that other people have, or are about to, if they do not act quickly enough. 

Obviously, he does try to avoid dying, and with their skills combined it’s unlikely, but the possibility is never zero. 

Things do not tend to go as they usually would with Kugisaki and Itadori around. They’re a persistent thorn in the side of his carefully constructed rituals. Gradually, he has come to find it endearing, of course. Most of the time. Currently, it’s making him want to push them both from a great height, especially considering the day he’s had thus far. Even Kugisaki, who he had been feeling particularly kindly towards after their talk, is getting on his nerves. 

Her and Itadori’s usual friendly bickering had taken on a slightly sharper quality when it was discovered - or remembered - that the light display in the trees on Jozenji Street is only visible during the winter. In the summer, they’re just regular trees. Certainly large and impressive during the day, but nothing to go out of your way for at night time. Unfortunately, this realisation had only occurred once they’d walked there, bypassing the restaurant Kugisaki had wanted to go to for dinner, only to be greeted by some rather disappointing and definitively unlit trees. 

Instead, they’re in an elevator, zooming up to an observation deck on the top floor of an office building in the CBD. Megumi’s initial suggestion that they just go back to the hotel until it was time to head to the mission had not been received warmly, and this, apparently, had been the next best thing.

“Itadori, you’re making it incredibly hard for me to believe you grew up here. Is there something you aren’t telling us? Are you sure Sukuna didn’t replace you with another Itadori? With different memories?” Kugisaki’s tone is prickly. She reminds Megumi of a cat, with its fur all spiked up. 

“Would you get off my back already?” he snaps back at her. “I told you, I just forgot. And I did lose memories, thanks. You try dying and see if it doesn’t mess you up.” 

“Are you still going on about that? Quit being so dramatic,” she huffs, folding her arms into a tight knot across her chest. “I’ve been looking forward to those stupid trees all day.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?” Itadori says under his breath. 

Megumi stares hard at the floor. They might kill eachother before the curse even gets a chance. Itadori does have a point, he thinks, though he’d eat his own jacket before he voiced that out loud to Kugisaki. She has been a little cold to him since they left the restaurant, with no reason Megumi can deduce as to why, and that was hours ago. 

If anything - and it’s a very childish, immature thought, not at all like him, but one he has nonetheless - shouldn’t he be the one acting distant? Isn’t that what teens do when they’ve been… scorned? In matters of the heart?

They aren’t alone in the elevator. In the opposite corner, bearing witness to their argument, a loved-up couple are making out with what Megumi can only describe as ferocity. The space is cramped enough that the wet smack of their mouths is uncomfortably audible. Megumi half wishes the other two would keep fighting, if only to drown it out. They barely break apart to breathe, only opening their eyes to gaze at eachother. Quite sickening. It’s… Wednesday, for God’s sake, Megumi thinks, as though the most distasteful thing about their display is that it’s not an appropriate night for a date. 

He lifts his eyes, just for a moment, and finds that his gaze lands on Itadori, as it often does without his permission. Curiously, though - this time Itadori also seems to be looking at him, and so their eyes meet for what feels like a hair’s breadth of a second. Itadori looks away just as hurriedly; twitching as though the eye contact had frightened him, and Megumi feels his heartbeat rise in his throat. He swallows it down, quickly, fixes his gaze firmly back on the floor. The woman across from them breaks away from her partner for a moment, giggling, and sways slightly with the movement of the elevator, clutching to the lapels of her boyfriend’s suit.

Predictably, Megumi’s face betrays him, and he curses the heat that rises in his cheeks. He buries it as far as he can under the neckline of his jacket. Maybe Kugisaki hadn’t been so far off, earlier, about his every thought being broadcast across his features. He certainly hopes she’s wrong, for the sake of his pride. Itadori can’t know, he just… can’t. 

Why had Itadori been looking at him, though? 

Ah, pull yourself together! Ever heard of a coincidence? 

After what is undoubtedly the longest elevator ride of his life, they reach the top floor, and the three of them almost get stuck in the door in their haste to get out. Megumi doesn’t look back. The doors might close again, sealing the couple inside; he doesn’t know, doesn’t care, just wants to get away from them and their stupid, gross love. Blessedly, the lounge is only dimly lit by a scattering of ambient lamps around the perimeter of the observation deck, better for admiring the view outside, so he can at least try and blend in with the shadows until the blush drains out of his face. Leaving the others and their squabbling behind, he makes a beeline for a secluded corner, obscured by tall palm fronds in a pot and free from canoodling couples or inquisitive eyes. 

On this level, the windows stretch from floor to ceiling, panes of thick glass the only thing separating him from the open air and the hundred meter drop to street level. There are benches lined up in a row a way back from the glass, some occupied, others empty, but Megumi bypasses those and plonks down on the floor, cross legged and close enough to the glass that he could rest his forehead against it. It’s probably not the cleanest, and he might draw odd looks from the others, but the tiles are nice and cool against his bare hands. It’s calming. If he sits close enough to the glass, the rest of the world fades out of his peripheral vision and he can pretend he’s floating, suspended above the lights and buildings and the tiny people below. Cities are more peaceful this way; from high up. On the street, there’s noise, commotion, clutter, trucks and cars and smog. Up here, it’s quiet. Quiet is exactly what he needs.

What a day he’s had. And it’s not even over yet. 

Again, his mind returns to his and Kugisaki’s conversation earlier that day. ‘I don’t think you need to worry about her,’ she’d said about Misako. What had she meant by that? Was there some other girl Itadori was already seeing that he didn’t know about? Had he only told Kugisaki, or was it an open secret that only Megumi was not in on?

He considers this. It would be... impractical, seeing as so much of their time was taken up by classes and missions; a girlfriend outside of Jujutsu High would surely complain that Itadori didn’t have enough time for her. But he can’t rule it out. Itadori has this magnetism to him - clearly; Misako had looked totally smitten after five minutes talking to him. Megumi can’t say he blames her - and when it comes down to it, he’s not much better, is he? Itadori can charm any girl he wants. His smile seems as big as the world itself, even as the world throws it’s absolute worst at him. After everything he’s been through, Itadori’s heart is still so gentle, so achingly, gut-wrenchingly gentle in a way that Megumi’s heart is not. Even after Megumi dragged him into this mess, Itadori can still find it in himself to - to care for Megumi, to place so much trust in him. To forgive him, over and over again. Megumi had been doomed from the start. He knows that, now. 

How would Itadori feel, if he knew? Would he laugh at him? Megumi clenches his fists in the fabric of his jacket. Would it be enough for him to realise, finally, exactly how selfish Megumi is? Mind whirling, distress clawing at his chest, he imagines that Itadori might… hate him. Some cruel, awful version of Itadori, who might be angry with him, of all things, if he knew Megumi’s true feelings. That they extend beyond friendship. What if he could never look at Megumi the same way? What if - 

No, says something forceful and decisive in his head. No, stop it. Calm down. He would never hate you because of that. He wouldn’t. You’re ok. 

“Hey,” says a voice from somewhere above him. “You alright?” There’s a whuff of air, and Itadori sits down next to him, cross-legged as well, close enough that his knee brushes Megumi’s. “Fushiguro?” 

When Megumi lifts his head, Itadori is looking at him, wide-eyed and brows slightly upturned, and a sense of relief falls over Megumi like a blanket. He feels his heart rate fall almost immediately. No, he’s getting himself all worked up for nothing. “Yeah, I’m alright,” he manages. 

“You sure? You look like there’s something on your mind.” 

For fuck’s sake, what am I, a billboard? “Really, I’m fine. Stop worrying about me.”

Itadori shrugs. His knee is still touching Megumi’s. “If you say so.” He chews on his lip for a moment. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

“What - what is?”

“The view.” Itadori nods towards the glass, and the buildings that blink back at them. He sighs. “I wish we could have had a good time. I really wanted you guys to like Sendai.”

“You didn’t have a good time?” Itadori had eaten his way through the city and got a cute girl’s number, Megumi fails to see what part of that he might find unsatisfactory. 

“What? No, I did, but it doesn’t seem like you did. Or Kugisaki. She’s in such a mood.” He rolls his eyes. 

“What makes you say that?”

Itadori fixes Megumi with a look that he can’t quite name. “You’ve been acting weird, Fushi,” he says, like it’s nothing, and Megumi’s heart skips several beats and restarts in his chest, flipping over and spluttering back to life like an old car engine. Fushi? If anyone else, with the possible exception of Tsumiki, even so much as thought about calling him a nickname he’d probably knock their lights out before they’d even finished talking. Itadori carries on, not noticing the near-conniption his friend is having next to him. “You’ve barely said a word to me since we got here. And Kugisaki…” he makes a frustrated noise, but Megumi barely hears him. “She’s been on my ass all day, too. I have no idea what I did. Girls are so confusing.” 

On that topic, at least, they’re on the same page. 

“Are you upset with me, or something?” Itadori says, ducking his head and avoiding Megumi’s eyes, now, as if he’s embarrassed. “I… I dunno, I don’t like going into a mission with us all fighting, or whatever. I know we’ll be fine, but…” he shrugs, and a sense of guilt comes over Megumi. He hadn’t intended to be distant… well, maybe he had, a little. Petty, yes, but he’d felt justified in it, and now he just feels stupid. After what happened with Junpei, it makes sense that Itadori would feel that way. 

“I’ll bring you back to see the trees, if it means that much to you,” Itadori continues. “It really is nice in the winter. There’s a festival, and lots of food, and - anyway, you’ll like it then, I swear.” 

If only it were all as simple as trees. 

Of course I’m not upset with you, I was just jealous and acting like a child. If anything, you should be upset with me. God, what the hell has become of him? The words are simmering so close to the surface, it’s an effort to keep them in, even if he’d sooner leap off the building than confess to Itadori. What would those kids from middle school say, if they could see him now? 

I’ll go to the trees with you. Sit here with me, don’t leave. Let’s forget about the mission. Let’s stay here as long as we can. Tell me everything you know about the city. Tell me anything you want, I don’t care. I just want to listen to the sound of your voice. Don’t take that girl on a date, take me instead. You can hold my hand, you can embarrass me all you want, just don’t leave. I’ll make you happy. I’ll try my best, I promise, even though we can’t promise eachother anything. I won’t let anything happen to you. 

“M’not mad at you,” he says instead, lamely. “Sorry. Just thinking.” 

Itadori sighs again, and it’s a sigh of acceptance. Reaching over, he takes a loose fistful of Megumi’s hair and shakes it back and forth lightly, and Megumi thinks Itadori must be on a targeted mission to kill him. “Yeah, always thinking. You gotta give your brain a rest every once in a while, hm? It’ll get so big it comes out your ears. I don’t wanna clean that mess.” He smiles, hand still resting in Megumi’s hair, but - there is almost a sadness to his expression. “Good thing at least one of us is using his head.” 

Megumi bats Itadori’s hand away; ah, stupid reflex! He clears his throat. “We should get going soon. It’s almost nine,” he says gruffly, because he doesn’t know how much more of this he can take before his weary heart, too weary for a boy of fifteen, just up and explodes. 

There’s a thump behind them, and the scent of Kugisaki’s perfume wafts over him. Pressure lands on his shoulder. She’s crouching, one arm around each of them, squeezing tightly. “You guys ready to haul ass?” 

“You’re feeling better, then?” Itadori teases. 

“Much. Just needed to talk to Maki for a bit. Too much time around boys, it was throwing off my energy.” 

Kugisaki jumps up, holding her hand out to Megumi, and he accepts it reluctantly. He really wouldn’t mind staying a little longer, watching the glittering city for a few more minutes. Perhaps the towers will offer up some advice, if he looks long and hard enough; they’ve likely seen much worse than the likes of him. Kugisaki wiggles her eyebrows at him as she pulls him to his feet.

“Shut up,” he mutters, once Itadori is out of earshot. But his heart feels lighter in his chest than it has in months. For those few sweet moments he doesn’t know anything about a waitress, or curses, and it doesn’t matter in the slightest that he’s falling, crashing and burning utterly spectacularly for a boy living on borrowed time. 

Chapter Text

Forty minutes by train and another ten on foot outside Sendai city center, there is a cemetery where no one has been laid to rest for many years. Slowly disintegrating with age and the elements in a deep valley behind a row of run-down houses, it doesn’t get a lot of visitors, and this is a lucky thing because the ones that do enter, of late, do not seem to return. Such is the nature of Megumi, Kugisaki and Itadori’s visit. 

Yasaki station, when they arrive, is modest to say the least. Hardly more than a few concrete boxes held together by what Megumi can only assume is faith alone, it would be easy to believe that it had been abandoned or was no longer in commission. He would have thought so if they hadn’t just disembarked there themselves. No one else had gotten off the train with them. By that point, it was all but empty anyway.

Between the unassuming platform and the outside there is a small waiting room, barely big enough to accommodate the three of them. Greyscale photographs from years past adorn the walls on rusty nails - pictures of the railway being built and the men who worked on it. They lean on their hammers and tools, grime and grease smeared across their leathery faces. Long dead, now, of course. There’s even a class photograph from a local school that Megumi is sure has been out of operation for many years now; from what he’d read in the brief and what he’d gathered from the surrounds, this is no longer the sort of place families come to raise their children. Considering the murderous curse apparently lurking nearby, this is probably a good thing. 

Stepping outside, their only source of light is a flickering Japan Rail sign at the entrance announcing where they are, and a solitary lamp. The lack of light, however, is not his main concern - as soon as he steps outside, his skin prickles with cursed energy in the atmosphere. It’s thick, almost palpable. When he looks up, he finds that Itadori and Kugisaki have already turned their gaze on him, their puzzled expressions telling him that he’s not imagining things. They can definitely feel it, too. 

“What the hell?” he murmurs. He retrieves his phone from his pocket and pulls up the brief again. Perhaps he had been reading the wrong one - which he certainly hopes isn’t the case, because that would mean they weren’t even in the right location and now they’d have two missions to deal with in one night - or he was so fatigued from the day that he’d misread. He scrolls through quickly until he finds what he’s looking for, and - no. He grimaces. There had been no mistake on his end. 

Location: Yasaki Cemetery on Nawazu Road, Yasaki, Miyagi Prefecture 

Description: There have been reports of elderly people going missing from the nearby township. Corroborating information on the deceased’s last known whereabouts has been troublesome as many of the local residents are aged and do not live with any family, which has led to the delay in response from Jujutsu Technical College. However, some reports have been able to link the missing persons to a cemetery nearby. We assume that the missing persons are mourners who went to visit the memorial sites of deceased loved ones and have been subsequently trapped or killed by a curse or curses at the cemetery. Jujutsu Technical College associates have reported a low to low-moderate level of cursed energy manifesting in the area.

Mission: Identify any survivors and exorcise the curse/s responsible for the disappearances. 

Sorcerers dispatched: Itadori Yuuji, Fushiguro Megumi*, Kugisaki Nobara* 

Authorised by: Gojo Satoru 

* Two additional students have been dispatched on the special orders of Gojo Satoru. 

“Something must have changed since this brief was written,” Megumi says, stowing his phone back in his pocket and bringing his hands together so that his divine dog materialises at his side, taking shape from the shadows that swirl at their feet. It sniffs at the air, circling urgently, black fur standing on end. “Go on ahead,” he murmurs, “alert me if you find anything.” Itadori does not miss the opportunity to run his hand over the dog’s back affectionately as it passes him.

“You don’t say,” Kugisaki says conversationally, plucking a nail from the leather bag attached to her belt. She turns it over and over between perfectly manicured fingers, rests her other hand on the head of the hammer where it’s fastened at her hip; the picture of nonchalance. “It was only meant to be a low grade, right, Fushiguro?”

“That’s right. Like I said, something must have happened since the associates last passed through this area. We’d better tread carefully.”

“No shit.” She strides off ahead of the other two, who fall into step behind her. “Oh, well. A challenge is always more fun, isn’t it?” 

“Worst case, you can use your domain expansion, right?” Itadori says to him, excited, as if such a thing might be a treat and not a last resort used on the verge of death. “Still can’t believe you have one. I’d kill to see it. So cool.”

Megumi has to press his lips together to keep from smiling what would have been an embarrassingly smug smile. “Well, yeah, but I’d rather it didn’t come to that,” he says, and it’s not a lie, but… Itadori might find his domain expansion impressive, yes, and that is an enjoyable thought, and suddenly it seems quite worth knocking himself out for. 

“Keep up!” Kugisaki calls back to them. “I’d prefer to get this over with before the trains stop running, unless you’d like to walk back to the hotel. Do we even know when trains stop running out here?” She stretches her arms out leisurely as she walks, gravel crunching underneath her shoes. “You can carry me back to Sendai if we miss it, Itadori. Unless you’d rather take Fushiguro and leave me here all alone.” She casts a very obvious look back at Megumi. He flips her off when Itadori isn’t looking. 

Megumi attempts to contact Gojo with no luck - with the patchy reception they have out here amongst the mountains, it goes direct to voicemail. It’s equally as likely that Gojo just isn’t in the mood to answer his phone. Wonderful. It’s on his special orders that Megumi, and Kugisaki for that matter, are even here in the first place - Megumi suspects that Gojo might have felt slightly guilty for keeping the three of them separated for so long, and imagined this trip might make up for that in some way. Explore the city together during the day, easy mission at night, or so he planned. Megumi hasn’t decided yet whether he appreciates this or not. 

Itadori is close at his side, their elbows brushing every so often as they walk in silence. It makes Megumi nervous and settles him at the same time. Kugisaki is a few paces ahead, striding into the unknown as easily as if she were walking a path she’d known her whole life. Her hammer is at the ready - she twirls it around her wrist, tossing it up so that it circles twice in the air before catching it again. There’s a rhythm to it. Cursed energy can’t really be felt as something tangible, of course, but the closer they get to the cemetery the more Megumi senses it. Strangely, there are no residuals visible on the road; the curses seem to be contained to the valley where the cemetery lies, making it all the more unusual that their presence can be felt so strongly out here. It almost pushes back against him like wind resistance, pulsing and sickly. Whatever it is that’s waiting for them at their destination - it’s going to be strong. 

“D’you think they’re dead?” Itadori murmurs, quiet so as not to draw attention. He looks around at the looming darkness as their path takes a turn uphill. “The people that went missing.”

Megumi eyes him. “Almost definitely.”

Itadori sucks on his teeth, and Megumi knows what’s coming next. “You don’t think…”

“No,” he says firmly. “The victims were all elderly, anyway, even if the curse didn’t kill them straight away they probably would have succumbed to the elements by now. Some of them have been reported missing for weeks.”

Itadori winces. “Geez, alright. You don’t have to paint me a picture.” 

“You should just be prepared, is all. We’ll focus on exorcising the curse and if we can identify anyone afterwards... well, that’s just a bonus, I guess.” He shrugs. “Don’t try and be - ”

“A hero, yeah, yeah. I know.” Itadori surprises him, then, and leans into him - not just for a moment, he walks like that, impractical as it is. Megumi’s breath catches in his throat, and Itadori is close enough that he may well have heard it. “Same old, right?”

There’s no anger in his voice, no resentment, not towards Megumi at least. He falters, stumbles a little under Itadori’s weight and from surprise, but his legs carry him forward. While he’s glad for the sudden proximity, there is also… there’s a sadness that blooms in him, too. Being a sorcerer is not about saving absolutely everyone, it simply cannot be. It’s an impossible weight to bear, feeling responsible for lives you have no connection to, and it is a burden that Megumi himself has never carried. He knows how Itadori feels about these things, though. He should be glad for this revelation; he is glad, it is far safer for Itadori to think this way. Heroics get you killed in this line of work, and then you are no better off than the people you died trying to save. Moreover, you can’t save anyone at all when you’re dead. But… 

It is stupid, it is just one of the many ways that Itadori has made him stupid, chipped away at his heart until it does things that are impractical and illogical - but it saddens him. To see the soft parts of Itadori break, and subsequently harden when they heal. It is a childish notion, to want to save everyone, the notion of someone who has not yet seen the horrors of their world, and it has frustrated Megumi to no end. But it is one of the things Megumi likes most about Itadori. His simple altruism is rare among people like them, but while it is tenacious, it is not infinite. If it were to disappear, if the world were to force it out of him, exploit it until it dries up… it would be sad, is all. It would be safer, for Itadori, but it would be sad. People like that, people like him - they are the ones who deserve saving. 

Megumi shakes himself. They’re minutes away from a mission, it’s dangerous for all of them for him to let himself get distracted. As long as Itadori is alive, he reminds himself, the rest can be figured out. It can be lived with. He can withstand almost any version of Itadori, as long as his heart beats. Itadori has cheated death once, there are no guarantees he will be able to do it a second time. That is a far scarier thought than anything else. 

Megumi is quiet, and he holds his body tense for fear that the bubble will burst if he moves too suddenly. Itadori’s affection, he feels, might be a mirage that disappears if he tilts his head the wrong way. Holding his breath, he leans back into Itadori’s touch like it’s nothing at all. Like it might even be accidental, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Itadori does not move away, and they walk like that until the three of them come to a stop. 

The wind has picked up. It toys with the corners and hems of their uniforms as they stand, motionless, at the crest of a hill that crumbles sharply into a cliff and down into the Yasaki cemetery. It’s a decent way to fall, maybe five or six meters, and the terrain is rough with unearthed stones and turned-over earth - a landslide, albeit a small one. Behind them, a row of abandoned houses sit dangerously close to the line of erosion. Give it a decade or so, maybe less, and they, too, will go crashing down into the valley. 

The path they’d followed here, discernable if rough, comes to an abrupt end where they stand at the top of the cliff. “There was probably a path down to the cemetery, at some point,” Megumi says. “Winding from side to side down the cliff so that it wasn’t as steep to walk down. There might have been steps, even, carved into the earth. I can’t imagine it would have been easy for less mobile people to begin with, but... “ he peers over the edge. “Now, if you even managed to get down there without falling it’d be almost impossible to get back up without a lot of strength, it’s too steep. Too unstable.”

He steps to the very edge of the cliff, testing the limits of the earth. A chunk of soft dirt falls away from under his foot almost immediately. He raises his fingers to put up the barrier. Merely a precaution, they haven’t seen a single soul since they stepped off the train, but rules are rules. “We’ll probably just have to slide down,” he says, once the curtain has fallen around them. 

“Blegh.” Kugisaki folds her arms over her chest, coming to stand next to Megumi so she can get a better look at the valley. It’s too dark to see much at the bottom, like staring into an ocean trench, especially with the barrier up. “What a pain. I wonder how much of Jujutsu High’s budget goes into replacing our uniforms every time we go on a mission.” 

There isn’t much else to say, after that. 

Itadori goes first, sliding on his heels down the cliff-side. He does offer Kugisaki his hand, but predictably, she whacks it away. She grumbles about how the exposed rocks and sticks are going to put holes in her tights, but follows nonetheless, and Megumi goes last - the descent is too steep for him to keep his footing, and he ends up tumbling the last couple meters. Right off the bat, an especially jagged stone puts a rip in the thigh of his trousers, grazing the skin below, but it doesn’t bleed. Jumping to his feet once he reaches even ground, he joins the others where they stand a few feet away, brushing themselves off. 

“Everyone alright?” he asks, dipping his hand into the shadows at his side and reaching around for a familiar handle. From the abyss he pulls out a long, thin, silver blade with a leather-wrapped grip. Before it had been destroyed at Yasohachi Bridge, he’d favoured his obsidian sword, but he’s been practicing with this one of late. It gets the job done - plus the metallic finish means it glints in what little light they do have, making it easier to see in the dark. And it is dark down here. The high ridges of the valley obscure the moonlight that had lit their path earlier. 

The others murmur their assent, but Itadori is distracted, and when Megumi follows his line of sight he realises why: a curse, finally. There is a weird sense of relief in actually seeing one after feeling their presence so strongly, like now they can finally get to work. It’s unlike the ones Megumi has seen of late, in Tokyo. Grotesque, definitely, but where those ones are often rotund, blown up like gargantuan, twisted balloons, this one is bony. Skeletal. If a non-sorcerer could see it, they might describe it as a ghost, or a zombie. Strangely, it seems quite weak, which doesn’t line up with the heavy cursed energy in the atmosphere. It hasn’t even noticed them, yet. 

“I saw it first, I call dibs!” Itadori says, rolling his sleeves up, but just as soon as he’s taken his first step towards the thing Megumi’s divine dog appears from where it had been hidden behind a headstone and leaps on the curse, tackling it to the ground. It is weak, Megumi observes, and with a solid bite to the back of the curses’ exposed neck, the dog manages to take it out in one go. A minimal amount of cursed energy spills out, lazy, like a puff of dust rising out of an old cushion. 

“...Oh,” Itadori says, crestfallen, his fists falling back to his sides. “That’s it? Bit underwhelming.”

Megumi whistles shortly, calling the dog back over to him. “I thought I told you to come back when you located the curses?” he scolds it lightly, scratching it behind the ears anyway for a job well done. He turns to the others. “There will be more. We’ll split up, meet back here in five. Don’t get lost. That’s definitely not the worst we’re going to have to deal with,” he says, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder where the curse is rapidly disintegrating.

“Who put you in charge?” Kugisaki says, tossing her hammer in the air one more time for good measure, eyes alight as she watches it curve gracefully in the air and then fall heavily in her hand. She punches Megumi’s arm lightly as she passes him. “See you in five.” 

“Be - ”

“Safe!” Itadori calls over his shoulder, his face lit with flickering blue flame from where his fist is curled at his chest, poised and ready. “We know. See you in five, alright?” Megumi holds his gaze, nods once, and then they are both gone, enveloped into the night. He adjusts his grip on his sword, forcing himself to put any thoughts of Itadori and everything that has happened today out of his mind. As easily as Itadori seems to mess with his psyche, Fushiguro Megumi is nothing if not diligent, and currently, he has a job to do. 

It doesn’t take long for the sounds of fighting to reach him - the clink of metal against metal, Kugisaki sending nails like bullets into the curses’ corpses. The thud of bodies hitting the dirt, of Itadori’s fists making contact with their targets. Scrabbling shoes against loose stones. Laughter, triumphant and thrilled with the adrenaline of battle; the voices of his friends calling out to one another - “ You good?” “Worry about yourself!” “Got another one!” “Watch your head!” And then there is Megumi - the sound of his own breath, his own shoes hitting the earth, the fabric of his uniform sliding against itself as he heads into the night, fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword as though it were something alive. An extension of his own body. Electricity thrums in his chest, any fatigue from earlier in the day shaken off. For the first time all day, Megumi feels in control - this , at least, he knows how to do. 

The first few curses are easy kills as he heads deeper into the cemetery, with only the weak beams of moonlight to guide him - he ends up releasing his divine dog temporarily to conserve energy - though his eyes have mostly adjusted to the darkness by now. He starts to notice a concerning pattern, however: usually, curses will begin to evaporate as soon as they are exorcised, becoming nothing more dangerous than particles in the wind. These ones are different. As they are slain, they do not disappear completely. Instead, the bones that made up their skeletal exterior seem to remain solid where they fall, as corporeal as the ones in Megumi’s own body. Plunging his knife between the empty sockets where a curses’ eyes might have been, he watches as it slumps to the ground and begins to disintegrate, flame-like purple energy dissipating into the atmosphere. 

Careening forward with the momentum he’d put behind his sword, through the space where the curses’ body had just been, he finds himself on his knees, hands splayed out in the dirt to break his fall. Next to him, there’s a large block of what looks like weathered marble, taller than he would be if he were standing - a mausoleum. Sliding over, Megumi presses himself to the side of it, listening intently for the sounds of any other curses approaching. It’s quiet. Either the others have exorcised all the curses in their respective areas, too, or he’s too far away now to hear them. 

The bones lie a few feet away, inanimate. They’re tainted with only a low level of residual cursed energy, a low, persistent hum, if Megumi were to liken it to a sound. If he’s correct, and the others have managed to get through the other skeletal curses with as much relative ease as he himself had - something isn’t right. If those things were their only foes, the cursed energy in the area would have cleared up by now, but it’s as strong as ever. 

It’s fine, it’s no trouble. They can handle it. 

Megumi checks his phone - it’s been ten minutes. Whoops. The others will be wondering where he is. Giving one last sweeping look over his surroundings, Megumi gets up to head back to their meeting point, fishing around in the dirt next to him for his sword. The marble mausoleum is cool against his back, and he rests against it for just a moment, wiping sweat from his brow. 

His gaze falls on the bones again, and - ah. Of course. The people that went missing. 

He grimaces, pushing himself off the wall. It’s a nasty business. There was no saving them, by that point; if all that remained of them was bones, they would have been dead long before Megumi and the others even got here. It’s possible that the higher grade curse was responsible for animating their corpses like that, almost similar to the transfiguration that patchwork curse uses. They’re just decoys. 

Itadori will hate that. 

He almost doesn’t hear it over the sound of his footsteps, but from the other side of the mausoleum, there is an unmistakable whimper; a human sound. Megumi freezes where he stands, hand flying to the hilt of his sword. He turns as if on a dime, as silent as he can, listening for sounds of movement. Had he imagined it? 

No - there it is again. It’s a weak, fragile sound, barely splitting the air, and if Megumi had been any further away he wouldn’t have heard it. Irrational fear rises in his chest - it can’t be? No, it isn’t. He would have realised if Kugisaki or Itadori were near him, surely, he would have heard them moving around. He inches back towards the mausoleum, swapping his sword for a shorter dagger; easier to wield in tight movements close to the body. Sidling up to the wall, he curves his fingers around the edge and peers around to the other side.

A - a child? 

A small child, not even school age, it appears. He’s curled up at the foot of the mausoleum, arms wrapped around his legs. His head rests against the sharp edge of the marble steps. Motionless, but seemingly alive. Megumi drops to his knees, sheaths his dagger through the belt loop on his trousers. “Are you alright? Can you talk?” he says urgently, voice low. 

Is he sleeping? Unconscious? The child doesn’t respond. Megumi reaches out, feeling for a pulse, and it’s there but it’s incredibly weak - he’s alive, but hanging by a precarious thread. Curiously, he doesn’t seem injured. Not physically, at least, save for a superficial scrape on his left arm and his knee. 

“I’m - uh, ” Megumi falters. He isn’t very good with kids, which strikes him as quite a ridiculous thought given all he needs to do with this one is make sure it doesn’t die, but even so… he clears his throat, tries again. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, even though on all accounts it doesn’t seem likely that the child is present enough to hear him. Itadori would know what to do. “I’m going to help you, alright? Just hang on. Don’t… die.” After a moment’s hesitation, he places his hand awkwardly on the child’s shoulder, patting it twice in what he hopes is a comforting way. It’s an unfamiliar motion, given his utter lack of experience with infants, but it seems like the thing to do. A memory flashes across his mind, fleeting and patchy, Tsumiki and… and Gojo, but he brushes it away. 

The child needs medical attention, so he will need to be removed from the cemetery as soon as possible. Megumi considers carrying him back to the meeting point, where Kugisaki and Itadori hopefully are waiting for him, but he’ll need both hands free if he encounters any more curses and the child seems in too poor a condition to withstand any harsh movements. Is it best to leave him where he is, potentially exposed to danger, and seek out the curse instead? Remove the biggest threat first? Megumi can probably handle it on his own, should the need arise - perhaps Itadori will get to see his domain expansion after all - but it would probably be a quicker task with their strength combined. 

“Nue,” he mutters, bringing his hands together. The giant creature appears behind him with a whoosh of its feathered wings. “Find Itadori and Kugisaki, bring them over here to me.” Nue trills once in understanding and takes off. Megumi doesn’t even know how far apart they are; the headstones are too similar to be of much use as landmarks. Texting is no good, without reception. He’ll just have to trust that -  

Fuck. 

Megumi feels it first, an enormous wave of cursed energy that hits him from his left hand side. It’s eye-watering, almost comparable to those he encountered at Yasohachi Bridge or at the penitentiary with Itadori, all those months ago. Megumi wrenches around, placing the child’s unconscious body behind him, feels around for his sword, and jumps to his feet, eyes straining in the dark to see the face of the thing. This is what we came for, here it is, here we go. 

There’s nothing, just inky blackness that seems to go on for miles. Megumi’s chest heaves with anticipation, palms sweaty around the leather grip of his sword, and then - red. A red pair of eyes, gleaming at him from the ether. 

Fear grips him then, wholly, for the first time that night. The last time he looked into a pair of red eyes they belonged to Ryomen Sukuna, and Itadori had had his heart ripped out. 

He forces the fear to morph into resolve. Hesitation will get him killed. Uncontrollable emotions are the mark of an amateur sorcerer, and he is no amateur. If it is Sukuna, well, he will just have to consider this a rematch. He takes one step towards it, boot sinking into the soft earth, then another, until he’s running at the thing full pelt. Drawing his sword back, arms bowing backwards in a graceful arc, he gathers all the cursed energy he can muster and puts it behind his sword, into his wrists, steels himself with it, and takes a flying leap. His blade drives into skin, into flesh, and Megumi finds himself barely an inch away from a pair of eyes that glow blood red. 

But something is wrong, deeply wrong. In that same instant, no sooner than he had pierced the cursed spirit, Megumi feels a twist in his gut that’s unlike anything he’s felt before. It surges through his whole body, paralyses him; Megumi envisions his insides turning to black. Shutting down. As though the cursed energy he’d attacked with is blown back against him, he is knocked away like he weighs no more than a doll and hurtles backwards through the air. The last thing he sees is red, and the last thing he hears is the deep, sickening crack of his own skull against the marble mausoleum, and he doesn’t even have the time to kick himself for letting what might be his last thoughts of Itadori be not of his smile, his touch, his eyes or his kind heart, but of the curse that lurks inside him, ready at any time to destroy everything Megumi holds dear.

***

“... Okay. Okay. Alright. Turn your location on.” A pause. There is the sound of something scratching, plastic against plastic. “I don’t know, I’m watching him now. I’ll text you. Okay. Bye.” 

Megumi knows he must not be dead, because surely this amount of bodily pain does not exist in the afterlife. That would be a cruel discovery. He feels like he has recently been put through a meat grinder. His head is the worst of all - perhaps it is still lodged in there. 

Then, he realises, if that same line of thought is correct, it’s unlikely he’s ended up in the same place as good people go when they die, where there is no more suffering. So he might have kicked the bucket, after all. Perhaps sorcerers have an afterlife all of their own. Perhaps they are released into the universe as cursed energy once more, bound to search for a host for the rest of time. Is this - this full-body ache, sharp and loud and unbearable, radiating out from his bones - is this what it means, to be a curse? Maybe, then, sorcerers are doing them a kindness by setting them free, even only temporarily. 

Megumi’s brain seems to lag behind his body, and when it catches up, he realises that the voice he’s just heard belongs, unmistakably, to Itadori. Well, this is a spanner in the works of his theory. It means that either they are both, somehow, alive - or they are both dead, and Megumi doesn’t know which one he would prefer. 

There is a sigh. 

No, he thinks, and he realises that he can move his hands, his fingers, one joint at a time. It feels like he’s doing it for the first time in years, it takes such an effort. We lived. If we were dead, Itadori wouldn’t be with me. He’d be in the place where good people go. This thought is no more comforting than the last. 

“Hey,” comes Itadori’s voice, again. Gentle and urgent all at once, it seems to have to fight through the harsh ringing in Megumi’s ears. “Did you move on purpose, just then? Can you hear me? Fushiguro?”

Megumi thinks he tries to speak, but nothing comes out. It feels like he’s sandwiched between two brick walls. Frustratingly, no other parts of his body seem to want to cooperate with him. What happened back there? His head is murky with confusion and it sizzles with pain - he has a vague memory of headstones, of a cemetery. Where are they, again? He lifts his fingers again, tries to squeeze them into a fist to let Itadori know that he can, at least, hear him, and is taken aback when he feels a hand cover his own. That hand squeezes for him, and doesn’t pull away. 

“Thank God,” he hears Itadori say, a low rush of breath. “You’re alright, okay? You’re not dead,” and it sounds as much as though Itadori is reassuring himself as he is Megumi. “We’re back at the hotel. Everyone’s fine. Don’t worry.” 

Ah, he thinks, as the thing that is keeping him immobile like this rises up in him again, sapping what little strength he has away once more. Maybe this is the good place, after all.  

When Megumi next opens his eyes, the first thing he realises is that he can, in fact, open his eyes. The rest of his body, while incredibly sore, sorer than he thinks he’s ever been (and he’s been sore quite a bit), seems to respond when he tries to move it, too. Sluggishly and with difficulty, but at least he isn’t paralysed. He checks his limbs off one by one: his toes, his feet, ankles, knees, arms, hands, and finally, his neck, all in working order. Megumi has never considered himself an especially lucky person, but fortune might have looked kindly upon him tonight. 

When his vision clears fully and his eyes adjust to the darkness, Megumi finds that he is looking up at the springs on the bottom of a bunk bed. Panic seizes him momentarily in that way that it does when you wake up somewhere that is not your own bed, before he realises. The hotel in Sendai. He is on the lower bunk, the one he’d claimed and thrown his bags on what feels like eons ago when they’d arrived, and the back of his fingers on his right hand rest against the carpet. It’s probably not clean; from what he can remember, Gojo had spared expenses for their accommodation in much the same way as their train tickets. Megumi longs for his own quiet room, his own bed. What are they in Sendai for again? They’re so far away. He’d much rather be at home in Tokyo. 

His gaze follows the line of his arm, and then he thinks he might like to retract that statement, actually, because Itadori is across from him, seemingly asleep sitting up against the wall. He wouldn’t get that at home. Memories of the night come back to him in drops, and then all at once, like someone’s tipped a bucket over his head. The cemetery, the child - what happened to the child? The curse with the red eyes. Where is Kugisaki? 

There is a faint blue glow that illuminates Itadori’s face, and that reminds Megumi of something, too. Itadori’s hair is tinted purple from the light of his phone; his limbs are twisted and crossed over themselves, pretzel-like. He isn’t asleep, then, but from the looks of it he isn’t far off. He blinks slow and long. Keeping his eyes open must feel like staving off an avalanche. Megumi feels much the same. “What time is it?” he says - at least, that is what he intends to say, it comes out as an embarrassingly feeble rasp. His tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth. 

Itadori snaps to attention. “Fushiguro,” he says, “you’re awake. You’re awake,” he repeats, and his body seems to melt, slipping out of it’s tight knot. He hangs his head in his hands momentarily. “Fucking hell.” 

“What time is it?” 

“I - sorry,” Itadori fumbles for his phone, “it’s like, four in the morning.” 

“What happened? Where’s Kugisaki?”

“She’s here, she’s fine, see? We’re fine.” Itadori motions to his left, and when Megumi cranes his neck painfully he sees what must be her sleeping figure, a lump under the sheets on the other single bed in the room. Relief surges through him. “Ieiri-san is on her way, she’s just leaving Tokyo now.” 

“The - the kid - ”

“He’s alright, just… give me a second,” Itadori heaves a deep sigh, leaning back against the wall to cast his eyes to the ceiling. He runs his hands through his hair and over his face, dragging the skin down wearily. He’s changed into pyjamas, the same too-small trackpants he always wears and an equally too-big shirt with a line drawing of a tiger drinking green tea on it. Megumi realises he, too, is wearing a pyjama shirt, and his shoes and socks are off, but he’s still wearing his uniform trousers. 

“The kid is ok,” Itadori says, still looking at the ceiling. “Kugisaki took him to the hospital. She hasn’t been back long - she couldn’t stay with him, obviously, but she hung around long enough to make sure that he’d be alright.” 

Megumi wishes Itadori would look at him. Is there something terribly wrong with him? Surely he would have realised by now. His skull feels like it could cave in, but he lifts a hand and feels around the back of his head - there’s a very sizeable lump, crusted blood, he seethes through his teeth when he brushes over it - but it’s intact. He says Itadori’s name, but still, he doesn’t look. 

“What happened on the mission?” he presses. 

Itadori’s eyes slide down to the floor, bypassing Megumi altogether. He picks at a scab on his ankle. Itadori is in subpar shape as well, his right arm is wrapped up in a makeshift bandage and he winces with pain any time he has to move his knee. “You…” he starts, and then clamps his mouth shut. He seems to decide on something; change tack. “We took care of it. Kugisaki and me. That thing - did you see it? The curse?”

“Yeah, I saw it. Red eyes.”

“Yeah. Nue found us. When we arrived, you were…” he trails off, and Megumi thinks he sees something like frustration flash across Itadori’s tired face. He squeezes his eyes shut, and he does look up at Megumi, then. He’s smiling, but even Megumi can see that his heart’s not in it. “We took care of it,” he says again. 

“How? What did you do? Will you just tell me what happened?” Megumi coughs dryly with the effort of speaking. 

Itadori’s smile falters. He wiggles his fingers. “Black flash,” he says.

“You used black flash again?”

“Yeah. And got thrown around a heap,” he motions to his bandaged arm. “It was just luck that neither of us got our heads smashed like you did. It was definitely trying to knock us all out. The curse was…” Itadori gnaws on his bottom lip. ”It was killing you from the inside out, I think. The kid, too.” 

Itadori’s hypothesis about the curses’ technique is slightly ineloquent and they will have to revise it somewhat when they have to write their report on it back at Jujutsu High, but it’s no matter. Truthfully, Megumi is grateful for the simplicity. His head hurts too much to think. “It was almost… sucking the life right out of you. I couldn’t actually see it, like… the life travelling from your body to its body,” Itadori traces a line in the air with his pointer finger, from Megumi’s chest into the sky, “but I felt like I could see it, in a way. That was why that kid was passed out. All the… I don’t know, all the light in him was pretty much gone, the curse was just sapping it all away, using it to get stronger. He would have been a goner if we hadn’t shown up when we did. And you, as well. It’s why you took so long to wake up, I guess. You didn’t hit your head hard enough to knock you out for,” he checks his phone, “like, six hours.”

“So you’re saying… it was, what? Feeding off my soul?” 

“Yeah, pretty much. But,” he adds hurriedly, “when we exorcised it, you kind of jolted, a bit. Like it was going back into you.” Itadori demonstrates, twitching where he sits. “So I think you should have it all back. Your… soul,” he shrugs. “I just don’t understand what a curse that strong was doing out here. I thought Gojo-sensei said curses in highly populated areas tended to be stronger than the ones in the countryside.”

“They do,” Megumi says. “Cemeteries are common areas for curses to manifest, though. That kid would have been scared out of his mind, the curse would have gained strength from that fear, as well.”

Itadori hums, unconvinced. “If you think about it, though, this isn’t the first time lately that a really strong curse has popped up where it shouldn’t have.” There are implications there, and maybe when he returns to Tokyo Megumi will set aside adequate time to worry about them, but for now, he just nods. “How do you feel?” Itadori says. 

“Shit.” He blinks up at the bedsprings. He thinks he probably has a concussion, but it’s not the first time. As for his soul… how would he know? If it had been permanently damaged? Would he feel different, fundamentally? He doesn’t think he does. He examines himself from the inside as best he can - he is Fushiguro Megumi, born on the 22nd of December in Saitama, he is fifteen years and nine months old, he has a sister, he loves his sister, he - he likes Itadori, that has not changed. Kugisaki is his friend. He, unfortunately, is a Zenin. He is a student at Jujutsu Technical College. It all feels the same. “You?”

“Bad, but better than you, I suppose.”

They are quiet for a little while. Megumi thinks he drifts in and out of fitful sleep. Itadori gets up at one point and returns a few minutes later with a plastic bag, filled with things from the convenience store. “You should probably eat something. Or drink. You barely ate at lunch.” Ugh, lunch. Didn’t hit my head hard enough to forget about that, I guess. 

Megumi is hungry but he has little appetite. Perhaps when it is light outside he might feel more up to it, but he does accept the jasmine tea from Itadori’s outstretched arm. There is something else, though, putting him off eating and swirling in his stomach - it feels a lot like shame. How could he have failed so spectacularly? One knock to the head and he was out. He wants to say it had been because he was so frazzled during the day, but it wouldn’t be fair to blame it on Itadori. He should have been able to steady himself. Leaving a curse so powerful it literally almost consumed his soul to Itadori and Kugisaki… he barely made a dent in the thing before he was incapacited. What if it had taken Itadori’s soul, too? It would have been his fault. Memories from the penitentiary taunt him again, like they always do, at precisely the worst times - it wasn’t Sukuna, after all, but what if it had been? He hasn’t learned anything, he hasn’t gotten stronger, like he promised. He endangered them. 

“Didn’t I tell you not to be a hero?” he mutters. 

Itadori looks up from his phone. He has a half-eaten onigiri in his other hand, and a grain of rice stuck to his bottom lip. “What?”

“You’re always letting your saving people thing get in the way of protecting yourself.” 

Itadori swallows audibly, puts his onigiri on his knee. “Are you seriously scolding me right now?” he says incredulously, as indignant as he can without raising his voice above a whisper. 

Megumi turns away. He should stop, what the hell is he saying? “You should have run. What use would it have been, all three of us dying? Don’t be stupid.” 

He hears Itadori breath out long and hard through his nose. “You’re kidding me, right? What was I supposed to do, leave you? I know you think it’s stupid - I know you think I’m stupid to want to save people.” Megumi winces at that, to hear his own thoughtless words repeated back to him, but Itadori ignores him. “I don’t care. You have your own philosophy, that’s fine. But I’m not stupid, okay? I know there was nothing we could have done about the other victims. But my reason for saving people… it doesn’t apply to you, alright? Or Kugisaki. It’s not the same. I’m not doing it out of obligation, or because I feel like I have to. It’s not moral, it’s… beyond that. How would I have lived with myself if I left you there? Why would I ever just leave you to die? Do you think that little of me? Of our…” he gestures between them but doesn’t elaborate. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that I care about you? That I…” he scratches through his hair, agitated. “For fuck’s sake, Fushiguro. A thank you would have sufficed.” 

The first light of dawn is beginning to peek through the curtains, just pink enough to distinguish itself from the night. Kugisaki rolls over in her sleep, rustling the bedsheets. “I didn’t mean that,” he whispers. Apologies feel so foreign on his tongue. “I don’t think you’re stupid at all.” 

Itadori snorts like he doesn’t believe him. “Sure. I never would have expected you to underestimate me, of all people.” 

“I don’t ,” Megumi says, sitting up on his elbows. A sharp flash of pain rockets down his spine, and he grits his teeth. “If you had died on my account…” The rest of his sentence hangs unsaid in the air. 

Itadori regards him for a moment. He looks like he’s searching for something. Then, he slides across the carpet towards Megumi, turning around to lean his back against the mattress. “I thought you were dead,” he says into the empty room. “When we found you, you were passed out on these steps. There was blood everywhere, I was sure you’d split your head open. I thought you were dead, and I was too late.” He’s so very close. Megumi has the absurd idea that he could reach up and touch, just weave his fingers through the short hair on the back of Itadori’s neck. “I wrapped your head up in my uniform jacket. The whole time I was taking you back here, I was just waiting for your heart to stop beating. I was terrified.” 

“Thank you,” Megumi says, and something has pressed all the air out of his lungs. “For not leaving me behind.”

“It’s nothing. All that 'you should have run' bullshit, what was that, huh? You'd have done the same for me."

“Of course,” he breathes. You have no idea. 

“Trust me, then,” Itadori says imploringly. “Just trust me. We have to be able to rely on eachother.” 

“I do trust you,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He can feel sleep creeping up on him again, and he curses it, as battle-worn and exhausted as he is, because he doesn’t want to miss this. He doesn’t want Itadori to go. 

“I know. It’s fine.” He twists around to look at Megumi, then, smiling for real this time. It’s the best thing he’s ever seen, the very best thing, and if there has ever been a time where Megumi has longed to kiss Itadori Yuuji, it is now. “But you know if you scare me like that again, I’ll have to kill you myself.” 

Megumi’s eyes drift closed without permission. “That’s not like you,” he murmurs. 

When Ieiri wakes him a few hours later, when they’ve all missed their train back to Tokyo and sunlight streams into the room, onto their aching heads, he finds that Itadori has pulled the pillow from his bunk and slept the night on the ground. Their hands lie inches apart.

Chapter Text

Quiet has fallen over the grounds of Jujutsu High for the afternoon. 

Finally, blessedly, the weather has begun to turn, and the trees that skirt the oval and line the sides of the student dorms are in the process of purging their foliage from a deep, summery green to hues of vibrant orange, speckled yellow, warm brown. The students sleep in long sleeved shirts again, and wear their jackets to class in the morning, though they’re often discarded by the time the sun has climbed to the top of the sky. Megumi loves that chill in the morning air that autumn brings. It focuses him, it feels good and right in his lungs. If the humid air of summer makes him sluggish, the crispness of autumn wakes him up again; he has the impression that his movements are more precise, his mind clearer in battle. Of course, it’s equally as likely that he’s just improving, and this makes him feel good, too. 

Some nights, at this time of year, he falls asleep reading in the common room. On weeknights he has it largely to himself. The others will watch movies or hang out there on the weekends, but on school nights, they are consumed with homework or practice, or figuring out how to avoid those things artfully enough so as not to raise suspicion. Naturally, Megumi is caught up if not ahead on homework, so it’s a treat, a respite from his busy days, to spend these nights in his own company. 

Nonfiction is usually what he reaches for, but presently, he’s reading a novel - a love story. He doesn’t dislike it, but he’ll be glad to pick up a nonfiction book again when he’s done with this one. In history books, recounts of ancient wars and civilisations, the author - in theory, of course - says exactly what they mean because they’re dealing with facts. Things that have already happened and had their consequences play out. Everyone talks in circles in love stories like this one, Megumi thinks. It’s meant to be romantic, probably, that no one says what they really mean. They hide behind longing looks, brushes of hands, making excuses to do mundane things together like taking walks of ‘the grounds,’ as they so often do. His heart is not so immovable that he doesn’t let himself get just the tiniest bit swept away in it, at times, something he’d never willingly divulge to his classmates. But he does wish the two main characters would just knock it off and get together already - it’s so obvious they’re in love. 

He doesn’t come to the common room to read until night has fallen. In the afternoons - not all afternoons, but a good many - Itadori does his homework on Megumi’s floor, still, and Megumi likes to be around for that. Sometimes they get very little done because Itadori has too much to talk about, and Megumi finds himself talking too, against his better judgement. Other times, the scrape of pages turning, Itadori’s steady breath, his voice low and quiet when he asks Megumi for help with an equation or a character he doesn’t know, makes for a most productive study environment and Megumi blitzes through his work easily. Itadori doesn’t feel the need to wait for him to arrive; Megumi will often walk in to find him already there, flat on his stomach with his nose in an essay and his brow furrowed with concentration or confusion. He almost treats Megumi’s room as merely an extension of his own. This makes Megumi happy in a way he can’t explain. 

It used to make him terribly nervous, having Itadori so casually in his space. He never used to be able to concentrate, and he’d end up kicking Itadori out a lot of the time so he could actually get some work done. But that has all passed, now. 

His feelings for Itadori grow stronger by the day, but Megumi is no longer afraid of them. He has almost become an observer to them; he feels as though he has passed some point of no return. Do not be mistaken: he does not delude himself to think that they’ll ever be - be together, like that. It crosses his mind more often than he’d like, but he brushes those thoughts away. He has not forgotten how reckless it is for him to feel this way, and the idea that he’ll ever confess to Itadori is laughable. The notion that Itadori could feel the same way for him, more improbable still. But half a year has passed since he and Itadori first ate together in the dorms that night, and Megumi no longer has it in him to berate himself for his feelings. He imagines that is floating, perhaps in a vast ocean, and he has simply allowed himself, now, to be at the mercy of the tide. Let Itadori drag him out to sea, or deposit him safely on the shore; it doesn’t matter. He will not fret away these precious hours. In his more serene moments, he thinks that this is enough. To exist in each other’s space, comfortable, quietly and without pretence. For however long they are granted this peace, this tranquility, that Megumi knows cannot last. The rest of the world falls away on these afternoons. Itadori looks so beautiful in the light of the setting sun, dappled through the trees, and Megumi has found that he sees this same beauty reflected in so many things, now, even when Itadori isn’t around. Maybe this is enough. 

On those nights he does fall asleep on the lounge, he often wakes with a blanket draped over him that he did not put there himself. 

It’s Friday, and Itadori has not come by this afternoon. Megumi doesn’t know where he is, actually, they’d had class together around midday, and then Megumi had gone off to train with the second years and he hasn’t seen Itadori since. It doesn’t matter, Megumi is heading into the city soon, anyway. He hasn’t been since they returned from Sendai, and while at first he put it down to needing time to recover, he’s fully healed now and really, has just been lazy about visiting. It’s not like Tsumiki will know or care either way, but Megumi likes to be regular with these things.

It helps, he finds, to be methodical with things that otherwise seem senseless; it removes a lot of their power to overwhelm you. If he takes the train into the city at the same time every Friday to visit his sister, it is easy enough to pretend that this is normal and just a part of his routine. He can almost pretend, right up until the hospital building looms in his peripheral vision, that he might be going to meet her at a cafe, or that she’ll be waiting for him just outside the station.

He’s lacing up his shoes when he hears footsteps in the hallway outside. He can recognise each person in the boys’ dorms by their footsteps, partly as a result of training making him extra perceptive to sound but also just because they live together. Itadori drags his feet, Inumaki walks lightly, Panda - well, Panda has his own distinctive stride, as one would imagine a panda might. He even knows the click of Gojo’s boots. He cocks his head to listen - it seems he’s in luck. 

“Hey, Itadori,” he calls out, the sound of his own voice taking him by surprise. The idea of asking Itadori to accompany him to visit Tsumiki had only barely begun to form in his brain, a highly premature thought, and yet he found himself blurting it out nonetheless. At this point it should come as no surprise that Itadori brings out some infernal impulsiveness in him. Would he even want to come? 

Too late - the footsteps approach rapidly until Itadori’s head pops through the open door. “Hey,” he says, smiling, “what’s up?” 

“Do you, uhh,” Megumi rubs the toes of his shoes together, looking around the room in the hopes that some other reason he might have wanted Itadori’s attention will jump out at him. Predictably, nothing does. “Are you busy?”

“Not right this second.” 

“I’m heading into the city. We can…” he hesitates. “...Grab dinner, or something, if you want.” 

Megumi scratches at a spot on his neck. Mission partially accomplished, he supposes, though guilt gnaws at his insides for not disclosing the real reason he’s going to Tokyo. Guilt for whose sake he isn’t sure - Itadori’s for lying, or Tsumiki’s for lying about her.  

A funny look passes over Itadori’s face, and he opens his mouth to speak before quickly closing it again. He settles on an apologetic wince instead, and Megumi can’t help the slight disappointment that wells in him. “I can’t, sorry. I just made plans with Kugisaki for tonight. We’re gonna watch Demon-Eating Zombie Goats 3. You can join, though, if you want?” he offers.

Not even the giant, raging crush I have on you is enough to make me sit through Demon-Eating Zombie Goats 3. 

“Probably not your thing, though,” Itadori adds, upon Megumi’s lack of enthusiasm for this idea.

“Never mind. Another time.” 

Itadori nods fervently. “Yeah. Definitely another time, okay? I really want to go, I just… ” He seems agitated. “I shouldn’t have - I mean, I can try and - ”

“Dude, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. I gotta go, though.” Megumi resumes tying his shoelaces and shoves his book and his headphones in his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder and rising from the bed. Itadori is still standing in the doorway for some reason, and Megumi brushes past him on his way out, not entirely unintentionally. “I’ll see you later, alright?” 

Itadori does not reply, or maybe he does, but Megumi has already turned out of the hallway by then. 

By the time he reaches the long, winding gravel path that leads from where the school sits at the top of the mountain and begins his descent to the train station, Megumi already has his headphones on. It’s a little disappointing that Itadori can’t come, but it’s probably for the best, at least for now. There is a not insignificant part of him that wants Itadori and Tsumiki to meet - well, meet as best they can when one party is in a curse-induced coma - but it might lead to… awkward questions. About the rest of his family. Besides, Itadori probably has unpleasant memories of hospitals. Coincidentally, that same hospital is where the two of them met for the first time - although, Megumi thinks glumly, Itadori probably wishes that had never happened, either. 

Mid-thought, Megumi is flung off balance by a force that crashes into his right shoulder. He tears his headphones off, readies himself to fight - only to find an apologetic Itadori beside him, puffing slightly. 

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just me!” he says, palms up in surrender. “Didn’t hit the brakes in time.” 

Megumi drops his fighting stance, rubbing his shoulder irritatedly. “What are you doing here? I thought you had plans with Kugisaki.” 

Itadori’s expression is deceivingly sunny. “Plans changed,” he says simply, and that is all the explanation Megumi gets before Itadori is striding happily down the mountain ahead of him. 

Megumi watches his back, bewildered, and not at all displeased about this turn of events. He makes a mental note to text Kugisaki later and thank her for being so gracious, and as he readjusts his backpack and continues down the hill after Itadori, who is already reeling off restaurant suggestions, he turns his gaze to the valley that lies beneath Jujutsu High. The air is beginning to chill but the sun is still warm, sending its final beams over the valley. Megumi finds that he doesn’t mind it at all. It will cool down again once night falls in earnest, and he has a sweater in his backpack. Bending and waving with the breeze, the tall grass that blankets the hills and dips in the earth is a wonderful shade of green in the fading sunshine. He doesn’t think he’s noticed it before today. 

***

Their city-bound train is relatively quiet. Most of the workers are heading in the opposite direction; away from inner Tokyo and back to their homes. There are plenty of free seats - Megumi slides into one near the door and Itadori follows next to him, not bothering to leave space in between. The lines of their legs press together - accidentally, at first; Itadori’s thigh knocks against his, but he doesn’t move away, and Itadori doesn’t either. Megumi is sure this isn’t on purpose, but it’s a nice feeling and he intends to enjoy it while it lasts. The carriage is filled with the warm orange light of the setting sun; it flickers and dims as they pass through tunnels and beneath towering buildings the closer they get to the city. Slowly, it fades into soft pink, then deeper, until the sky that peeks through between the towers has taken on a rich purple hue. They’re far enough into the city now that only the brightest, strongest stars are visible, but had they been at home at Jujutsu High, Megumi imagines that it would have been a wonderfully clear night. 

Few words pass between them. Megumi is restless - a strange sense of nervousness has settled in his stomach, and he struggles to pinpoint its origin. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s gone to visit Tsumiki in the hospital, not the first time he’s had to see her in this state. Maybe it’s simply because he hasn’t been in a while? Is it guilt? Whatever it is, it’s useless, and so Megumi tries to focus on something else - anything; closes his eyes briefly and focuses on his music. Guilt is a selfish emotion, productive for no one, and yet there is a familiarity in it. 

Itadori takes one of Megumi’s headphones without asking, pops it in his ear, and apparently deems Megumi’s taste in music acceptable enough to leave it there. 

“Did you have anywhere in mind? This place looks alright,” Itadori says, ever the expert in saving Megumi from his own head. 

“Hm?” 

“For dinner.” He ushers his phone into Megumi’s hands, who scrolls through blearily. The website looks like it hasn’t been touched since 2003, which means the food will probably be excellent. 

“Yeah, seems fine. Wherever you want.” The lights of still-occupied offices have started to reflect off the train windows.  “I kind of lied before,” he says impulsively, before he can talk himself out of it. 

“Lied? About what?” 

“I didn’t want to get dinner. I mean - no, I do want to get dinner. If you still want to. But there’s something else I have to do. You don’t have to come, if you don’t want. I just thought - I can make it quick. Like I said, you don’t have to come.”

Itadori rolls his eyes. “Spit it out, would you?” 

“I have to, uh.” The train begins to slow; an automated voice announces that their stop is next, and Megumi is pressed against Itadori’s arm as the momentum sways him in his seat. “My sister. She’s in one of the hospitals here. I usually go and visit her. I was hoping you’d… come with me, or something.”

The train rolls to a stop and the doors slide open, and Megumi gets up, trying to appear as nonchalant as he can. As if it’s some throwaway thing, as if he isn’t painfully, acutely aware that he’s being what most people would consider vulnerable right now, opening up this part of his life to Itadori. Itadori remains in his seat, even as passengers start to disembark, and Megumi risks a glance at his face, expecting - reluctance, or awkwardness, or regret, or anger that Megumi had taken him here under false pretense. He just blinks at Megumi blankly, brown eyes wide and unreadable. 

“You idiot,” he says, shaking his head. “Of course I’ll come with you.” And then he’s up out of his seat, he’s grabbing Megumi by the wrist, he’s pulling him through the closing doors and they’re standing on the platform. A station attendant scolds them for holding up the train, and Itadori does not drop Megumi’s wrist. He tugs at it earnestly when he speaks, like he intends to shake some sense into Megumi. “Of course I’ll come with you. You could have just asked.” 

Megumi’s voice is swallowed up by the hiss of the train leaving the station. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s go.” 

They recognise Megumi at the hospital. 

Usually he tries to slip past the nurses without being detected, but it’s been a while since his last visit and Gojo had informed him that they’d moved Tsumiki to a new ward. The stench of medical grade disinfectant, plastic and steel and vinyl, distinctive and strong and yet devoid of anything at all, clings to the inside of his nostrils as soon as they step foot in the place, and Megumi knows it will be there for another day to come. It’s always like that. This time, though, there is something else - the smell of laundry that has dried in the sun. Familiar, warm. Itadori trails a half step behind him, at his side, and Megumi feels a rush of gratitude for him. If Itadori is phased at all about being in a hospital, he hasn’t shown it. What a great thing, what a lucky thing, to have Itadori at his side, real and alive. 

Contrary to everything the world has taught him thus far, Megumi is finding that sometimes it might actually be better to face unpleasant things with someone in your corner. He is still testing out this theory. Tsumiki, at least, who often chided his tendency for excessive independence - or, as she put it, ‘ being a loner’ - will be overjoyed to hear about this revelation.

Megumi sidles up to the reception desk - he finds himself trying to retreat into his uniform jacket, except, of course, he isn’t wearing his uniform, so he ends up looking like he’s doing some sort of half-baked turtle impression. He casts a furtive glance around - the coast seems clear - and steps up to the counter. Megumi breathes a sigh of relief when a nurse he doesn’t recognise, young and pretty, is sitting behind it, tapping away at her computer. She looks up expectantly when Megumi and Itadori approach. 

“Hello, I’m looking for Fushiguro Tsumiki. Could you tell me what room she’s in, please?” 

“Could I ask who’s asking for her?” 

“Fushiguro Megumi. I’m her brother.” 

The nurse’s red lips stretch into a smile, and she tap tap taps at her keyboard. “Oh, of course. She’s been moved to our brand new ward, for long term patients. Take the elevator to the fifth floor, walk all the way to the very end of the hall and make two rights, she’s in room 113. It’s a private room,” she says brightly, “so you won’t need to worry about anyone interrupting you.” Oh yeah, that’s right. A few - ahem - charitable donations to the hospital made in the name of a certain Gojo Satoru probably had something to do with that. 

“Thank you,” Megumi says quickly - Itadori thanks the nurse as well, louder than Megumi would have liked - and makes a beeline for the elevator, careful to tread lightly even in his haste. He’s so close, maybe he’ll actually make it this time.

  A voice like tires squealing on an oily road bursts out from inside a room behind the reception desk - “Megumi-chaaaaan!” - and Megumi surges forward like his life depends on it. Some kind person in the elevator scrambles to keep the doors open. Arm outstretched, ready to slam the elevator button - come on, his reflexes are better than this - almost there - 

The elevator door closes smugly in his face. 

“Megumi-chan, I hope you didn’t think you could get away without saying hello! It’s been a while since you’ve come to visit. Everything okay? School going alright? Studying hard? That tall fellow with the hair not with you today? That’s a shame, I wouldn’t have minded seeing a bit of him. Liven things up around here, hm? And who’s this?” 

“I’m Itadori Yuuji! Pleased to meet you!” 

Christ. 

“Good evening, Mori-san,” Megumi says stiffly, turning very reluctantly back to the reception desk where a tiny, round-faced nurse is grinning widely at him, arms open at an angle that suggests she might be about to hug him. Walking swiftly back to the station and hopping on the first train that shows up is suddenly very tempting. 

“Oh, no need to be so formal, hm?” Nurse Mori says, and then in several tiny strides she is squeezing Megumi around his middle. Really, his middle - he still has some growing to do, but even at his modest frame the top of her head only reaches his sternum. Her black hair is tied in a perfectly round bun at the nape of her neck. She pulls back without letting go, eyes raking over Megumi’s face, who is staring determinedly at an emergency exit sign on the opposite wall. He purposely avoids looking in Itadori’s direction where, in an incredible lack of subtlety, he has slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. “You’re here to see your wonderful sister, hm?”

“Yes.” 

“Well, aren’t you a good boy!” she says, giving him another squeeze. Itadori buries his entire face in his hands, but his shaking shoulders give him away. Mori finally releases him, and if Megumi had come here alone he would have uttered a silent apology to Tsumiki and bolted then and there. “Come on, then, come on. If there’s anyone in this hospital who knows where she is, it’s me, isn’t it?” she says cheerfully, and when she presses the button for the elevator, it opens up as if it had been waiting just for her. 

Itadori is trying so hard to disguise his laughter as the sudden onset of a terrible cough that he almost gets left behind. 

Mori is Tsumiki’s primary nurse - she had been there when Tsumiki had been admitted. Megumi remembers that day as clear as crystal. Shoko had tried everything she could; for all their greatness combined, neither she nor Gojo - nor Megumi himself, who had never felt his inadequacies as heavily as he did that day - had been able to lift the curse. All that was left to do was find a place where she would be safe, at least partially concealed from whatever evil thing had targeted her. To buy time until a plan could be figured out, a new idea to heal her dreamed up. He still feels the weight of Gojo’s hand on his shoulder in this very elevator as they’d left her there, walked away, and returned to Jujutsu High without sharing a word. 

At first, he’d resented Mori. Resented her cheerfulness, her serene smile when she’d fuss over Tsumiki’s hair, framing it nicely around her face in her hospital bed - he’d wanted to snap her arm off; what on earth could matter less ? Hated her for running countless tests and proposing treatment options that Megumi knew were useless. Many times, when Tsumiki had first been cursed and his visits were more frequent, he’d wanted to shout at her. It won’t work! Nothing you can do will work! 

But, like all things do in the face of time, his anger abated after a while. Mori-san is kind, perhaps overly so, and Tsumiki would like her. She has collected various bits and pieces to decorate Tsumiki’s room: flowers, real ones and paper, she’d even pressed some of the ones that Megumi had brought between heavy books and dried them, so they would never wilt. She’d printed off pictures that Gojo must have sent through and taped them to the walls. She makes sure Tsumiki’s hair is brushed and clean. Though Mori’s tiny stature is reminiscent of a very old lady, her features are young, and Megumi estimates that she must only be in her early forties, at the latest. 

Megumi wonders if Mori-san has any children. Tsumiki, from what she has told him, remembers her birth mother only marginally better than Megumi remembers his own - which is not at all. 

“We go to the same school. It’s a tiny school, so everyone knows eachother pretty well.” Itadori is graciously answering Mori’s many questions. 

“It’s some funny private school, up in the mountains, isn’t it? What do they teach you up there?”

“Oh, you know. Just normal stuff.” 

“In any case, I’m glad Megumi-chan made some friends, hm? He’s a bit of a grump, this one,” Mori says, bouncing on the soles of her feet and positively radiating joy, “but he’s a good boy. Lots of people, you know, they’re here every day, at first. When they have a loved one here for an extended period of time. But they get bored after a while. They think that, just because their person is sleeping, or can’t talk back to them, that they won’t notice if they’re there or not. Life gets busy, I understand. Hospitals are not easy places to be. I don’t blame them. But I’ve worked here for a long time. They know,” she says, nodding sagely. “The patients. They know when their people come to talk to them.” They reach the fifth floor, and the elevator dings merrily. “Tsumiki-chan is lucky to have good people.” 

Megumi thinks of Mori-san’s pressed flowers. He thinks of Gojo’s pictures - they are of Tsumiki and him as little kids, of Tsumiki on her first day of school, of Tsumiki and her friends holding their lunch and grinning with gap teeth. He thinks of Itadori, who accompanied him here without a word of complaint when he could have been at home with Kugisaki. Good attracts good, he thinks. 

“Yeah,” Itadori says, hands in his pockets as he follows Mori down the hallway. This time, Megumi is the one who drifts behind. “She’s lucky to have Megumi.” 

Taken aback, Megumi stops in his tracks, staring at the back of Itadori’s head. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t acknowledge anything. He’s never used my first name before. 

Tsumiki’s new, long-term room has a large window that would have been quite pleasant were it not facing the blank wall of the back of another building. Not that it matters. The sun has made its final exit for the day, dipped below the buildings and the horizon beyond them, and so the only light in the room is fluorescent. Megumi notices it now, even more than he had before. 

“Here you are,” Mori says. She had tapped lightly on the door when they’d entered, as if to announce their arrival. “How are we this evening, my love? Feeling alright? Your brother is here to see you, and he brought a friend! Imagine that.” She crosses to Tsumiki’s bed, her plastic hospital shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor, and busies herself with the many machines and monitors that are hooked up to Tsumiki’s body. A rhythmic beep that Megumi knows very well indicates that her heart, at least, is still beating. Soothing, in a twisted way. Itadori lingers at the doorframe. 

“Everything’s looking fine,” Mori says, her signature serene smile still present but her voice lower than it had been at the reception. “Visiting hours are technically over in 30 minutes, but you stay as long as you like, alright?” Megumi doesn’t need reminding - Mori never kicks him out - but Itadori nods gratefully. 

“Thank you, Mori-san,” Megumi says. 

“Anytime, dear. I’ll leave you be.” She pats Megumi’s arm on her way out, and Itadori’s as well. 

Now that they’re alone in the room, the heart monitor seems excessively loud. 

“You can come in, it’s alright. Sit,” Megumi says. He nods to the singular chair in the corner, standard hospital issue and upholstered in truly horrific fabric. Mori has placed a bright patchwork cushion on it. Megumi perches on the end of Tsumiki’s bed, the toes of his shoes scraping the floor. 

“You guys look alike,” Itadori says, voice low. It’s funny how everyone talks quietly in here; even Megumi finds himself doing it. He tries to correct himself. It’s not like they’re at a wake. Besides, if what Mori says is true - and Megumi is inclined to believe it isn’t, but she had been so sincere, and really, what does he know? - they’d do better to speak up, so Tsumiki can hear. 

“...You know we’re not related by blood, right?” 

“Yeah, I know. You just… have the same sort of face.” 

They don’t have the same sort of face at all. Tsumiki has a kind face, and Megumi is all sharp angles. Her hair and eyes are dark brown where Megumi’s are black and blue, cold colours. “Thanks, I guess.” 

The room goes quiet again. Itadori feels awkward, Megumi can tell. He fiddles with the starchy blanket at the foot of Tsumiki’s bed. Maybe it had been a mistake, to bring him - maybe they really should have just gone out for dinner, and Megumi could have dropped in the following night. He hadn’t actually planned this far ahead. Now that Itadori is here, what had he expected him to do? There isn’t much to do. 

“You never tell me anything about your family,” Itadori says. “You don’t tell anyone much of anything, really.” 

Megumi looks up sharply. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. I’m just saying.” 

“Well… I brought you here, didn’t I?”

Itadori nods. Megumi scans his face, trying to get a read on what he’s thinking, and comes up with nothing. He seems distracted; not unhappy or displeased, but there’s something going on behind his eyes that Megumi can’t place. Shit , he thinks, maybe he really is sensitive about hospitals. 

Before Megumi can open his mouth to start apologising, Itadori speaks. “Tell me about her.” 

“What?”

“About Tsumiki. I want to know. You don’t have to go into detail about… how this happened,” he says, nodding to Tsumiki’s motionless form, “if it upsets you. But I want to know what she was like before that. You grew up together, right?”

Megumi’s hands curl in the hospital blanket. Stupidly, he feels his eyes start to burn, and he blinks heavily to stave off the wetness before it appears - don’t be such a baby, God. 

“We did, yeah.”

“Yeah?” Itadori smiles at him encouragingly. “What sort of things does she like? When we exorcise the curse… when she wakes up, we’ll need to have things to talk about, right?” 

Megumi has never been one for physical affection, but it takes a serious, concentrated effort for him not to cross the room and crush Itadori into his chest. He’s never understood the need to touch people, to hold them, but now he understands. Itadori might hear his heart, and know how much he means to Megumi better than words could explain. 

“She,” he starts, and then his throat burns, too, so he clears it and tries again. “She’s a good person. That’s the most important thing you need to know about her. A much better person than me. Our parents met eachother and ran away, and we never saw them again. They might be dead, I don’t know. I don’t really care. She took care of me, even though she was barely older than me. Until Gojo tracked us down, she was the one packing my lunch, making sure I got to school. I was just a useless kid.

“Until she was cursed, she was so removed from the Jujutsu world. I was an ass to her, a lot of the time, but I never wanted to burden her with that stuff. She was so normal. She liked… girl groups, and hanging out with her friends. She had good grades, she was kind to people who didn’t deserve it. To everyone, even me, for some reason. She would scold me for getting in fights. Used to piss me off,” he says, almost huffing a laugh. 

“Girl groups…” Itadori says, nodding thoughtfully. “I’ll ask Kugisaki.” 

“We don’t know why she was cursed, or marked. When we exorcised the curse at Yasohachi Bridge, we bought her some time, but… that’s all we’ve been able to do. Buy time. It could run out tomorrow,” he says, looking around listlessly, “no one has been able to figure it out. Not even me. No one here at the hospital knows what’s really wrong with her, of course. They just think she’s in a coma.”

It could run out tomorrow. Just like him. 

“I never got the chance to - apologise. I was just a dumb kid, I didn’t realise - I used to say awful things to her,” Megumi says quietly. 

“We can figure it out,” Itadori says, and Megumi can’t tell whether he genuinely believes that or if they’re just words, the kind of empty, hopeful words you say at the bedside of someone who might never wake up. But then, when has Itadori ever been insincere with him? “We will. Together. I’ll help you.” 

Megumi’s nose is running. He doesn’t bother wiping it with his sleeve. I’ll help you . Of course he would say something like that, and Megumi knows, then, that Itadori means it. I’ll help you, even if it’s helpless. When it comes down to it, isn’t that what Itadori has always done for him? 

“How come you wanted me to meet her?” Itadori says. 

Because you’re the only person I trust with this. 

Because I need you to know how important you are to me. 

Because I see so much of her in you.

“I just did.” He looks up again, and there are definitely tears collecting in his bottom lashes; he must look pathetic. No, that’s not enough. He forces the words out. “It was important to me that you did.” 

Do you understand? 

Itadori nods slowly, and Megumi thinks that yes, he does understand. They sit in silence for a little while longer, before Itadori gets to his feet. He walks to Tsumiki’s bed, bows slightly. “I’m glad I could meet you,” he says to her. He steps back, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m kinda hungry, might go look around for a snack. I won’t fill up before dinner, promise. Be back soon. Or come and find me when you’re ready, yeah?” 

“Yeah, I will. Thanks, Itadori.” 

There is a vending machine in the hall, he must have seen it when they walked in, but from the sounds of it, Itadori has enough tact to bypass that one and keeps walking until Megumi can’t hear the sound of his footsteps anymore. When he’s sure Itadori is out of earshot, Megumi sniffs noisily, digs around in his pocket for a tissue, blows his nose, wipes his eyes and leans back on his palms. 

“ Fuuuuuck,” he says in one long breath, blinking up at the ceiling. “Sorry.” Tsumiki would pinch him for swearing. “You like him, too, right? He’s just so… ugh. ” Megumi buries his face in his hands instead. “What do I do? I know you’d tell me just to go for it, but… Do you think he knows? Am I too obvious? I can’t just tell him. It’s not that simple. I don’t even know why he likes me in the first place. He’d probably get along better with you, to be honest. What the fuck do I do? ”

The heart monitor beeps, and Tsumiki says nothing. Megumi sighs wearily. 

“Wanna trade places for a bit?” 

***

By the time Megumi gets Itadori’s text, visiting hours have been over for quite some time. He knows Mori said they were allowed to stay as long as they liked, but not every nurse knew who they were and weren’t likely to make the same exceptions, especially if they were found just wandering around the hospital. Itadori has been gone for an hour. He’s probably gone and got himself lost, Megumi thinks when he picks up his phone. His stomach is starting to grumble, too, and there’s only so much advice a comatose loved one can provide. 

hey i found a spot come meet me

A spot? What do you mean? Like a restaurant?

no like in the hospital

You’re gonna have to narrow that down

go all the way up to the top floor to the newborn ward and go out the emergency exit

just come

Is that allowed?

dude who cares just don’t get caught 

trust me

just comeeeeeeee

Oh my god alright coming 

Megumi gathers up his things and slings his backpack over his shoulder, casting one last look around at the room. It’s getting late now, and the lighting feels too harsh for the hour, so he searches the walls until he finds what he very much hopes is just a light switch, and flicks it off. The lights go out. 

“Thanks for hearing me out.” His eyes land on the pictures stuck on the wall behind Tsumiki’s bed, and he realises that he hasn’t contributed anything to the collection. He should have brought something along. Next time. “I’ll come round same time next week, okay?”

As it turns out - and as should have been expected - the newborn ward is crawling with nurses, none of them Mori-san, who will most certainly not want some unfamiliar teenage boy skulking around unsupervised after hours. He wonders how Itadori made it through - sticking to the shadows is like second nature to him, so he manages to get through without drawing unwanted attention. It’s funny, he almost feels like he’s disappearing inside the shadows. Most of the staff he passes barely look up. He’s probably just gotten really good at blending in. 

Expecting nothing more exciting than a stairwell on the other side and at a loss as to why Itadori would want him to see it, Megumi pushes the door open as quietly as he can and slips through. To his great surprise, he finds himself breathing in cold night air, and stepping out onto a small landing that looks out over Tokyo. He thinks of that night in Sendai, at the observation deck, but this time, there is no thick pane of glass to keep them from falling. 

“Took you long enough!” Itadori twists around to look at him from where he sits at the edge of the landing, feet dangling carelessly off the edge.  

“What is this?”

“Fire escape,” Itadori says. “Definitely not allowed, but oh well. No one saw you, did they? Here, got you a present.” He holds something out to Megumi, crinkling in plastic. 

Megumi takes a tentative seat next to him, holding onto the bar and gingerly letting his legs hang off of the edge as well. Their feet sway slightly in the breeze, and he takes the offering of sweet corn bread and a can of hot coffee from Itadori’s hand. “Thanks. How’d you find this place?”

“I was just wandering. I got stopped a couple of times, but I told them Mori-san said it was alright for me to be here, and they left me alone after that. Everyone seemed to know her.” Well, I don’t doubt that.  “I came up to see the newborn babies, and I saw the door, and I was just curious, I guess. Pretty sick view, right?”

“I didn’t think you liked babies.”

Itadori shrugs, taking a bite of his own bread. He’d gotten an iced bun for himself. “I don’t, really. They seem to like me, though. I don’t mind them when they’re, you know, quiet and sleeping. They looked so peaceful in there. So small,” he says, pinching his fingers together to demonstrate their smallness. “It’s just cool, to… I don’t know, see people at the start of life, don’t you think? They’re all going to grow up and have their own lives, their own thoughts. Their own dreams,” he says, and then snorts. “That sounds dumb.” 

“A bit, yeah.” Itadori whacks him, fake-hurt. “But I get what you mean,” he says, even if he doesn’t. It makes sense, though. To people like Itadori, new life might symbolise hope, promise for the future. Megumi doesn’t believe anything is promised, not even to the innocent. 

Then, something comes up from Megumi’s chest and out his mouth without his brain’s permission. “What do you dream about?” He has some sort of compulsion to say after this , but he doesn’t know what this is, and as far as he knows, there is no after, there is only curses. Perhaps he means to say, if we could run away from it all. It occurs to him too late that he might have just said something incredibly cruel.  

Wind whistles through the skyscrapers, and the tip of Itadori’s nose has gone red. He thinks for a moment, resting his chin thoughtfully against the rusting rail in front of him. If he is upset, he doesn’t show it. “Well… I wanted to be a firefighter, before. I wanted to be a million different things when I was younger. I guess, if I still could be, I would. But I don’t think about things like that so much anymore. I try not to focus on the future. Now, I just think… I don’t know. I’d be happy with simple things. To have a family one day, maybe. I like helping people,” he says, “so being a sorcerer isn’t the worst thing in the world, if you ignore all the bad stuff.” 

“I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to ask.” 

“Don’t be.” Itadori turns to face him, and he’s smiling, but he looks terribly, terribly sad. Before Megumi can say something, anything, to try and make up for it, Itadori speaks again. “Mostly, I just dream of you, these days.” 

Megumi’s heart stops dead in his chest. He blinks, unseeing. Of me? “I don’t… I don’t understand.” 

Itadori shrugs, turns back to look at the skyline. “I know. Don’t think anything of it, okay? It’s stupid, I know you don’t…” His face screws up, like he’s tasted something bad, and he swears under his breath. There is a monstrous rushing sound in Megumi’s ears, like he can hear the minute ebb and flow of the blood in his body turned up by a thousand. “Forget I said that. We should probably go, anyway,” he says, and starts to get up.

“Wait!” It takes a great effort to coordinate his brain and his mouth; Megumi feels like he’s in one of those dreams where you try to run or punch but your body is slow, like it’s suspended in honey. This cannot be real, Itadori… feels something for me, too? 

“It’s fine, Fushiguro,” Itadori is saying. He’s walking towards the door, not waiting for Megumi to get up. The sad look is gone from his face, replaced by something pinched, trying and failing to be unbothered, but he has to wait, he has to listen. “Let’s just go, okay? Maybe we should just go home - ”

“Yuuji,” Megumi says, desperate. “Wait, please.” 

Yuuji waits, one hand on the door, and Megumi knows, then, how he really feels. In the blink of an eye, without thinking twice, he would kill to keep Yuuji safe, to keep him alive. Anything that threatened him; if the need arose, Megumi would kill it without mercy. He was born cursed. He has already damned himself, so that is no matter.  More importantly - he reaches out, grips Yuuji’s hand - he knows that he would die for Yuuji, too, like he would die for Tsumiki, because people like them deserve a place in this world. And, potentially the most rattling realisation: Yuuji makes him want to stay alive, for as long as he possibly can so that they are never, ever separated - and, at least to him, this is what love is. He is in love, even if it is reckless, even if it will be unbearable. He will love Yuuji while he still can and will not waste another second without it. 

“I dream of you, too.” The words come out all on their own. “Since we met. Since - forever. I wasn’t going to tell you - I never thought that you could - feel anything for me… I didn’t think it was fair to - ”

He is cut off by Yuuji’s arms around his neck. The sudden movement tilts them dangerously close to the edge of the fire escape, but Megumi thinks nothing of it; couldn’t possibly think of anything but this, anything but Yuuji if he tried. Maybe the wind has gotten chillier, or maybe Yuuji is very warm, but Megumi clings to him, and it comes to him with such ease of motion that he feels like it’s the most natural thing he’s ever done even as his heart slams, barely contained inside his chest. 

“Megumi,” Yuuji says, his sweet voice muffled by Megumi’s shoulder, “how are you gonna say something like that with such a scary look on your face?”

When Yuuji kisses him, he misses the first time, and catches the side of his mouth instead. The second time, Megumi doesn’t know where to put his hands, and so they end up floating ridiculously above his lap, balled into tight fists from nerves, until Yuuji breaks away to laugh at him. The third time, it’s perfect, the most perfect thing that Megumi thinks he has ever been given, and Tokyo sparkles right back at them, as if it is saying: Go on, you deserve it. 

***

They decide on ramen for dinner, because it has gotten quite cold, actually. 

Megumi has his jumper on, but he wishes he’d bought a jacket. It doesn’t matter so much, though, because it turns out Yuuji does run warm, and they walk closely huddled together. In a supreme show of courage, Megumi reaches out wordlessly for Yuuji’s hand, and laces their fingers together. Yuuji hides his red face in Megumi’s shoulder. 

Under the table at the restaurant, their feet rest against eachother. 

“So you really didn’t know?” Yuuji is saying for about the third time since they left the hospital. “You actually had no idea? How thick in the head are you?” He’s babbling - he hasn’t really stopped - but Megumi doesn’t mind at all. He loves it, he savours this feeling, of something new and scary and exciting. 

“I had no idea. I thought you were only into girls.” 

“How? ”

“All you ever talk about is girls! Remember that waitress in Sendai?”

Yuuji cocks his head to the side. “Who?”

(Oh, the satisfaction! Megumi almost bursts out cheering. Who indeed! Hah! I win!)

“You know,” he says, struggling to contain a very smug grin and taking a sip of broth instead, “that girl we met in the beef tongue restaurant on the Sendai mission. She gave you her number.” 

“Ohh, yeah, Misako. She was nice. I wasn’t actually into her like that, I was just excited to talk to someone from home, that’s all. What, were you jealous?” 

“Obviously, yeah.”

Yuuji laughs, clear and unencumbered, and Megumi loves him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. If it makes you feel any better, I lost her number, so I never did end up texting her or anything. Or maybe Kugisaki burnt it or something, I dunno. She was so mad at me when we came home.” 

“Kugisaki? What do you mean, she was mad at you?”

“Well, she knew I liked you, obviously. She was all like, ‘How are you gonna take that girl’s number right in front of Fushiguro when you’re trying to get with him, how stupid can you be? What if he'd died thinking you were flirting with someone else!?’” He makes a sheepish face. “I guess she had a point, though.” 

Megumi grips his chopsticks hard enough that they might snap in his hands. “Kugisaki knew? ” 

“Yeah, duh,” Yuuji says, nonplussed. “She knows everything. She saw right through me from day one.” 

Exceedingly calmly and with a heroic amount of restraint, Megumi places his chopsticks back on the holder, wipes his mouth, and slides out of the booth. “I have to make a phone call.” 

THE END